I thought I'd write this because Bonfire Night 2013 is imminent.
I don't know what possessed me last year to go off to Brockwell Park and watch the fireworks. To say I on't like fireworks is an understatement - largely stemming from being hit by a firework ten years ago.
I think I was tempted by the announcement that Brockwell Park fireworks were done by the same team that did the Olympic Fireworks. And there was to be mulled Chucklehead Cider on sale.
The funfair was cancelled because the Parks department felt that after an exceptionally wet spring and summer, and significant autumn rainfall, the fair would damage the grass too much. They are planning a children's funfair this year.
Tens of thousands of people flocked to Brockwell Park. There were strict rules on not taking personal fireworks, including sparklers, into the park. There were plenty of stewards and a low key police presence. Kids could buy light sabres or neon tiaras. The cider was excellent, the doughnuts not so. And at 8 pm the Mayor of Lambeth announced the start of the firework display. 23 minutes of whoosh and bang with a pop music soundtrack. Some people living in flats overlooking the park complained, but I feel - it's 23 minutes of loud whoosh and bang, and somewhat dodgy pop music. 23 minutes. For 362 days of the year, you live in a flat overlooking a gorgeous park.
And I took some photos. Looking back, I see that I set my camera at its smallest aperture, and set the ISO to 200. Most of the exposure times seem to be about 1 second - I'm surprised they weren't more affected by camera shake. Quite a few people posted their applephone pictures on Twitter. Don't use an applephone to photograph fireworks!
No real need for words. Some photos taken last October and this, to mark the changing of the seasons. I expect it will look very different in a few days, especially after the fierce storm forecast for Monday.
NB I don't contribute any effort to the upkeep and maintenance!
Our idea on holiday is to have a busy day followed by a quiet day, and alternate. This was supposed to be a quiet day, where we took it easy.
The day began by exploring Marazion on foot. The town contains an Anglican church, a Methodist chapel and a Quaker meeting house. I had read that Methodism is traditionally bigger than Anglicanism in Cornwall, but the Anglican church seemed quite lively. I noted from the sign outside that they periodically conduct services in the Celtic tradition. It gets a relatively good write up from the Mystery Worshipper. While we were there we popped inside. There was a shop open, and although there was nothing there that appealed to me, I didn't feel nervous or awkward, and certainly not unwelcome being there. I liked the embroidered kneelers.
Like many small towns/large villages, Marazion has several clues as to being more lively in times past, such as The Old Police House. The village also hosts an old school house, although the local school seems to have outgrown it, rather than simply moved on or disappeared.
Like just about everywhere, there is a town War Memorial, and in every town you look at the names. Many of the names recognisably Cornish. The same surname appears under both World Wars, possibly a father and son, each killed in different conflicts.
I have mentioned before that Marazion overlooks St Michael's Mount; I felt obliged to take a photograph.
Behind the church sits a turret. Its purpose or history remains a mystery to me.
From the beach, the Town Hall clock is visible.
We stopped for coffee in the delightful Delicious deli, our first of three visits during our fortnight. I noted that they served loose leaf tea, £1.60 per pot. The coffee was very good, too, but their offer of tea stuck in my head, and became a benchmark. It's a wonderful place, a bit quirky and boho, but not letting that get in the way of serving up a good range of all-day breakfasts, light lunches, snacks and cakes. Small, but achieving a standard many superficially similar places only aspire to. Well deserving of its Trip Advisor Rating.
Back on the road and I declared we should walk to Penzance; after all, the signs stated that it was just two miles. Long story short, I set my Tracker app just by the Town Square in Marazion. It tells me I walked over 3 miles, and we never reached Plymouth.
It started off as a very pleasant walk, heading westwards out of town. past a memorial stone for HMS Warspite - do read the final section about her decommissioning.
We walked for a while on the beach until we met a stream flowing down to the sea. According to the map this is the Red River, but not the same Red River that flows north and enters the Atlantic near St Ives.
For some distance, it made sense to walk along the footway beside the road, while still looking out to sea.
I took a lot of photos of St Michael's Mount but quite early that evening I became very bored of editing them. When selecting photos for this blogpost I deleted a great many.
The beach runs next to the railway line, specifically the sidings serving Penzance, the extreme end of First Great Western's InterCity service. There are few crossings, and one former crossing has been closed, clearly not a popular move locally.
On we walked, and it slowly began to dawn that there were no further railway crossings before a bridge that seemed a great distance away. My feet were beginning to hurt, and the more we walked the more they hurt. Initially, the pain didn't stop me taking photos, such as this one of what appeared to be newly built holiday lets.
I also took several looking out to sea.
At first we agreed we would get to Penzance and find a bar or café, then it began to dawn us that Penzance was a long way away. I set my sights on, of all places, Morrison's; my thinking being that a) they have a café and b) it is likely we would be able to get a minicab if not a bus from there.
But even when we reached Morrison's we still weren't there, as it lay on the other side of the railway tracks. We had to walk its entire length, and further, until we reached a footbridge, which brought us back to civilisation - if that's how you can describe a large building site for roadworks for an under-construction Sainsburys on the site of a former heliport.
Finally we got to Morrison's, and their café. At this point I was grateful for anything, but, really, this was a shambles and an insult. It wasn't staffed when we and another twosome arrived. It was 'serve yourself' but it wasn't entirely obvious how - these two women had to explain to us that teabags were already in the pots which had to be carried to the warm water tap. Small, grudging-sized teapots containing a teabag of dubious quality tea.
The tables and chairs were plastic arrangements, screwed to the floor with room for just 4 people around each table. No thought that someone of, say, six foot height like Jimmy may have different seating needs than a small child, no recognition that groups, say family groups, may come in sizes greater than four. The twosome that came in after us included a woman in a wheelchair, who couldn't easily be accommodated at a bolted down table-and-chair arrangement. She had to stick out into the aisle, as would, I assume a highchair, although I don't know whether they had highchairs available.
Still, it was liquid, and the woman at Customer Service directed us to the bus stop for a bus back to Marazion. That was quite an exercise in numptiness! The bus was very full with pupils from the local college (ie secondary school) who, in my view, should have precedence at that time of day over shoppers and tourists. It did of course mean the bus was full, and I was obliged to stand downstairs. Fine. But every time the bus went round a corner an old boy sitting down reached his arm across the aisle to grab a pole, sending my body out of balance (I had nowhere to move ny feet).
As the bus approached the stop before the Town Square, a young couple at the back stood up and walked forward, making everyone move out of their way. but they didn't want that stop, they were just being prepared for the Town Square. Guess what, loads of people got off at the Town Square, and loads were getting on, but that didn't seem to make any impression on some old bloke who nonchalantly walked his rat of a dog right in front of the single door of the bus.
If I hadn't paused, I would have tripped over the almost invisible dog lead, and possibly hit my head on the cobbles, or been crushed by the stampede of people who were pushing to get off the bus behind me. I did call the man an 'Idiot' or somesuch but he was well away with the fairies in a world of his own.
I do wonder if these people ever go anywhere in public when not on holiday; it scares me even more that their habitual mode of transport is private car!
Back in the holiday flat I ministered treatment to my feet: ibuprofen to reduce the swelling, a hot bath to ease the the muscle pain, and a good massage with peppermint foot cream, because it feels nice. I hoped my horrible feet were not going to ruin the holiday.
We have cycled various stretches of the Wandle on several occasions but cycling is not as good for photography as walking. It was a decent day in late April when we adventured far into the distant reaches of Waddon. Eight months earlier we had discovered the source of the Wandle at Carshalton; now it was Croydon's turn. We started at Waddon because I was not sure of the state of affairs at Wandle Park, Croydon (NB Do not confuse with Wandle Park Colliers Wood - that will never do!). Waddon, frequent trains from Streatham Hill; unfortunately one has to brave the nightmare traffic that is Purley Way, to reach Waddon Ponds. These proved to be a surprise pleasure, an oasis of calm just feet from the A23.
The landscape changed as we walked along. Greenery, stretches where the banks are reinforced by concrete, and delightful artisan-style dwellings. It suddenly struck me I wouldn't necessarily rule out moving to live round here - it would be lovely to be right by the river and yet within easy commuting distance of Central London. I was quite shocked at my thoughts!
Over Beddington Lane and into the periphery of Beddington Park. With the sun beating down there was something delightfully bucolic about the river, at this point still little more than a stream.
The walk into Beddington Park was almost rural in its aspect.
This was slightly marred by some tattooed chav allowing his bull terrier dogs to run at me in a definitely aggressive way. A man passing by with his toddler looked at me with shock and sympathy. This was soon put behind me when we turned a corner and there was Carew Manor. Neither of us had any idea that this existed and in seemingly such an incongruous place.
Carew Manor dates back to the 1500’s and comprises of a number of buildings. Aside from the main house, the land also holds a Dovecote, Orangery Wall, church and parkland. The building itself has a Great Hall that is important being the only Grade 1 listed site in the London Borough of Sutton.The building has particular relevance during the time of the Tudors. The Carew family had direct links with Henry VIII and Queen Elizabeth I visited Carew Manor on a number of occasions during her reign.
The Dovecote is listed and the Lodge is intriguing.
The Church, St Mary's, seems more appropriate to a rural setting.
The Manor is also impressive, although I didn't photograph it well
Beddington Park is truly delightful. This is Canon's Bridge, given to the rector Canon Bridges. I wonder if that was a little joke! It's made of terracotta
We walked along the canalised river through parkland and woodlands still soggy from an exceptionally wet few months. Already, children were playing in the river. I envied them and approved of their parents' parenting.
The directions for the Wandle Trail refer heavily to bridges as waymarkers.
And on a nest, the moorhens were enjoying Spring. Perhaps sitting on their eggs.
An April Shower arrived andmy feet were aching, mainly because of the walk to Streatham Hill station and wandering the streets of Waddon, rather than because of the Wandle trail. We called it a day and found a bus stop, vowing to return one day.
Last year we spent a fortnight in an All-Inclusive hotel in Kos, just outside Kos town. We wanted sun and sea and that was what we got. The hotel, the Oceanis, had many positives. Absolutely scrupulously clean at all times. Beautiful landscaped grounds and thoughtfully set out. Food was plentiful and not without variety.
We had ordered a standard room, and were upgraded to a more roomy suite, which even had a jacuzzi on the balcony. The reason for the upgrade soon became obvious - it was directly above the hotel sauna and became extremely hot. Fortunately there was air conditioning.
However, we did remember why we had vowed never to go all-inclusive again. After a while, the buffet meals became monotonous in their bland lukewarm sameness. By the last couple of days I was surviving largely on fruit and cheese. Every night there was live entertainment in the Pool bar, often until after 11pm. This was amplified throughout the complex, destroying any sense of quiet. The most frequent entertainment was from the resident 'pub singer' by the name of Andy Foster. He sang versions of numerous classic pop hits from several decades. Bearable for one evening, when I was really quite drunk, but he just seemed to get worse and worse. No real musicality, whining voice and no real rhythm. But there was no escape. One night we made the mistake of inviting some people to sit at our bar table (it accommodated four, there were no free tables). They talked at us, boasting about all the other All Inclusive holidays they had been on; by the time the woman started on about how wonderful the Royals are I got rather impatient and was extremely rude, describing Kate Middleton as a lazy waste of space. I have no regrets!
Each week we were entitled to a meal in the 'a la carte' restaurant - ersatz Italian. Really quite poor and an insult to anyone who is Italian or has ever been to Italian.
It's also worth noting that the staff did not have a single day off for the entirety of the season, except if ill, and they worked long hours. Many of them were delightfully candid, making it absolutely clear that they were only working here because of the dire employment situation in cities such as Athens. I strongly suspected many were desperately over-qualified and/or experienced for this menial work. However, despite what they must have felt, they were unfailingly polite and efficient in their service.
We went into Kos Town on the frequent cheap local bus and also on two excursions (future blogposts) but otherwise we stayed in the hotel. We had intended to hire bikes and explore, but the weather was much hotter than we - or anyone - expected. I had seen that it averages 25 degrees during the day, and have been to Greece twice before at this time and found it pleasant, but there was not a day that the temperatures didn't exceed 30, often by quite some margin. Too hot to do anything but swim in the sea! The locals kept saying that it should have rained, there should have been rain. A short heavy shower would have been welcome.
There were two pools but we didn't much bother with them. One was called the Quiet Pool and we frequently had coffee beside it in the first week, noting how people clearly just wanted to read or snooze. We returned on our final day and noticed two parties who insisted on loudly playing bat-and-ball in the pool. I wonder about the mentality of people who see a sign saying Quiet Pool and go out of their way to make noise. "Oh look at me, I'm so interesting, I demand attention"
The hotel included a chapel, apparently one could get married there, but it was closed when we did our walking/photography tour of the campus
Some of the produce for the kitchen was grown in the grounds
It was rarely dull looking out to sea across a busy shipping lane to Turkey. When large or fast ships or boats passed, a few moments later a particularly lively wave would ripple onto the beach. It took me a while to work out cause and effect!
The grounds were nice and they had strict rules about leaving towels on loungers early in the morning or late at night. There seemed to be a natural divide between the lively noisy beach below the Pool bar and the further beach where peace and quiet was rarely interrupted.
As seems to be de rigeur in these hotels we experienced the delights of towel art. It all gets a bit tedious after a few days.
As I say, there's a lot of positives about the hotel, and if you're looking for a holiday of All Inclusive indolence I would strongly recommend the Oceanis, albeit with the caveats expressed above. But we strongly concluded that AI is not for us, not for a long time now.
Under-impressed by St Ives we sought alternative places to enjoy Cornwall's North Coast - Atlantic Coast? Or is it the Celtic Sea? I saw no mention of the Celtic Sea in two weeks in West Cornwall. but I did see references to the Atlantic.
I perused our map and saw long stretches of golden sand and sandcastle icons for miles to the East of St Ives. Tom Tom helpfully took us on a back road, single track with occasional passing places - but unlike in Scotland, such roads aren't labelled as this. The speed limit was 20 mph, a growing trend, and one I approve of, although all the roads I've seen with a 20mph limit, only a fool would drive that fast anyway!
The road down to Carbis Bay seemed exceptionally steep, although I found steeper ones later. I was briefly in conversation with a man in the beach café, saying I didn't envy hm having to cycle back up there - although I did say I was envious he was out on the bike. Didn't want to give the impression of being anti-bike!
The beach café was chaotic and over-priced but the 'Awesome Pizzas' lived up their billing. And the view was excellent, too. We walked along the beach and back again. I had entertained thoughts of swimming in the sea and Jimmy had plans to sit on the beach and chill for a while. But neither was practical, there was a stiff Northerly coming off the sea, so delightful walking weather didn't translate into beach weather. There were some people in the water, but with one exception they were in wetsuits. And the family groups were well protected by windbreaks, the toddlers happily dug in the sand while wearing fleeces. The good old British summer holiday!
Next stop was Hayle, but we couldn't a find a way to the beach, despite following signs along the road. We ended up in a dead end, next to an electricity Transformer Station. This one proclaimed it was powered by waves, but we couldn't see any! Someone I know was in Hayle a couple of weeks later and said that it's difficult to find the beach.
We passed through the village of Phillack, notable for the pub with the name The Bucket of Blood and we again found the sea by driving through a holiday park. Lovely views of the Hayle Estuary but parking was strictly residential so we didn't linger. Very few people were on the beach, other than a solitary kite surfer and a council employee in a sand buggy removing the red flag. Presumably unsafe to swim because of currents from the river.
Our next target was Gwithian but we overshot the turning - cars coming at us from two directions on an otherwise quiet road. We needed somewhere to turn round, and, fortunately I spotted a sign saying "Hell's Mouth Cafe 400 yards". I immediately had visions of there being dozens of motorbikes meeting in a Hell's Angels convention; instead there were just a few cars. Unfortunately, it was past 5 pm and the café was closing, otherwise we would surely have taken a tea.
Instead we had a stroll along the Coastal Path, at this point managed by the National Trust. It was sad to see the tributes left to people who had taken their lives there. The next day we were talking to someone whose friend is involved with the café; one day a young man asked him to hold his dog while he went outside. He never returned. I find such tributes poignant. They use words such as 'Much missed', and you want to turn back the clock to let the troubled soul know how much they would be missed.
There were some lovely views away from the coast, too
The flora was typical of heathland
We found evidence of fairly recent erosion
I Googled Hell's Mouth and found this video of an actual rockfall at this very spot. I find some of the comments rather depressing. These people filmed this, probably (subconsciously) with the likes of me in mind, and some bored, nasty childish people leave mean-spirited comments that add nothing to the user experience and probably reflect that they have never been anywhere like this, yet think they have an interesting life. (Rant over)
Despite the grim reminders of mortality, the stroll on the clifftop was a tranquil end to what had been a somewhat frustrating day. Nothing beats the sensuality of being out in the open, barely troubled by people, even less by cars, enjoying the light of the Golden Hour, and savouring the breeze.
A notable example of Neo-Mughal architecture, says Wikipedia. The inspiration for the Brighton Pavillion and also featuring in John Betjeman's autobiographical Summoned by Bells
“Down the drive, Under the early yellow leaves of oaks’ One lodge is Tudor, one in Indian style. The bridge, the waterfall, the Temple Pool And there they burst on us, the onion domes, Chajjahs and chattris made of amber stone: ‘Home of the oaks’, exotic Sezincote.”
We had tried to visit on the Sunday of our Cotswold adventure but it was closed. When we exited Batsford Arboretum, we realised that the entrance to Sezincote was just opposite and Sezincote was open. We drove down the long single track drive. I started to feel anxious: it's a bit odd to turn up to someone's house and expect to look around. But the car park and the sizable queue for the ticket office reassured us we were not alone! We declined to book on an interior tour - there's a limit to much walking one can do in a day, there was a long wait with several tours already booked up, and why go indoors on a lovely Spring day!
First stop was the Orangery, for a much needed cup of tea and a very welcome slice of cake. Proper cake, homemade, by locals I think - I had lemon drizzle. Tea came out of a pot, with tea cups. The teapot was wielded by Camilla, the lady of the house, with refills freely available.
And after the Conservatory, the lawn. There was a sheer climb to the top of the lawn, and it was very pleasant, one could imagine tea and croquet parties, but the elephant statues aside, there was far more to explore elsewhere. I enjoyed walking round the garden, the sun and the delightfully mild temperatures were an added bonus. Relatively few people ventured far from the house and lawn, which made strolling the outer garden even more pleasant.
It was quite a different experience from any garden I've been in before. I can't say I had any profound understanding of the Indian influences. I did especially enjoy their incongruity in an area which for many would epitomise the English rural idyll.
This folly is near the tennis courts, a useful place for storing deckchairs and so on. There was a church on this sight but this was razed to the ground during the English Civil War. It surprises me that they never bothered building a replacement - every village should have its church (especially in the days before motorised transport) but perhaps when it was gone they didn't miss it!
As we strolled around there were some great views back to the house and into open country.
I particularly enjoyed the area round the lake. Do notice the two chaps in red trousers and yellow trousers. I do have a zoomed shot of them and they look spectacularly Cotswoldy posh. On balance I decided not to blog the zoomed photo. Although I feel confident they would probably not be hurt by having their conscious fashion choice mocked, I don't want to set a precedent of mocking people doing no harm in photos where their faces are recognisable! But we saw probably even more yellow and green trousers on a certain type of man than even red trousers, and more red trousers than even at English National Opera or Brixton Village.
I'm convinced there must be some great photos to get of herds of cattle. This isn't one.
Now I'm writing this, I assume these are bluebells, but I can no longer be sure. Nice, anyway!
My favourite part of the whole estate was the Snake Pool with its Hindu temple and statues. If time or energy is extremely limited, I would suggest prioritising these.
You would think, with my political philosophy, I would rather visit gardens owned and run by English Heritage or National Trust, but this was the second place we visited in 2013 (the first is yet to be written) managed by the resident family and with limited opening, where the experience was far more pleasant, even down to details of proper fresh home baked cakes, served by local volunteers, rather than packaged processed stuff served by staff on zero hour minimum wage contracts. Ok, I'll admit that if I lived in a village and had time to volunteer it probably wouldn't be for the local landed gentry. On the other hand, it must be very social, mixing with fellow volunteers and the the public.
We left soon after four and realised just how hungry we were. We knew it would be difficult to find anywhere serving food at that time. We tried Churchill, and various places -under-Wychwood but were not surprised to find the pubs shut. We ended up in Chipping Norton just as full time was approaching in the Championship Play Off final between Crystal Palace and some other team. Himself is, technically, a Crystal Palace fan, so we sat in the car park in the Town Square listening to a crackly commentary with poor reception from Radio 5 until the glorious news that Palace had been promoted to the Premiership.
We then found a pub serving food all day, with a wonderful name, Bitter and Twisted As I said to the manager, I was expecting something on the level of Wetherspoons, or possibly Wetherspoons plus, but it was much better than that. Obviously, not comparable with The Wild Thyme over the road, but peerless, in my experience, in the All-Day Food category. For whatever reason, I didn't photograph my food, battered prawns followed by a veggie risotto, but I had fun photographing my Singapore Sling.
All the photos and more are in Cotswolds photo ablbum.
We drove home the next day. It absolutely chucked it down, with visibility extremely poor on the M40. We experienced a spectacular soaking-by-lorry-driving-through-puddle on the A40 Western Avenue which would have hit us head-on if it had happened a split second earlier. But it was great to have the three full days of our break in beautiful Spring sunshine.
I must have read a tantalising review and downloaded this to my Kindle. I had just finished reading several short reasonably good books. Enjoyable, but all containing several reasons to criticise (poorly constructed sentences and flaws in the logic or basic premise, to name just two). And then I started reading this. And read it over only a very few evenings. I had not previously read any Kate Atkinson, although I enjoyed the TV series Case Histories, based on her Jackson Brodie novels.
During a snowstorm in England in 1910, a baby is born and dies before she can take her first breath.
During a snowstorm in England in 1910, the same baby is born and lives to tell the tale.
What if there were second chances? And third chances? In fact an infinite number of chances to live your life? Would you eventually be able to save the world from its own inevitable destiny? And would you even want to?
Life After Life follows Ursula Todd as she lives through the turbulent events of the last century again and again. With wit and compassion, Kate Atkinson finds warmth even in life’s bleakest moments, and shows an extraordinary ability to evoke the past. Here she is at her most profound and inventive, in a novel that celebrates the best and worst of ourselves.
The chronology is confusing until you get what's happening, and perhaps it might annoy people to find that the plot is far from linear. It didn't annoy me, and each time something unpleasant happened to Ursula, it was nice to know that in her next life she would avoid that situation and survive.
Aside from the slightly odd conceit of a plot, the story is full of warmth. I really like Ursula as a character. All the other people are nicely two-dimensional. On the whole we know nothing of their inner lives or thoughts, which serves to make one identify even more fully with Ursula. I am left with a distinct impression that nothing happens in the book without Ursula being present, so we the reader knows what Ursula knows.
And most of all, this contains some of the best fictional writing I have ever encountered about life in the Blitz, painting broad strokes and intimate details of what it was really like - or so it seemed - not simply the morale raising chirpy tones of a Pathé News reader - abject fear, broken bodies, dear friends and warm acquaintances suddenly taken.
And, like everyone, I felt the scenes in Germany rather let down an otherwise splendid book.
Themes of fate, family life and renewal are brilliantly explored in this story of a life lived in wartime Britain, from the Guardian - WARNING, contains a lot of plot
Lambeth Country Show happens every year in Brixton's Brockwell Park, usually in July. A two-day extravaganza of largely free entertainment, laid on by the council for the enjoyment of local residents and those from afar.
For numerous tedious reasons I hadn't been for several years until last year. The 2012 Country Show was moved from July to September, because of the Olympics. There was the inevitable public dissent and threats of riots, but the day turned out to be beautiful and almost seemed to top off the glorious London 2012 summer. I had tremendous fun, and took a lot of photos. I went again this year, had some fun and took several more photos. On both occasions, I avoided the live music areas - although, to be honest, they could be heard in my garden - because on the whole they're not really my style. And we didn't get any Chucklehead Cider, due to the eye-wateringly long queues.
People from out of town refer to it as a County Show, but, despite its location in Inner City Brixton (and leafy suburban Herne Hill) it's definitely a Country Show. The following narrative doesn't distinguish particularly between the two years, because they followed a similar pattern.
There is an arena for quirky events, such as camel racing, owls, falconry, 'Dog and Duck' (I think that's basically sheepdog trials, with ducks in place of sheep), and jousting.
Local Nature and Growing people have stalls, including the Beekeepers.
The Council's Environmental Services and contractor put on a display.
And sell watering cans, for Alzheimers or Foodbank, to tie in with the Mayor's Charity.
Next stop is the Flower Zone, which contains the world famous vegetable carving area, and displays of produce to conform with the rules of the Royal Horticultural Society.
Carrots, representing Anthony Gormley's Another Place on Sefton Beach, created by my neighbour Harriet, who this year told the Edward Snowden story in carrots - see topless Putin on his horse.
The popular favourite was Patrick Moore
RHS-ruled displays of vegetables and fruit
5 tomatoes; collection of 4 distinct kinds of vegetables; 4 potatoes; 3 beetroots, round, 7.5 cm tops; onions; herbs, 3 cultivars.
Displays of plants
Group of cacti; 2 succulents; foliage pot plant in a container; 3 succulents other than cacti.
And all manner of flower arrangements
Two with musical themes
London Symphony Orchestra under Valery Gergiev at The Proms, strings, brass and percussion; The Proms
And collections of plants in troughs
Vauxhall City Farm display their animals; this section seems particularly popular with small children. Still, you don't often see sheep and alpacas in Brixton!
As well as Chucklehead cider, there is plenty of food on sale. I opted for Macaroni cheese with added chipotle, and had long finished it while Jimmy queued for jerk pork. When he reached the front of the queue, they had run out of rice.
There are also stalls selling the usual things you expect at these shows nowadays, from artisan cheeses to cupcakes. Stalls for organisations like the local FE Colleges and British Heart Foundation. Many of the voluntary groups also have stalls. I have, in the past, done my stint on the Labour Party stall. Last year, these were all down the hill, away from the main thrust.
Many people come specifically for the funfair. Nowadays, I don't generally do funfairs, because my Constant Companion gets travel sick on anything that goes round. But they're awfully good fun to photo.
We were escorted out of the park by these folks. They came up behind and took me by surprise. I commented that they ought to have some sort of warnign sound. Maybe one that said 'Neigh, neigh'. I thought it was blooming hilarious and was pretty proud I'd made a joke up myself. But I can't actually believe no one's thought of it before!
I visualised St Ives as a slightly-bohemian and somewhat intellectual town, where I could browse contemporary art galleries and convivial coffee shops and engage in stimulating conversation with other Guardian Readers in Ethnic Skirts. On holiday in West Cornwall, St Ives was a must visit. I knew that, on a Monday outside the school holidays, it would be quiet, a positive joy to which I looked forward.
We arrived on the outskirts and followed the signs to the car park. Ahead of us were several cars. The road climbed and climbed, up and up, away from the coast, until we found a car park, so far from the Town Centre it could have been described as 'out of town'. Indeed I noticed a shuttle bus service running between the car park and town. The car park was full but we followed the signs to a field, where parking was controlled by a team of stewards. By the time we had Paid-and-Displayed and generally faffed, the field was full, and two more fields were being opened.
It was a steep walk down. We met people on the way up who advised us to get the bus back. One woman complained that she had proposed that but had been 'outvoted'. No one used the prospect of a cream tea to motivate us. However, we knew we would find a divine and undiscovered coffee shop, overlooking the sea front, with a quirky collection of local paintings or artisan pottery.
The roads were narrow and progress down the tiny pavements was difficult. We seemed to be in amongst people who had little idea how to walk-when-out-in-public. We saw a sign for the harbour, my pulse increased. We rounded the corner, and my face fell in horror. All I could see was 'fish and chips here now' 'beer and burgers'. And hordes of people. Thankfully, we found a nice place for coffee, Al Fresco. I looked at the menu and yearned to return there for dinner. Sadly, we didn't but it was an oasis of class and quality amidst a town that wasn't exactly Blackpool but made Southend look distinctly upmarket.
I'm not particularly ashamed to say that St Ives brought out my inner snob. My photos told me how wonderful the light is, and why it has been such a draw for artists. But how can I enjoy a town when I have to watch every step I go, when if I move to avoid bumping into someone I risk tripping over someone else's dog lead? People wandering aimlessly. Not because they were relaxed into a world of their own but because they didn't know why they were there or what to do. It was summed up by seeing a woman sitting against the seawall trying to read her book; another woman had parked herself a couple of yards in front of her and was shouting a conversation with a couple who had stopped on the Prom.
We made the most of what could have been a bad day, walking out along Smeaton's Pier, and also along a jetty. Even on the jetty was the inability to walk-when-out-in-public. I saw a group aproaching, I moved to my left, they moved to their left, and we passed. Except for one woman who stepped back to her right and came up to me with confrontation on her face. It seemed she'd decided to walk on that side and I was in her way. How tedious.
If you notice in that photo, some of the boats registration number begin SS and some PZ, representing their home ports of St Ives and Penzance. I always like to look for boats registered well outside the local area and wonder what brings them so far.
We could have done more in St Ives but neither of us found it a particularly pleasant place. We could have gone to Art Galleries, but it seems odd to waste such a gloriously sunny day peering at pictures of scenery that we could see for ourselves, in fresh air and with walking. We found the queue for the bus back. Flat fare, pensioner's pass not valid. In actual fact a very sensible service, enabling the tourists to pour into town in their thousands and boost the local economy without entirely clogging up the town with stationary traffic. In my ideal world, the shuttle bus would have been free, but no doubt that would have raised the cost of parking for those willing and able to walk.
In fairness to St Ives, not all bloggers see it the same way as me, for example, The Londoner
This is situated just outside Moreton-in-Marsh in Gloucestershire and was recommended by my guidebook as a place to visit. I've never really visited an arboretum before, but they seem to be growing in popularity. I wasn't entirely sure what to expect, but hoped it wouldn't be rows and rows of trees planted in neat lines, sort of like a glorified garden centre. There was a garden centre, gift shop and café attached. My hopes soared when I saw the sign by the ticket office recommending sensible shoes.
The Arboretum is set in the grounds of a Stately Home, and it's good that they have turned their land over to display the country's largest private collection of trees and shrubs. I expect the income as a visitor attraction is useful, too.
The Stately Home isn't open to the public, but, like so many stately homes, the historical significant is virtually non-existent. It is of some minor literary note, having been the home of the Mitford sisters, and part of Nancy Mitford's Love in a Cold Climate was set there. For some reason I find the Mitfords faintly fascinating whilst retaining not one iota of interest in them. I think generally, their significance in the national consciousness has faded rapidly.
It was a Bank Holiday Monday and fairly warm and perfectly dry so there were a fair few people out in the Arboretum, although thankfully it wasn't as crowded as it ought to have been. It's possible to walk along a well tarmaced path, but there is more benefit in going onto the lesser paths, some well-maintained, some emerging from nature. On the whole most people were wearing at least semi-sensible shoes, although not one particular party, a mother my age with her 20ish daughter. One was wearing shoes with a sharp almost stiletto heel of medium height and the other was wearing flip-flop style sandals.
Their choice, of course, and none of my business. But it puzzles me, and it has puzzled me even more since, what goes through people's heads. If I'm out on the town, of course I want to dress up, put on heels, but I don't get why people do that for 'country' pursuits. Given that travel by car is fairly essential for this sort of destination, wouldn't it make sense to keep a change of shoes in the boot? I'd feel out of place dressed in fleece and walking boots in a trendy bar in a town centre on a Friday night, and I wonder why people evidently more anxious about fashion and fitting-in than me, don't feel out of place tottering around uneven paths and protruding tree roots. Surely it must limit your enjoyment of a place if you daren't leave the path for fear of stubbing your toe or turning your ankle?
I have little to say about the arboretum. I am sure that many people would appreciate it better than me, especially if they have an active interest in trees. I am poor at identifying species of tree, and hadn't read the leaflet properly to know to look for the specialist collection of trees. However, I thought it a perfect walk. Not too far, and with a variety of terrain, including steep slopes. I thoroughly enjoyed the experience on my terms. Stretching but not over-strenuous exercise, surrounded by managed nature on a lovely day. I respected the management.
I'm sure it's a difficult balance to strike. I doubt there are many accessible places in Britain that are truly wild, and all are managed to some degree, whether it be path and pond maintanance or expert thinning of woodland to encourage new growth. And, as far as my non-expert eye could tell, this was done sensibly. The signange was discrete and just about enough to guide a visitor with a complementary leaflet/map but the signs never dominated nature.
I enjoyed walking through the Waterfall, but it was a mistake to try and take a photo while doing so. It took me months to get the equipment - including Giottos Rocket Air Blower - necessary for cleaning the lens* and for a good while too many photographs were spotted.
We saw the Mansion where Love In a Cold Climate was set
but I was more interested in the Thatched Cottage and the Hermit's Cave
We wandered out of the Estate and into the adjacent village, including by a church. There seemed to be more signs of life there than other churches we visited in The Cotswolds. Well, I say 'signs of life', I mean an Order of Service remaining from a funeral the previous week. The churchyard was dominated by graves of the lords of the local Manor, from decades ago.
There were streams, ponds and marshes, demonstrating the balance between nature and management.
I was disappointed by the relative lack of colour - although, to be fair, I went to a place, an Arboretum, whose name derives from the word for trees. But there were some colourful sights.
Altogether a pleasant couple of hours and we were pleased we visited.
*The Giotto's Rocket blows away dust particles, which may scratch the lens if you just try and wipe it; it's also enormous fun as a toy/stress buster. I was being particularly stupid the day it arrived and pondered aloud "What happens when it runs out of air?" I was given an incredulous look.
It was a sad occasion when we last visited the Exhibition Rooms in Crystal Palace. We have been there several times over several years and never had cause to complain about the food or the service. A while back, we had an unpleasant experience when some man followed me into the Ladies loos. I made a written complaint, the management explained that he was an ex-member of staff who had been barred from the premises, but on management's night off, another member of staff had invited him in (and lied to us that he was leaving the premises immediately). The response from management was polite, professional and serious, and thus I put the incident behind me.
We have been a couple of times when there have been noisy children or out-of-control children running around. Sadly, if you avoided everywhere with ghastly brats, there would be almost nowhere in South London to eat. However, we have vowed that any Sunday lunch appointment would be closer to two pm than noon.
Throughout out meal we were subjected to noise and running about from a group across the dining room. It appeared to be two couples, an elderly relative and numerous children. Singularly unpleasant and utterly destructive of the relaxing atmosphere that we and, doubtless, all the other adult parties sought. I didn't particularly know why they went to a place that describes itself as 'Classic modern dining and drinking' when all they ordered was burgers and mass-produced lager. And then it became apparent that one of the party was a member of staff on his day off. We vowed never to go there again for Sunday lunch, although we were open to the possibility of evening dining. As it happens, we haven't been back.
The restaurant gets a lot right with its food - seasonality, good quality ingredients, prepared well, and attractively presented, with generous portions and an absence of the 'ponciness' which Jimmy despises. But to have the dining atmosphere ruined not once but twice by the anti-social behaviour of staff is just too much. If I wanted kids running around, as the adults shout about the toilet needs of the kids, I'd go to Pizza Hut, not somewhere where the cost of food alone, before drinks and service, is likely to exceed £30 a head.
I didn't note down precisely what I ate, but as you can see it was impressive.
Once we had settled into our holiday let, including the obligatory dash to the supermarket we agreed we would go out and eat at somewhere local and unfussy. This was the King's Head, said to be the best pub in the village, and only a few strides from where we were staying. We had to wait half an hour for a table but it was worth the wait. I chose a something labelled as a Bouillabaisse which was far from authentic but was so tasty and filling I was not complaining!
The next day we decided to go for a walk. I had seen this walk on the internet measured at 1.9 miles, along the south West Coastal Path. Easy walk, I thought, good way to break ourselves in. We walked through the town and I took a photo of St Michael's Mount. Important landmark, I thought, I must photograph this now in case it disappears. Suffice to say, by the middle of the first week I was bored of editing photos of St Michael's Mount!
The coastal path takes you up hill along the road through town for at least half a mile. We got chatting to another couple who had just arrived, too, and were following the same route.
A slightly obscured sign pointed to the Coastal Path, and we followed the sign. Down down down along a narrow path through the undergrowth, brambles and nettles obstructing the way, an uneven surface treacherous enough when dry but heaven knows what it would have been like six months ago! We turned a corner and found ourselves on a beach. A whole beach entirely to ourselves. Smelly Beach we soon called it because of the pong. Jimmy said it was raw sewage. I said it was rotting seaweed, remember that beach we found in Spain. Lots of rock pools. I said, if only we had waders. Oh, and I hadn't left my childhood beachcombing books at home. And a view of St Michael's Mount.
We were joined briefly by the other couple. I congratulated them on making it down the hill. She had been adamant she was not a serious walker, 'just a potterer', and her husband was spurred on only by the reward of a cream tea at the end. Still, their shoes were sensible and they had a sense of purpose. Furthermore, although they paused to chat they seemed instinctively to know the right length of time to stay chatting. We were passed by a serious walker - beard, khaki shorts and a map - and he served to confirm that the way off the beach was via an iron staircase. They followed at a suitable distance, and we gave them a chance to get away.
At the top of the stairs there was a choice of direction in which to travel. Ahead along what to me was clearly a path, and parallel to the coast, or to the left, away from the coast, on what was little more than a desire-line. Jimmy said the path we followed wasn't a path. There was the odd bramble branch sticking out. We've been together thirteen years and I have little sense of how much countryside he knew before then. I said that given the absence of walkers' corpses with their eyes being picked by vultures, this was the path! At one stage he suggested we headed inland across a farmer's field, then we'd get there. I said there was no there there. "It's a Coastal Path, let's follow the Coast!".
We walked past three coves, Trenow, Treveleyan and Temis. There were people on them, but very few, and we both enjoyed the thought that in this part of Cornwall, you could find a beach and have it largely to yourself. From the clifftop it was possible to take photos of St Michael's Mount.
and of people clambering on the rocks. I decided I liked the word 'clambering'.
We seemed a long way from anywhere and there was drizzle in the air. I paused to look at the map and to put on my kagoule. We passed two walkers coming in the opposite direction and asked them how far. Twenty minutes they said, and there's a cream tea waiting for you at the end. We trudged through a field and rounded a corner, where two benches were placed back to back on an outcrop. From one you could take photos of St Michael's Mount, and visible from the other was the expanse of Perran Sands
From now, St Michael's Mount and rocky beaches were firmly behind us. I was looking forward to my cream tea. The drizzle disappeared as quickly and stealthily as it had appeared. We admired the house with a bay window that looked down on a sandy beach.
And before long we had arrived at The Cabin in Perranuthnoe. Finally, we were to get our cream tea. Big fresh scones, and lashings of clotted cream and strawberry jam. Reward for walking what the South West Coast Path describes as a "Challenging" (not Easy or Moderate) walk. It was certainly more than two miles. I cursed myself for not setting my 'My Traks' app on my phone, in fact, over the holiday I only set it once. It was a good hour and a half walking, albeit with several pauses. For some reason I didn't photograph my cream tea, but here's a picture of the table decoration.
Afterwards we went onto the beach, with all of three other parties. Wide wide sandy expanse on a warm enough weekend day, and to all intents and purposes we were alone. A horse had been there earlier
Later, we found that Marazion is a lovely town but it is affected by the smell of rotting seaweed and people hope for it to be washed away in the next storm. That made me happy, far preferable to untreated sewage, and part of the circle of life.
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