Gertsamtkunstwerk

Anchor, Burton Bradstock

Our final day in Dorset was almost a wash-out. The heavy rainy and heavier skies, and lack of light, meant there was only one thing to do - go out for lunch, and locally. Burton Bradstock seemed the obvious choice, and we had three places to choose from, all previously visited and all tempting. We opted for The Anchor. We have been before, although it's changed hands since.

We went in. We drank beer. We ate a seafood platter - this between the two of us

We just about ate it all

All of it (just about)

I love a seafood platter. This was no exception. It was unusual, because they gave it an Asian twist, which we both appreciated. Mind you, it's hard work eating your way through that. We weren't fit for much else for the rest of the gloomy rainy day, although we did a flying visit to the rather lovely Washingpool Farm Shop

We spent the late afternoon and evening vegetating in front of the TV, and the woodburner.

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Postcards from Dorset

A drive through the Cotswolds

Nothing quite went to plan, but I think we got to see a fair sweep of The North Cotswolds, one way and another.

After another hearty breakfast, we set out on the start of our epic journey through the gloriously sunny Gloucestershire countryside. First stop Sezincote, a house and garden, open to the public, highly recommended by our Lonely Planet guide. Unfortunately, it's closed on Sundays. Time to replan.

Our plan took us via Fish Hill. Fish Hill is a steep descent into the outskirts of Broadway. Don't take my word for it

At this point, it becomes 3-lane and descends steeply through some sharp bends - the second one, going downhill, a near hairpin.

A rural trunk road, you'd expect the speed limit to be 60mph. It was actually 25mph. There were numerous signs and road paintings urging 'slow', 'use low gear', 'beware cyclists', 'careful now', 'oh sheeeet'.  Lots of signs with black and white arrows indicating sharp bends. Not one but two escape lanes. Although, in a trucknetuk discussion, someone says yeah thats right but i dont think they would help you on that gradient!!

There are videos on YouTube, eg this from a lorry

 

or a motorbike

 

This is some hill. But it took me a while to persuade my other half, a very safe and experienced urban and motorway driver that that number of "Careful! Mind yourself!" signs kind of means they're not messing around. We survived, however, and agreed it was an awesome descent.

We ended up in Broadway, Worcestershire, the 'Jewel of the Cotswolds'. What a lovely town! Although, for some reasons, I failed to take any photos. In a sense there's nothing to see, but what makes the town truly outstanding is their parking policy. Simply put, there is no parking on the main road, all cars are directed to a car park. Admittedly, by the time we were leaving, it had reached a 'one out one in' situation, but whoever thought of that rule had their head screwed on. 

To be honest, there isn't a great deal to see in Broadway but shops. It was too early for tea so we went for coffee. Fairly randomly we chose Prego. Of course, it's impossible to judge a restaurant solely on the basis of coffee, but I've rarely been sent such positive messages on service, decor, presentation. Even the Ladies' loos - spotlessly clean - had an understated elegance about them. Reviews on TripAdvisor seem to confirm my judgement.

We thought we would head for Moreton in the Marsh, but when we got there, it was packed. We didn't hold a hope to get parked. Perhaps the crowds from miles around were drawn by the junk - euphemistically labelled 'vintage' - market. We got out of town via the Fosse Way. Cars were queueing for several miles to enter the town. We knew there would be no turning back! The road just went on and on, straight, for miles, crossing the border into Warwickshire. By now we were hungry. Momentarily we toyed with the idea of Stratford-upon-Avon for lunch, but considering it was a sunny Bank Holiday Sunday we quickly changed our minds. We nearly went to Shipston on Stour. I went there with my father thirty years ago, on the way back from dropping my sister at college, as an alternative to touristy Stratford. Then I noticed on the map that we could go to Chipping Campden via B roads.

The guide book and Wikipedia paint Chipping Campden to be elegant, a delight for architectural eyes, one of the prettiest towns in the Cotswolds. I found it hideous. They have a one-way system and encouraged parking in the school carpark, just a few minutes stroll from the high street. However, they didn't discourage on-street parking, and the village centre was nothing but a mess of parked cars, poorly driven 4x4s, their incompetent owners distracted by the desperate search for a parking space. Very unpleasant.

Chipping Campden's one saving grace was the Badgers Hall Tea Room. A gem of a place, worth visiting especially to go there. Almost as if the dream tea room I had concocted from various novels had finally come to life under one roof.

It was run by a couple who were just this side of eccentricity, in the nicest way. A new girl had started just that day to wait; they were up front about this. I'm sure she has done well - I asked whether the quiche contained meat. Her answer "I'll go and find out" and she returned with the information I had a choice of quiche. I'm sorry I didn't take a photo, because it was beautifully presented and delightful to eat, texture perfect, good portions. Indeed, Jimmy ordered a soup and something else, and, actually, was really quite full. I asked the proprietor whether it was too early to order a toasted tea cake. He assured me it's never too early!There was a big table in the middle of the room filled with tasty-looking homemade cakes - proper cakes, not cupcakes and brownies masquerading as cakes - but somehow, a toasted tea-cake was just perfect. Tea came in a variety of blends, but this was before I began to care passionately whether it was bags or leaves, I can't truthfully say. Overall, I thought it was a lovely place, as if someone had somehow bottled the best of the 1950s, and enveloped it in the best of contemporary values. Wonderful! Some fairly decent visitor photos on TripAdvisor and Flickr

We did try strolling the streets of Chipping Campden but it wasn't just that pleasant because of all the cars, so we beat a retreat and returned to our hotel for a couple of drinks and a lie down.

Up with the larks: Tessa Hainsworth

A broadly autobiographical book. Place names, and, I suppose, people's names and some events have been altered or fictionalised.

The blurb starts:

Having given up a high-powered job and the lifestyle to match, Tessa Hainsworth had no idea how hard she would struggle when, full of optimism, she fulfilled her dream of moving to rural Cornwall with her young family...

In fact, I bought it because it was recommended by a well-known internet site when I was ordering guide books to Cornwall. Yeah, I'll stick that on my Kindle, it's not like actually buying - committing to - an actual book.

I started reading it and did wonder whether I would get past the first chapter. She described her life as marketing manager for Body Shop: long hours, conspicuous consumption, fleeting relationship with her children. Shallow. I cringed while playing the world's smallest violin. It didn't get any better when they went house hunting in Cornwall, with plans to set up a business as 'Paint Your Own Pottery' (yes, really!). I know everyone is judgemental when house hunting, it's actually quite fun even vicariously. But there's a line between mocking someone else's interior decor and considering oneself superior to them.

Then, suddenly the book changed. She got a job in rural post delivery, which I think deserves respect in itself. People predicted she wouldn't last until Christmas, the book covers her first year. By the end of the book, I really liked this woman, almost felt we could be friends, and I've downloaded the next installment, perhaps to read in Cornwall.

The book showed me I know less about Cornwall than I thought. I had a couple of Cornish friends at Uni, one an ex-tin miner, and I spent most of the 90s and beyond hanging out with two Cornishmen who had come to London largely because of the lack of prospects locally. I've visited as a tourist, and know a little of the tourist industry, including the Michelin star restaurants. Channel 4 News broadcast the other day from Fowey and Padstein, and underlined the issues that Tessa had highlighted in her book, the contrast between the moneyed second-homers and that the majority of jobs are low wage, seasonal or part time, and many locals having to leave due to the lack of prospects.

Nothing much happens in the book; it's a year in the life. I like the way she writes, conjuring up vignettes of local life and local characters. Just when you think that everything's a bit too cosy and friendly, she reminds us that, although people are friendly enough on the surface, it's difficult to get close to people and part of a community that, not without justification, regards incomers with a degree of suspicion.

It's not a heavy read: I finished it within a day whilst on a mini-break. You can judge my reaction to it by the fact that I ordered the next installment. Not immediately, but a few days later. It's also the sort of book that makes me think 'I could do that'. Write it, I mean. Not move to Cornwall, but write about the characters and places of everyday life. It's not boasting on my part nor an attempt to diminish her work, simply a thought that often the most engaging writers write about what they know, and life as it happens. The blurb for that reads:

Life is becoming hard for her and her family as they realise that being part of a small community is not quite the idyll she had been lead to believe

Interview with Tessa from This is Cornwall

Wandle Wanderings Part 3

Almost exactly a year ago, in the interregnum between the Olympics and the Paralympics. Inspired (perhaps) by the glorious gold medal winning triumphs of Our Cyclists, we got on our bikes. Well, we got on the train, because, you know, riding to Carshalton wouldn't be that much fun. And I had discovered a direct train between Streatham Hill and Carshalton Beeches. From there it's downhill to the source of the Wandle, Carshalton Ponds.

As an aside, there are two sources of the Wandle, the other being in Wandle Park Croydon. Sustrans start the Wandle Trail in Coulsdon, as I blogged previously. The River Wandle companion suggests that on prehistoric times it may have risen in the Weald and flowed through a gap in the North Downs near Merstham.

It was a lovely day, bright sunny and dry but not hot. We free-wheeled into Carshalton and were taken by surprise. I don't think I have ever properly been to Carshalton. Twenty-odd years ago I visited a friend on Wrythe Lane a few times, but I must have taken a bus or taxi from the station away from the Wandle.

Before we even found the Wandle we found the Greyhound, a Youngs pub. I enjoyed my coffee, and Jimmy enjoyed his ale. What more to say!

When I was a kid my aunts and cousins lived in Thornton Heath and I grew up with the belief that Carshalton is posh. I don't hold that view now, having been back in the area a few times, but it's certainly pleasant. And, frankly, given that it is firmly Greater London, you can't argue with the views. One could live the pretence of semi-rural life yet with regular trains to town and a pretty decent bus service!

Sutton Council helpfully explains the origin of Carshalton Ponds - they're not natural! There is a museum, the Honeywood, but it was closed when we visited.If you read the Wandle Companion, it gives instructions for a pleasant little walking tour around Carshalton. This book, by the way, really is a must-read for anyone interested in the history and geography of the area. Perhaps not the most elegant prose style but nothing egregious and nothing really to interrupt the flow of my reading.

It was pleasant to stroll around the pond, watch children feed the ducks and feel a step removed from the incessant traffic.

 

There are some historic buildings in the area, and a fairly large park called The Grove. Some of the buildings are now used as council offices by Sutton. Perhaps not the best use, but better than them lying derelict or arguably, being in private hands.

 

The Grove is a lovely park. It serves a dual function, a run-of-the-mill park for the local community, and host to the River Wandle.

(Run of the mill. Geddit?)

It was pleasing to see children playing in an old fashioned way - wading in the river, splashing in the waterfall. Best not to photograph these, though. Two Nursery/Infant age children, actually being played with by their parents; a group of upper junior kids unsupervised but self-contained, lively but undisruptive.

The waterfall is pretty impressive!

We cycled out of The Grove and onto Wilderness Island, barely noticing what was around us. The downside of cycling - an overview of the bigger picture but lacking in any detail. And I forgot to stop and take photographs.

We finally managed to work out how to get between Poulter Park and the Watermeads. The Watermeads is a National Trust nature reserve, not generally open to the public, which I am fine about, this isn't my normal anti-National Trust rant. It just makes access to the Wandle from the North West confusing. From the South East, it makes more sense. And it felt rather wild to be cycling along a path barely wide enough for a bike, with brambles and nettles on each side, almost losing my shoes at one point.

It was nice to get to Ravensbury Park and stop for some water and a sandwich. I've never actually been into Ravensbury Park proper, which I assume is a standard local authority multi-purpose space (and that's not a criticism, Britain's parks are vastly under-valued). The stretch beside the river is one of my favourite places in London, so peaceful. From there to Morden Hall Park, another hidden gem. We didn't linger this time, wanting a cup of tea, and not sure we wanted to pay National Trust prices whilst surrounded by out-of-control kids, perhaps an unfair judgement.

I had an incident on the path leading down to Merton Abbey Mills. It was slightly busy, and in such circumstances I am careful about how I cycle - I am stronger, faster and more powerful than pedestrians, especially small children whose parents, understandably, believe the path to be traffic free. Therefore, it is my responsibility to take care. But I draw the line at annoying small dogs that career at me, causing me almost to fall off, only to be told 'He's only a puppy'. Irresponsible dog owners!

We stopped for tea and a snack at Merton Abbey Mills. It's a frustrating place, full of potential, but not quite meeting it. But, really, other than Sainsburys and the National Trust (plus a pub called the William Morris which we had forgotten about), there isn't much in the way of refreshments round there. And then we got lost on the way to Haydon's Road station, where we had to wait 27 minutes for the train, and then cycle back through Streatham.

It was a nice day out, but in retrospect it was really quite draining, and I know I didn't take on enough liquid whilst sweating freely in temperatures that were steadily rising. We didn't return to the Wandle for several months after this.However, I have over a hundred photos taken this year in a Folder called 'To be blogged/Wandle'. So, watch this space!

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The lavender of London

Upstairs, Brixton

I've blogged about Upstairs before, and have been back. I went in November but didn't take photos of my meal because it was really quite dark - we sat in the bar area rather than the dining room! I have adopted a rule from somewhere of generally not taking photos in a restaurant with flash. It may not apply in a loud and larey bar, but in an intimate restaurant, definitely so. At the time I tweeted my selection: At Upstairs I started with Wild Mushroom, Celeriac, Prune; then Plaice, Romanesco, Walnut; & Baba, Quince, Vanilla. I also commented on my liking of the small choice of dishes and the spare description. I suppose if you're a fussy eater, it could be a problem. I don't know if my non-meat-eating classes me as fussy, but as a fish eater I never have a problem.

We also went in August last year. It was a warm, but not too warm, summer's evening, and we sat in the Upstairs dining room, light streaming in through the windows. Unusually, every party there consisted of two people, one female and one male, probably couples. I was amused that, barring one, every man wore a formal striped shirt, open at the neck, no tie. The exception was a man in his mid-to-late twenties who wore a t-shirt with some logo on. I forget now whether it was for a band, or a product, or what. But it set me thinking.

This restaurant has no dress code, yet most of the men had opted for an unspoken uniform. And the women's dress, although more varied, was consistent with this. The young man wearing a t-shirt had no negative effect whatsoever on my dining experience, nor, I assume, the other parties'. He was otherwise unnoticeable, unassuming and well-behaved, the sort of customer any restaurant would want. I pitied his female companion for being with a man who has no dress sense or sense of occasion. But that is very presumptive of me. They may celebrate that they are different, and don't feel the need to conform; up to a point I agree. They may dismiss the other men as boring or bland - although in my experience non-conformist clothing is often worn by people lacking in confidence in their character. This paragraph is woven with judgements and assumptions, and I acknowledge that it's none of my business what this man wore. But it bothers me, and I can't fully understand why!

The night we went in August last year was a glorious night for British Athletics (we actually won some medals in the Olympics which partly justified the huge and disproportionate amount of public funding and TV coverage devoted to track and field sports relative to many other). I sneaked a few glances at my phone, but I can't really summon up emotions beyond indifference when it comes to this particular sport. 

  The restaurant had recently featured in a New York Times article on must-do non-Olympic things to do in London during the Olympics. But I confirmed with Phillippe that this hadn't started a flood of Americans seeking out the imprecise territory between Brixton and Clapham.

I started with lemon ravioli with rocket and sweetcorn. I then moved onto Wild Salmon with crab, butter beans and watercress, like so - although I apologise for the poor quality photo taken in fading light

And I finished with white peach, raspberry and vanilla

Altogether, a lovely evening, with tasty food prepared and presented faultlessly.

We went again in June and although I found service to be generally very good and the food largely up to my expectations, I do have a serious niggle. It was again a warmish evening, and, as well as ordering cocktails and wine (at prices I wouldn't call exorbitant but reflect the market rate for a decent London restaurant), we also asked for tap water. The tap water arrived and wasn't even lukewarm. It tasted as though it had been poured from a mixer tap without even being run off first. And no ice. We rejected it and ended up with bottled water, (at a price, with service charge on top). No real apology and, I have to say, verging on the mean-spirited. It wasn't as if we were drinking just tap water (and even if we were, it's still not acceptable).

I started with Fazzoletti, girolles and hazelnut, basically an open ravioli dish, which was a brilliant combination of good quality tasty ingredients.

Main course was wild salmon, peas and chervil. It was listed as 'sea trout' but before we ordered, the waiter explained that they had been unable to get sea trout so had substituted wild salmon, which was fine by me. The dish was faultless, but it lacked a 'wow' factor. Jimmy had a meat dish, which he thought was poor, although I can no longer remember why.

 I finished with Raspberry, vanilla and almond

To conclude, I think Upstairs is an extremely good restaurant, but can be somewhat variable. Jimmy compares it unfavourably with Chez Bruce, but Chez Bruce has a Michelin star. Jimmy says we pay more for dinner at Upstairs (£35) than lunch at Chez Bruce (£27.50), but the latter charges £45 for dinner. I'm glad I live where there is both Upstairs and Chez Bruce. To moan that a neighbourhood restaurant is not up to Michelin star standards is unfair and mean. It's the best restaurant I've ever known in Brixton, better than anything in Streatham, and only a bit behind Clapham's best restaurant, Trinity (which can also be variable!)

On Golden Cap

I referred to my book of Short Walks in Dorset and decided on Golden Cap. The house pack also recommended a walk there, starting and finishing at the house.It is said to be the highest point on the South Coast of Great Britain. I suspect that that sentence should end 'if you exclude such-and-such which doesn't technically qualify'.

The book wasn't that good in deciding where to start the walk. Indeed, we started by walking down to the beach, before deciding that was the wrong direction. At the top of the beach carpark a house was being refurbished, including re-thatch; the workmen gave us directions.

I took a photo of a stream, even though I have no recollection of doing so, or how it fitted in relative to other points of interest.

We walked across a field, which was quite nice, as fields go. And through several stiles to set us on our path. Our path which was, basically, a quagmire. Everywhere in England was unusually damp, so it was no great surprise to encounter mud. Rather more surprising to find myself flat on my back in the mud. And, of course, really struggling to get up, every scrabbling effort covering more of my outer garments in mud. This happened again. The third time it happened, Jimmy declared that enough was enough and we were turning back.

We turned back and went to the pub, for a coffee. It was perfectly pleasant to sit outside, basking in the sunshine - and it was only March. Only a couple of days later, it snowed heavily in many areas, causing massive drifts and creating severe problems for farmers with sheep that were lambing. Such a contrast.

My coat, trousers and shoes were covered in mud, so we decided to go back to the cottage for me to change, and we returned to the same spot for lunch.

But first, we played on the beach. Carefully, of course.

We ate lunch outside, and very nice it was, too. The Anchor's a good pub, and perhaps unique in that I was recommended it by my brother (but I had already been) and it has also been visited by an internet friend and someone I work with!

From here, I took Jimmy on a magical mystery tour, all the way to West Bexington. West Bexington lies hidden at the bottom of a cliff below the scenic Burton Bradstock to Abbotsbury Road. It was pleasant to spend half an hour so there, and I'm sure it's even nicer to visit in summer. However, they warn 'swimming is recommended only for strong swimmers'

     

 We decided that we wanted Afternoon Tea, but first, I needed cash, and Jimmy wanted something or other. So, off the Morrison's. Morrison's is a large supermarket on the outskirts of Bridport, and, like all such places is surely covered by CCTV. At half four or whatever on a Friday it was pretty busy with customers and staff, including security staff. Inside is a branch of Santander, nicely carpeted, more staff, CCTV and an ATM. An elderly woman was using the ATM, so I stood back. Well back. Arguably, unnecessarily far back. Off the carpet. She sensed my presence and turned round to look. Fair enough, always good to know who's behind you at a cash machine. She did that three times, each time getting glarier and glarier. She finished using the machine and was taking her time putting away her cards, cash receipts etc. I made no attempt to move. I adopted a pose of utter indifference and extreme patience. And she glared at me as if I had coshed her over the head with a baseball bat!

I was still ranting about this as we drove down the A35 to our destinations. "Bet the bitch hasn't even earned that money. Bet it's her late husband's, and she drove him to an early grave being a bitch". I can be a bitch myself in private. JImmy said I was being unfair. I was. But she had glared at me like I was a criminal, even though I had done my utmost to be entirely non-threatening.

And a flash goes off. Chideock has a horrendous traffic problem, even reaching Wikipedia: Chideock was the first village in England to have two speed cameras installed in response to perceived excessive speed. Basically, vehicles come down a long steep hill in a 60 zone, into the village with a 30 limit. Absolutely right to have speed cameras installed and working there. And, for the first time in over 40 years of driving, JImmy ended up with speeding points. All my fault. And the afternoon tea place was closed. And we even messed up the refundable pay-and-display parking tickets when we reverted to Plan B, cakes from Waitrose!

How to be a Woman - Caitlin Moran

Before I went on holiday last year, I asked for book recommendations. More than one person suggested this book, but I was unsure. I had seen reviews that either said 'This book is utterly brilliant' or 'This has told me nothing I didn't know before'. I had started to form strong opinions myself, so decided it was perhaps unfair to do so without reading it.

It sat on my Kindle for months, until the sun came out. I read 91% on beaches and 9% on the Sun Terrace at a spa hotel. In the end, I concluded that both points of view were valid!

I know that Caitlin Moran arouses strong opinions. I used to follow her on Twitter. she was fun, but only in small doses. I saw her as part of a clique of women who had it all and looked down on lesser mortals with disdain. I assumed that hse was some trustafarian, gliding effortlessly into a high-paid column. In actual fact she grew up in extreme poverty, and was barely educated, and she writes about this interestingly.

She says some sensible things in the book. Two examples which may seem trivial but are actually quite important. One is to wear flat shoes, or at least shoes you can run away in. And big comfy knickers, that don't dig in, are not only more comfortable but look better than silly briefs that give a VPL slicing each bum cheek diagonally in half. Falls into 'stuff I wish I'd known at 15. Or 25'.

To be honest, and fair, I don't think this book is aimed at my age group. And that makes the reading quite infuriating. Much of what she writes isn't novel or contentious, yet she seems to lack the insight that most sensible or intelligent women eventually reach these conclusions in time. But if it helps 15 or 25-year-old women, so be it.

There are a host of people who criticise CM for what amounts to her lack of academic grounding. I think a great deal of what masquerades as academic feminism is sham and irrelevant. Sham because it seems largely to consist of the churn of mantras and dictums, and irrelevant because its more interested in adopting the correct posture rather than critically examining the forces that lead to women's disadvantage and oppression.

Caitlin got be a hugely successful writer by a mixture of hard work and determining to be different, as well as being frankly, at times, quite brilliant. And yet she embraces a popular culture - epitomised by X-Factor style TV shows that don't especially or noticeably oppress women, but perpetuate a myth of what it takes to be successful - far too often, a body type which this popular culture has deemed to be the only one that matters. Caitlin's book is all about her personal experience; the title is hugely inaccurate.But she never stops to think whether some other woman may have a different experience or circumstances, and she reveals a lack of curiosity about anything outside her small, and I have to say, pretty shallow world. 

It was quite an interesting book to read, but it's only a week since I finished it, and I've already forgotten most of it

Slaughtered

An afternoon in Lower and Upper Slaughter! After we had exhausted the sights of Bourton-on-the-Water, it was time for lunch. We had no clear idea where we wanted to go, and, in any case, with a 7pm reservation at the Wild Thyme, we didn't want anything too substantial. I spotted a hopeful sign; following it took us to the village of Lower Slaughter. We quickly realised that the Luxury Country Hotel was not for us. 

Apparently, the main/only road in Lower Slaughter was voted the most romantic street in Britain in 2011. I admit it's really quite nice, but, seriously, I think there must have been an orchestrated local campaign to write-in.

We stopped at The Slaughters, delightfully situated on the banks of the River Eye, with a beer garden and lawn sloping down to the river, It was fairly busy outside, with more than its quota of screaming kids and unleaded dogs, so we went inside. I ordered tea and a sandwich. The menu stipulated that the sandwiches were available in white or granary. I ordered granary. It came on white, with an explanation that they were out of granary. Fine, places run out of things, it happens. And the white bread was quite nice, certainly not processed rubbish. But, it did strike me  a little bit casual just to assume!

The church opposite the pub had a banner outside inviting people in to see their flowers. A generous move, I thought. Unfortunately, nice as the vases of flowers were, they were few, and I think more money had been spent on the banner. The church looked moribund, no Children's Corner, no evangelising notice board, no Parish Notices. No sign of their having been a wedding this Saturday of a Bank Holiday weekend at the start of half-term. Wikipedia refers to the church being "13th century" but largely built in 1866. So no historical or social purpose as far as one can see.

I don't especially advocate the widescale demolition of redundant churches; on the other hand, I do feel they serve only two purposes. I imagine that having an "old" church - half a century newer than my house - in a village helps maintain house prices - three bedroom semi, £635k and it serves the Establishment and especially the Church of England that while their buildings remain dominating the landscape, dying or redundant, they seem Relevant to people's lives and Entitled to dictate how those lives are led.

We strolled around the village. A mixture of older houses (16th & 17th century according to Wikipedia), and many modern ones keeping with the local sandstone but otherwise non-descript. We strolled along one bank of the river, noting how the picturesque nature of the village was marred by ubiquitous motor cars.

We walked as far as the  19th-century water mill which has an undershot waterwheel and a chimney for additional steam power. Attached to this was a tea-room and a shop. It was one of the strangest shops I have ever seen in a tourist place. It included local ice creams and other artisan foods, local guide books, and local souvenirs such as staddle stones, but also a seemingly random collection of vaguely hippy clothes, some cheap/over-priced costume jewellery and an eclectic collection of books that should have been remaindered weeks previously - Fifty Sheds of Grey, anyone? Annoying on Twitter, even at the height of the 50 shades craze, but imagine that someone used paper to publish this, and expected people would buy it.

We walked along the opposite bank of the river

We passed the quaint old school house

We also passed the building at the top of the post. If I recall correctly, it's a former library and was hosting an Arts Show. With no little irony they advertised this with an ugly banner perched like vandalism on an interesting old building. I can only conclude someone in the village makes these banners and forces community groups, from the church to the artists, to buy them, or else.

It is suggested that one walks from Lower to Upper Slaughter, which is a fine idea if you're up to it. The downside of having a car is that any walk from A to B must also necessitate  B to A. Instead, we drove, and having strolled around Upper Slaughter, I knew I had reached the limit of my walking endurance.

Upper Slaughter is even more delightful than Lower. We explored the church, which had slightly more signs of life than its neighbour, although hardly a thriving place. From the churchyard, we looked down on the former Manor House, now a hotel with a Michelin star restaurant.

We were puzzled that the churchyard seemed to contain no War Memorial. I only later found out that, despite its name*, Upper Slaughter, is one of only 52 Thankful Villages and one of 14 Doubly Thankful Villages.  A Thankful Village was one which had lost no men in the Great War because all those who left to serve came home again. (England and Wales)

I write this on 4 August, the day when two people are finishing their visit to all 51 -  some confusion about the numbers. See more details here. I have never heard of any of the others (with the possible exception of East Wittering - I've heard of West Wittering but never stopped to consider the existence of East). Upper Slaughter is really very small, for example, there doesn't seem to be be a village pub or any suggestion that there has been one recently closed. I guess the others are similarly small; every community of any size lost men in the First World War.

The graveyard includes relatively recent and well-tended graves of young children

We strolled through the residential area, across the Ford and a few yards along the river. The weather was just perfect - warm, but not hot, hard to recall the low grey skies and teeming rain of twenty four hours previously.

For a few moments I imagined myself living in such a rural idyll. But, aside from the fact that  Cotswolds house prices are beyond the reach of ordinary people, even newly gentrified Brixtoners, I soon realised that a place that's lovely to visit would not be so nice to live in, lacking the most basic services. Still, it's good to have these thoughts and remember to appreciate home!

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Upper and Lower Slaughter - the Cotswolds, England

A walk through Olympic London

Only a year out of date, I know!

The plan was during the summer, to spend time going out and doing stuff, and, as winter drew in, to edit my photos and write about the days out. 

I was off work on leave for most of the Olympics. I had a lot of holiday left over, and didn't fancy working at home. I had vague plans to go out during the days, but, on the whole, they didn't amount to much. I found the Olympics too compelling.

I only have to hear a few notes of this music in order to feel emotional. Of course, I know it's not a genuine emotion, and more a manipulation by various forces,  including the media. But I knew that then, I know it now. I know the Olympics were a disatraction from Real Life, an Opium for the masses. And I enjoyed that.

 

I ventured into Central London once during the Games (if you exclude travelling to and from Durham via Kings Cross). It was a gloriously sunny afternoon, one that had seemed so rare so far that summer. We didn't really have a plan, just strolled around the South Bank, before crossing Hungerford Bridge, stopping for a pint in the Ship and Shovell, and walking through to Chinatown for dinner.

     

I remember there being a lot of people in London. I remember the atmosphere being very good natured. Gamesmakers walked around in their uniforms, holding their heads high with pride. I remember a conversation with a middle-aged middle class woman, updating her on the boxing results.

Part of me regrets not making more effort to attend Olympic events, whether it be the Big Screens in parks or the social evenings at the numerous International Houses. I know a  lot of young people, or middle aged people with kids enjoyed these immensely. Perhaps I should have tried to see the free-to-view events such as marathon and Road Races. But that regret is largely born out of you people asking me why I didn't, rather than an inherent desire. I watched a lot of Olympics on the TV. I certainly don't regret that! I vowed not to write a diary about it. The facts and figures will be available on the internet. Words are inadequate to describe the excitement of watching sports events on the Tv, especially as I consider the emotions to be false. I thoroughly enjoyed being able to chat on Twitter with friends and acquaintances as events unfurled.

And later in the summer, during the Paralympics,  I went to Olympic Park, spending the day walking round, and watching a 7 aside football match, but that's another blog post!

Seaton and Beer

When we were in Dorset, it seemed only right to venture over the border into Devon. The nearest places were Seaton and Beer, sitting as they do in Lyme Bay, much of which is in Dorset. I have a mug at home, from the Seaton Cider Company, which my parents brought back for me in 1987. The Seaton Cider company is no more and its premises lie derelict, but my mug remains*.

Out of season and on a weekday, the Seaton Tramway was not running. I suggested that we explored the Nature Reserve just outside the town, but it was put to me - not unreasonably - that sitting in hides waiting for birds that I can't distinguish from other birds is not my thing.

We walked along the beach, which was pleasant enough, but when we reached the small marina, the signs made it clear that we were not welcome.

Seaton struck me as being quite an elderly person's resort, and, indeed, after I returned, I discovered that a friend's parents have retired there. I can certainly see the attraction - for a relatively small town it's reasonably well served by buses and supermarkets, and isn't difficult to move around. And we enjoyed shopping at a well-stocked delicatessen: eggs and cheese, souvenir shortbreads and marmalades, and lots of fudge!

But, I have to admit, I found very little attractive about the town. It's not picturesque or photogenic, and it was quite a challenge finding a decent place to drink a coffee. The Terrace Arts Cafe was late opening and a coach party arrived just as we were stood opposite, so we went elsewhere and were disappointed.

This block of flats really summed up Seaton for me. Stunningly ugly, yet, situated on the seafront, south facing, affording a wonderful place to sit and soak up the sun even on a chilly March day.

We left Seaton and started to follow the signs to Beer, but the signs were less than helpful and we ended up getting lost. This was the occasion where I realised that an Ordnance Survey map that includes both Brixton and Brixham is not ideal for navigating B roads, and phone-based maps are entirely dependent upon having  a phone signal stronger than 2G.

But we got there and immediately concluded what a lovely little village it is. Very steep, though! We parked the car on a slope overlooking the yacht club. Rain was threatening so we made immediately to The Seafood Platter. We hadn't booked, so we were lucky that they could squeeze us in - they later explained that the local caravan site had opened just that day. Now, I want to make it clear that the staff at the Seafood Platter were warm, welcoming, polite, friendly, and service was fine. I do have to laugh at a paragraph on their website

At the end of March 2009, Robert and Eva fulfilled their dream by emigrating to New Zealand with their three lovely children Maximilian, and the twins Constantine and Soraya. Then in July 2011 they had Caspian.

Also, the youngish man running the place, charming and otherwise unfailingly polite, addressed everybody as "You guys". At one point I was definitely the youngest person in the place, and until a 20-something couple,arrived the average age must have been 60+. I really really wouldn't address retired ladies as "You guys". 

The food was excellent. I started with Potted shrimp, which was delicious in itself, and was accompanied by a salad of the highest quality. Look at the juiciness of those tomatoes, the crispness of the lettuce, and the vinaigrette, topped by the crunchy sweetness of the red onion and peppers. Eye-catching, and exactly how a side salad should be. I ate and enjoyed it. In many pubs etc, I'd've just left limp leaves and tasteless tomatoes for the compost bin.

My main course was, if I remember correctly,  Fillet of Hake with sauce vierge. It came with sides, too, but sides rarely photograph well. As you can, a chunky piece of fish, cooked to perfection, and presented elegantly with just enough sauce to enhance, but not drown the fish.

This must count among the top pub meals I have eaten, and the prices seemed very reasonable for fresh, local seasonal quality ingredients, seemingly cooked to order. It's unlikely I shall return to Beer in the near future, but if I do, I would head straight here.

We managed to dodge the rain for long enough to take a short stroll up the cliff gardens and enjoy the views.

I couldn't resist calling this photo Beer Garden

The fishing boats and tractors were eye-catching

I was puzzled why someone started a fire on the beach, but no one seemed to mind

We had a slightly strange experience as we climbed up the cliff-front garden. The garden is terraced, and the terraces are linked by steps. At each level there is a clearing, often with a bench. We were in no hurry and we paused at each level. Three times this group of rather odd looking women came and joined and stood a little bit too close to be, well, normal. The first time, we felt somewhat pressured into moving off. On the second occasion we lingered, to give them the chance to overtake us. On the third level I made loud pointed remarks about personal space and weird people. It wasn't like it was a narrow passage that we were blocking them from passing. And I appreciate that they wanted to pause and see the view at each level, just as we did. But their behaviour was borderline aggressive. And just rude. I think they were walking the coastal path to Seaton. I only hope they got well and truly drenched.

There's a semi-culverted stream down the main road

And a local pub provided a preview of what has turned out to be a leitmotif of the summer of 2013

The rain began to get heavy, and we decided to leave town. I don't know why, but I had it my head it was some quaint little village. To be honest, it wasn't much. And then I directed my driver to drive across country to Honiton to pick up the main A35 back to Bridport. He didn't much like driving across country. He's so urban!

* I realise I ought to bring you a picture of said mug, but it's in a cardboard box, under the stairs, and not on the top level.  Life is just too short!