Gertsamtkunstwerk

On my hols...

...I went to the Peak District. Because I grew up in South Manchester and attended University in Nottingham, I have a long-standing familiarity with the area - numerous day trips from school and with the parents - but had never been as an adult. I determined to go to  Crich Tramway Museum, just to Facebook check-in tag in Helen T from school who's still fuming that back in the 1970s Mr U forced us to go. I enjoyed it. Her feminism is that mixed sex school trips shouldn't be to boys' attractions; mine decrees no such thing as Boys & Girls' attractions. Helen would defend herself by citing her ongoing interest in her local heritage railway! Unfortunately, before we had a chance to visit, the museum closed temporarily because of a problem with the poles for the overhead lines. So, no photos of trams!

 

We stayed in a nice cottage in Castleton. Busy village, entirely geared up for visitors: day-trippers, holiday makers like us, and hikers & climbers. Nice cottage, with quite a lot of history. It retained some traditional features, with contemporary décor and all the mod cons. I'm surprised I didn't take more photos.

A small stream ran through the back garden, and when we first arrived, there was a duck with a large brood of chickens. I got a lot of pleasure watching them that first evening and the next morning, but by the second evening there were fewer ducklings, and one was dying. By the time we went out the following day, they were all dead. I couldn't believe how much this affected me. I have a fairly hard-hearted attitude to the brutality of life for wild animals, but it's more difficult when they share territory with humans. 

 

 

 

Quince Tree Cottage

Probably the nicest holiday let I have stayed in. I thought it was beautiful indoors, both in terms of refurbishment and modernisation, and in regard to décor and equipment. Its main disadvantage was being a long steep walk up from Hythe Town centre. However, this afforded a very decent view over Hythe Bay and to Dungeness. The garden falls away steeply from the front, so although the front door is at ground level, the rear of the main living rooms are on the first floor, above storage space. So both the ground/first floor  reception rooms and the first/second floor bedrooms had balconies. Architecturally the house combined the elegance of the 1930s and a Swiss -style chalet.

   

Windermere Cruises

It's an absolute must if you are staying anywhere near Windermere. Boat trips. We went for a short cruise on the Sunday after we arrived, because, well, you just have to. Of course, I took a huge number of photos of Lake Windermere. Like when I was in Marazion and snapped snapped snapped at St Michael's Mount. And with Northumberland and Bamburgh Castle. Later, you look at them and think - most of these aren't very good, and, this sight has been photographed ad nauseam since photography was invented. Ooh, let's take a picture of that boat in the distance. Oh look, a house on the shores of the lake. I'd better snap that picture of that distant mountain with clouds above it.

A couple of days later we had a full-blown excursion. Boat from Waterhead at the north end of the lake to Bowness to Lakeside at the southern end, and by steam train to Haverthwaite (the steam rail will form another blogpost). My diary contains pen portraits and vignettes of some of our fellow passengers, and I suppose if I blogged them it might make fascinating reading, but long, and tangential. A thirty-something woman I guessed to be at least a size 26 kitted out in full walking gear, who moved lithely, elegantly and with fitness. Her partner was chubby, too, and I imagined a back story where they had realised a year or so back that they needed to do something for their health, started walking, found they loved walking, and are on a metaphorical journey that will make them happy and healthier than any soon-abandoned crash diet or joyless gym regime.

Large parties of tourists from India and China, pensioners from Wigan and schoolchildren from Northern Ireland. I am always slightly alarmed by 'groups' irrespective of the background or age but they were all just fine.

I was amused by the overseas tourists who spent much of the cruise taking selfies, posed artificially with false smiles, and slowly began to notice their environment. The Year 5s did similar, but were quicker on the uptake, and it was very pleasing to see how, unprompted by their teachers, they began to comment on things they had observed, from boats to swans. It struck me as the perfect outing for children of that age, and they were splendidly well behaved - the teachers had set a rule they weren't to go further forward on the boat than an imaginary line because that was where we and several other couples were sat.

And the children all waited at Bowness for the adults to get off first. I made sure to say thank you at intervals down their line and to their teachers. One of the girls had an old fashioned camera, with film, which needed winding on. I wondered whether her parents were incurable retro hippies or strict Protestants who abhorred digital cameras, mobile phones, computers and the internet!

For part of the cruise we had two couples in their 40s or 50s sat behind us. They were entirely inoffensive but I couldn't help overhearing their conversation, just because we were sat so near. It was banal and irrelevant. I have noticed this before and since, that people pay a non-trivial amount of money in order to hold a conversation they could have anywhere. Now, I'm sure that their surroundings seep into their subconscious somehow, but with the current fashion for 'mindfulness' it makes me sad that people can't be 'in the moment' with a simple pleasure they have actively chosen to pursue. Surely they can't just be doing it for Fear of Missing Out? Or to boast to friends on their return?

The east shore of Windermere is well built up, lined with large houses, now mainly luxury hotels, originally built by the rich industrialists of Lancashire. It gets less dense as you progress south. The west shore is largely unspoilt, due in no small way to Beatrix Potter, who bought several hill farms to preserve them, and eventually bequeathed them to the National Trust. I learned a lot about Beatrix Potter on this holiday, which happened to be the 150th anniversary of her birth. A remarkable woman, who did far more than 'just' write and illustrate twee enduring story books for small children.

            

A fair few more photos in my Lake District photo album.

Ambleside

We went to stay in Ambleside last Spring. We stayed in a delightful holiday let. Technically, it was a flat but it didn't feel like one. Perched on the side of a hill, it had a terrace and a garden, falling away into woods, with the most magnificent view of the fells.In mid-May, the days are not the longest possible, but they're long enough, and with a westward view into the setting sun, our day was extended by basking in the sun after dinner and, technically, being able to read outside up to 10pm.

These are all taken from the terrace of the flat, and as you can see, vary with the time of day and the weather.

When you go to the Lake District, you have to be prepared for the weather. It's reasonable to expect rain. And, guess what, it rained! But, actually, hardly at all. There were a couple of days when we saw it was raining and planned accordingly. One of them was the first opportunity for a rest in a week - that's the trouble with holidays. You're dashing about the day before to get packed and ready. You have an early start on the day of departure. Because of the distance, we stayed overnight in Cheshire (not that it's a massive distance to drive, but it's a long way to risk major delays and end up arriving at the dead of night with nothing to eat, and then wasting the first day because you're so tired from the journey).

We were pretty much in the centre of Ambleside, which is a good base. I think you could go to a different restaurant every night for three weeks. There are plenty of shops - my walking boots packed up (I'd had them a good few years) and I couldn't have been better located for replacements. Several shops catering for tourists - book shops and three different chocolate shops. There's a small Tesco and Spar, but for a supermarket you have to go to Windermere, not far by car or the frequent bus service. There are also several independent food shops.

Ambleside is well geared up for tourists. During the weeks most people were dressed in outdoor clothes, so it came as a shock at the weekend when a different 'sort' arrived, barely able to walk for lack of practice! And I was surprised by how many overseas tourists there were. Unsurprising to see people from Western, or indeed Eastern Europe, but I was surprised to see just so many from Asia - not British Asians, but organised parties from China and India, and one group we were struggling to guess their ethnicity, Nepalese perhaps. Tourism is a vital part of the British economy, and I tend to think of it being centred in the London-Oxford-Stratford triangle, or in Edinburgh and selected parts of the Highlands, but the Lake District really is a global tourist destination, and all that tourist spend represents 'exports' and 'foreign earnings'  to the national economy. Unfortunately, most of the jobs it generates tend to be seasonal and low paid.

The area round our flat was also quite picturesque.

 
   

We had a fair number of military planes flying low overhead and I made several attempts to photo them, some more successful than others.

There were some nice sights around Ambleside. I can't tell you how many photos I took of rhododendrons and azaleas - they were prolific and copious in full bloom in many colours around much of the area we visited. But I find them so hard to photograph because they are so bursting with colour that it's difficult to get the settings on the camera right without exploding with colour.

  

No trip to Ambleside is complete without the obligatory photos of the famous Bridge House.

 

Old photos short stories: Mountains of Mojácar

I think we were away for a week, but managed two trips into the mountains. One by the local service bus to the village of Mojácar - technically we were staying at Mojácar Playa. There is a reasonably informative Wikipedia page about the area but it seems to omit plate tectonics. My half-remembered vague understanding was that an earthquake (I think - might have been a volcano) in relatively modern times had changed the topology of the land, and this seemed convincing when seeing the plains from the hilltop. The village was pleasant enough if dull, the expected range of decent eateries and tourist souvenir shops.

 

One morning we went on a 'blanket tour'. A free coach trip into the mountains (what mountains? where? I can't remember, this was 2002, I wasn't keeping a diary! Although, I've spotted Sorbas on the map and this rings a bell, so maybe it was there!). The downside was having to sit in a lecture about the benefits of the Mediterranean Diet, and an attempt to sell us merino blankets and shoe inserts - hardly an imposition, and not like the hardsell of Time-shares.

 

Old photos, short stories - Mojácar

Oddly, my first ever visit to Spain wasn't until 2002. I had had my digital camera for over a year but was still thinking like an analogue photographer. Only the previous week I had taken delivery of a new PC - Windows 2000, I think -  to replace the one that had been running on Windows 95. I could find no photo editing programme that worked with Windows 95, and the PC didn't have the facility to burn CDs for back up.

Many of the photos I took were of Jimmy (or he took of me) working our way round the bars, restaurants and ice cream parlours of Mojácar, in Almería, south east Spain We went on two excursions into the mountains, and also to Granada, which I shall blog in due course. But we spent most of the time round and about the town.

We stayed in a lovely apartment block. Although we had only booked a double room we had a two bedroomed suite (no photos), and the complex included a few shops, a bar and a swimming pool (didn't use it). We had arrived late at night and the tour rep had suggested we turned right to find an English pub that served food. We turned left to find a Spanish place where I remember getting a filling & delicious fish soup. I later discovered that the English pub was much more of a walk, and would have stopped serving food by the time we arrived!

Unfortunately, we had the worst possible neighbours, an extended Irish family. We often spotted them round the complex, or around town, the adults palatic by lunchtime, the kids bored stupid and running around inside when every other kid in town was down on the beach. We were there during the World Cup, broadcast during the day from Japan and South Korea. When England were playing, the hotel laid on a big screen, and face painting for the kids, and this lot were pushing their way to the front, demanding Irish flags. At night they were noisy - but fortunately, we were generally drunk, so slept through all but the worst of their fighting. They left before us, and we had a peek into their apartment where the chamber maids had a Herculean task of restoring what was a wreck!

A pity, because there were several other parties we met from time to time to have pleasant inconsequential chats with, and they, like us, had deliberately chosen a resort that was less lary than some of the better known places.

We also ventured to the nearby fishing village of Garrucha a couple of times. Slightly bizarrely, when we were enjoying coffee in a pavement café we realised that the bloke at the next table lived on our road. He was waiting for his girlfriend - they had taken a year out to live over there, but were planning to return to Brixton. I never saw them again, so I guess they liked it so much they stayed.

Old photos, short stories: Mystic Seaport 1989

When I stayed with my Aunt on Long Island, we caught the ferry from Port Jefferson to Bridgeport Conneticut, and drove about 70 miles to Mystic Seaport, the largest Maritime History Museum in the world. Needless to say I hadn't heard of it, but a few weeks after arriving back I watched and enjoyed the film Mystic Pizza starring Julia Roberts.

We started at Mystic Aquarium, which I enjoyed at the time, especially the performances by performing seals and so on. But I've never felt any desire to visit an aquarium since - perhaps there are certain experiences one only needs once in a lifetime.

 

 

I really enjoyed walking round the seaport. From all these years later I can't now remember much what I saw or learnt, but I'm sure that I learnt many things - some of which added to previously acquired knowledge and some of which was later consolidated by other learning experiences. It was only my second full day in the States, and it was really my first opportunity to 'see America'. In the end, what you remember about a place is the space and its big features, and it was a very pleasant day.

 

Photos taken on film, on a cheap camera, and scanned many years after P&P.

 

 

St Aubin, Jersey

Our September visit to Jersey was blessed with beautiful weather. In using the word 'blessed' I am following a custom of the English language, rather than suggesting that weather systems are endowed by a non-existent God specifically onto deserving or lucky people. I am merely commenting that the changeable British Isles weather cannot be predicted with sufficient accuracy often even just a few days before.

It was sunny and warm, verging on hot.

We caught a taxi down to St Aubin, the hottest town or village on Jersey. They like their obscure saints on Jersey. We were staying in St Saviour's Parish, just outside St Helier. St Aubin is in the parish of St Brelade and opens into the Gulf of St Malo. 

Jersey is a Crown Dependency of the United Kingdom and a self-governing parliamentary democracy with its own financial, legal and judicial systems,and the power of self-determination. It prints its own money, which has the same value as sterling. English notes and coinage are accepted in shops, but only Jersey notes come out of ATMs; they are easy enough to deposit in a bank on return to England. Residents with no connection to the UK are considered British Citizens; sadly, while we were still on the island, a man from Jersey (and his friend from Norfolk) were murdered in Thailand. they were referred to as 'British Tourists' & the UK Foreign & Commonwealth Office carried out similar duties for both. 

As soon as we got out of the taxi, we saw a group of men playing Petanque, on a space set aside for any member of the public to play. This reminded this that Jersey has a dual culture: I think of Petanque as typically French, and in England have only seen it in a quirky pub, decades ago. 

 We wandered about the village enjoying the sights. It wasn't spectacular but a very pleasant way indeed to spend the middle of a glorious Sunday. There was no shortage of places to rest for coffee. In the background below is the restaurant that suffered the fire on Friday - a large place, this explains our wait for a taxi.

  

I really liked this courtyard but would have preferred to photograph it without the car!

We walked down the jetty, and back to the Town Square. I snapped this photo of the Bureau des Centeniers, essentially a police station, because it recalled the fictional Bureau des Étrangers in Bergerac. It was reassuring to find a tourist monthly magazine in our hotel room featuring John Nettles on the cover. I think he is effectively worshipped as a demi-god in this Bailiwick. 

 

In the town square Jimmy and I both experienced...I don't know, an epiphany, perhaps? There is a land train that runs between St Helier and St Aubin and back. A board advertised the departure times. We watched and listened as a couple, perhaps in their sixties, and otherwise seemingly averagely intelligent, repeatedly read out the times. "11.55, 12.55, 13.55, 14.55, 15.55". Struggling to memorise this, one of them wrote it down. They didn't seem to detect a pattern. For us, it was obvious. We asked each other later - how do people cope unchaperoned in public?

We walked along the bay for a while, and then back, spending a couple of hours lying on the beach. A gorgeous expanse of golden sand,  gloriously hot weather, and barely a soul about. My phone registered the temperature next to the sea wall in the 40s, although, obviously, this wasn't the general air temperature. I have no idea why we didn't go into the sea. Perhaps we were perfectly content on the sand, and hadn't been short of swimming opportunities in our hotel. There was so very few people on the beach, I couldn't really understand why. Of course, there is more coast line per head of population than on larger islands, but, even so - where were they all?

          

We finished off with an early dinner in a delightful Italian restaurant on the seafront. It was an odd time of day, so our choice was limited, but we had a lovely meal. The décor seemed like a throwback to the Eighties, but not in a tired, shabby way. The food was excellent and service good.

 

Our flight on the Monday was early afternoon, so were able to spend the morning in and by the pool, basking in a hot summer's day. When I returned to work on the Tuesday, people were astonished by my tan. Well, people who hadn't known me long enough to know how quickly and easily I go brown!

After breakfast we posed for photos with the hotel's gorilla statue, promoting the Durrell Wildlife Park

 

Old photos short stories: Long Island 1989

My father was the fourth child of six, with five sisters. My grandfather was a senior Civil Servant and they were evacuated to Blackpool for World War II. Blackpool was where US Airmen went for R&R, and Auntie No.3 married a US Airman and became a GI bride. She settled on Long island New York, although in the 80s she moved to Florida- like many New York retirees but also because my cousin and husband were settled there. He worked in Miami and I have a feeling that he might be from that area. Aunt No 4 also emigrated to the States in the early 60s, also settled on Long Island and now lives in Florida. Just after I finished university, I went with my mother and brother to visit her.

At the time, very few people I knew visited the USA, except relatives and people doing American Studies at University. It still annoys me now when people say "Oh you've been to New York? Oh gosh, so have I, where did you stay, what did you visit?" and they're awfully put out that you stayed in a residential area towards the East of Long Island, and, among other things visited relatives and friends, as if they were sole proprietor copyrighted of tourism in New York!

We also did some excursions, into the city, and a coach tour to Niagara, Washington DC and Philadelphia, but here are a few snaps,taken round my aunt's retirement condo complex.

 

Random photos of American  flags (sadly, a hostage had been murdered in Lebanon just as we arrived).

 

And beach and coastal snaps

     

I'm wearing a t-shirt (Nottingham University Drama Festival 1988) in the final picture because I was playing in rough waves and soon found that the force of the water throwing me to the ground tended to remove my bikini top! Great fun - once modestly attired!

These photos were taken on film and scanned from paper prints.

Days out in Cyprus

I suspect that one of the reasons I haven't been blogging is that I have hit a writer's block in respect of Cyprus. Like many people, I see the 'annual' holiday as one of the highlights of life, and also one of the highlights of photographing.

You spend a lot of money on the annual holiday. Flight and accommodation; airport transfers quickly add up. Eating out - and drinking - daily soon take up the savings made by not being in work. You raise your expectations, and it's annoying when they're not met.

We spent most of the holiday on the beach, but also studied the weather forecast. So, we hired a card to see some sights. It seemed that one of the 'sights' highly recommended was 'The Mountains'. I had a chat with someone, a Yorkshire woman who had been to Cyprus before, and she pulled a face, implying that the 'mountains' weren't all that. I should have paid attention.

It was a long drive. Past Larnaca, and onto Nicosia, missing the turn off the motorway because there wasn't actually a sign for either the junction number or the road number. Eventually we reached the mountains. Okay, they were very nice, as all mountains are, but it's an awfully long way to go for nice mountains. I had suggested to the Yorkshire woman that she lives near to picturesque mountains; she gave me one of those looks which sort of implied 'I'm not going to ruin your enjoyment by my cynicism, but yes'.

We could have chosen to do a tour of vineyards. Actually, we could also choose to do a tour of vineyards in Sussex. You know the problem with that? You're utterly dependent on the car. What is the point of vineyard tour when one of you can't drink very much because of driving, and the other feels it's unfair to drink when the other is abstaining.

Probably the highlight was a visit to a waterfall.  It was utterly bizarre, but really rather fun. Enter through the cafe and walk down a treacherous path, uneven under foot, sometimes having to squeeze past people coming in the opposite direction, a certain amount of camaraderie. Except for Russians, of course, who look at you like you're a piece of dirt and fail to acknowledge that you've paused in (barely) a passing place. 

As you can see it wasn't much of a waterfall. Some of the attraction was the climb down through the wood, and at the bottom was a clearing with picnic tables. and I spotted a lizard.

Back at the top we were rewarded with coffee and more juicy tasty fruit than we could possibly eat. 

We carried on up the mountain pass, and stopped for lunch in Troodos. It was very nice but entirely predictable and samey samey just as where we were staying. And further up the mountain to Tourist Tat Central. Buy buy buy! Lots of tat! Guaranteed to weigh down your luggage on return. Hustle hustle hustle. Over priced refreshments. We could have had a horse ride, but other than that there wasn't much to do. There was the option of a shortish walk, and I suppose there was no reason why we couldn't have done it. We weren't exactly equipped for mountaineering, but we did have sensible shoes and layers, but neither of us was enthusiastic, thinking it was probably just a bit too much effort for...what?

I know travel is supposed to broaden the mind, but the more I go abroad, the more I yearn for England. I've never managed to get bored on an English holiday - generally running out of time to do everything on the list. 

On the Sunday I realised that my phone charger cable had stopped working. A broken wire, I assumed. A quick google showed me a couple of electrical shops in Paralimni. So, a quick trip out. We stood at a bus stop waiting, with an older woman, who struck me as being a retired academic, holidaying alone - we'd seen her earlier in the car hire shop, planning a trip to the Baths of Aphrodite on the far west coast. The helpful car hire man gave her precise instructions to guard against snakes. A taxi driver stopped and offered to drive us into town - just as cheap as the bus - and by chance he dropped us right outside a CYTA (Cyprus Telecoms) shop, so mission accomplished. 

We took breakfast and wandered round the town centre. Not much to see; would have been nicer if it wasn't so utterly car dominated and designed for the dominance of the motor vehicle to the point of being unpleasant. I suppose we could have gone to the lake, but why bother, when we knew we had a good beach just a few minutes from our holiday flat?

       

Cyprus Photo album

 

The sights of Larnaca

We had hired a car because the weather forecast said "Not Beach". So, the challenge was deciding where to go in the hire car. Cyprus does have attractions, especially of classical archaeology, but the best were a long way away, and, to be honest, neither of us is sufficiently interested to make that effort. So, Larnaca seemed an obvious destination, even though I couldn't pin down anything really worth seeing.

The journey was simple enough - main road to Ayia Napa, and motorway to Larnaca. A bit like driving on British Motorways forty or fifty years ago. Our taxi driver (grew up in Streatham of Cypriot parents, ex-British Army, long settled in Cyprus) had warned us of the madness of Cypriot drivers. I didn't find them mad, but some were quite stupid. Showing off, but they wouldn't last long on English motorways. A general lack of awareness of other road users.

We went to find Kamares Aqueduct, which was very nice, dating back to 1747. Its purpose is water supply.

 

Next destination was to find the Salt Lake. Probably Larnaca's outstanding feature, although it dries up in the summer. I got confused reading the very poor map that came with the hire car and tried repeatedly to find a road, which I eventually realised was one of Europe's main footpaths. Giving up, we headed for the coastal road. On the way we found a small off shoot salt lake, which was very nice, not least because it afforded views of the airport and the hills beyond.

    

We found the beach. Miles and miles of golden sands, all but deserted. We parked up.

 

Although the day looks bright it wasn't warm enough to sit on a beach.

We had been there less than ten minutes when we were joined. A Russian couple with two small children, who parked next to us and came down to the beach. they made the sort of noise you would expect from such a group, which would be fine, except that, with all those miles to choose from, they decided to come within feet of us. We had seen them a few minutes earlier, when they had shot out of a side road without noticing us approaching on the main road. Jimmy slammed on the brakes, stopping inches from their protruding car. They drove off.

We moved on and came to a small village which I think was Pervolia.We found a lovely place to stop for a coffee.

 

I worked out how to get to the main Salt Lake, although by this point I was wondering whether it was worth it. It's a major place for migrating birds, the main feature being up to 12,000 flamingoes that spend the winter there. But they have moved on by April, and the Lake as not yet dried up, so at the time we visited, it was just a lake. 

We parked beside the Hala Sultan Tekke mosque and wandered along the shore of the lake. The mosque was noticeably secured with barbed wire, CCTV and so on. We could have gone in. they requested modest clothing, which is absolutely their right. However, I felt I didn't need to see it enough.

          

I decided that, rather than taking the motorway we would take the coastal road, which was fine until we arrived at Dhekalia Sovereign Base Area and we had to turn inland. I don't know what happened but we got completely lost and ended up driving into a military base which had signs for Famagusta.

It wasn't a good idea to drive aimlessly around a military base and also not good to cross an International border (albeit one not recognised by the UN) without a passport, so we popped into the Naval Police station. The policeman was very nice. I asked him to point on my map to where we were. He refused, politely but firmly. He asked me where I wanted to go and gave clear and unambiguous directions to Deryneia, from where we could get back easily to Kapparis.

We were on Ayios Nikolaos Station, which is basically an outpost of GCHQ, and doesn't seem to appear on maps...very mysterious...although it is covered in Wikipedia, and is the recognised route to Northern Cyprus if you don't want to bother with too many border formalities - a passport is required! It seemed quite an adventure at the time, being lost in a secret squirrel military installation in a sort of no man's land between sovereign states. And, yet, technically, being on British sovereign land. Only in Cyprus!

Day trip to Lindisfarne

Over a year ago now! 

A holiday in North Northumberland is incomplete without a trip to Lindisfarne, also known as Holy Island. But you have to plan your trip. Not only for the weather, which of course, in an English summer is essential, but also for tides. Access is across a causeway. The causeway is about 5 miles long and there are safe and unsafe times posted on the internet and throughout the area. Normal people abide by the times. Arrogant arseholes don't. I did fancy doing a Pilgrims' Crossing, barefoot across the sand. You should only do this with a guide. I checked with Footsteps but because the tide times were not in our favour, needless to say the guided walks weren't!

We parked in a massive car park and strolled into the village. I was immediately struck at how Touristy it seemed compared to everywhere we'd been: local produce being sold from roadside stalls. Shops in the village geared up for mass tourism. Even people looked different: on average, significantly less gormful. 

We walked to the castle. There are two ways to do this. Trudge along a concrete path with everyone else, or, like us and almost ten other people, have a look at the beach. To be honest, I don't think most of the people who started on the path got as far as the castle. Probably too far from the car park. Couldn't bear to be so panic inducingly far from the flock. Imagine parking your car, walking for five or ten minutes, gawping blankly at something you'd heard was a tourist attraction, and then going for an ice cream, and calling it a day out!

We didn't go in the ruined Priory for the pragmatic reason that it is run by English Heritage and an admission is charged, and we had just joined National Trust at enormous expense.

It was quite a climb up to the castle, which was worth it, for the view

The castle dates from the 16th century, and was built for defence purposes. In the early 20th century it was inhabited and much altered by Edwin Lutyens. It wasn't that interesting unless heritage homes make you moist. I'm sure that many of the people who get orgasmic about stately homes won't have heard of Lutyens or have any sense of his significance. But they get to coo and sign over crockery.

Outside yet some distance from the castle is a garden designed by Gertrude Jekyll. Unfortunately just a few days previously I had read a comedy tweet that said "I quite like Gertrude Jekyll's gardens, but I prefer her Mrs Hyde  ones". (It seems that Robert Louis Stevenson was a friend of her brother so not so silly a joke!).

I strolled into the garden and tried to take a few photos. Big mistake! I had stirred the nest of the self-important man with a big lens on his camera. He had been sitting on a bench until he arrived but he was determined to go through an elaborate and pointless charade of mansplaining the taking-of-photos-with-a-phallic-lens. I don't see snapshots as being a competitive sport.

 

We returned to the car park, past the sheep, and were able to access the Causeway long before the end of safe time.

 

We went for  dinner at The Craster Arms in Beadnell. I'm not sure what to say. Sometimes a complacent mediocre place can be almost worse than a bad place.

Food served on cold plates. The same chopped to death salad they'd served the previous week with crab sandwiches. And a fish dish made up of disparate elements. Basically, on the one hand, you have the fish element. On the other hand, the choice of potato, and the steamed vegetables of the day. Not horrendous, but the same vegetable was served for every main. Not with it, but in a separate bowl. Brought to the plate by the customer. But not  brought together. Just there. Like the chippies that serve you a piece of stale processed white bread with your fish and chips, even though it bears no relationship. Bland dried veg sitting alongside a few pieces of fish/sea food. But no sauce to bring them together. As I say, it's not awful, it's just...actually, quite unappetising. I don't know, do they expect people not to eat vegetables? I'm not surprised, if that's the way they think they should be served! There was some bloke in the kitchen who fancied himself as chef. Hmm. Not really. How difficult is to plan a dish where each element complements the other? But, no, just throw together some poorly prepared random ingredients and call it a meal. 

 

Cyprus food

It's an ironic coincidence that I am summarising my impressions of food in Cyprus just after posting about the amazing variety of food in Streatham. 

It's not a fair comparison, because we ate almost exclusively in Kapparis, a residential area with just a few shops, restaurants and bars positioned along the main road. However, when we ventured elsewhere, we saw pretty much the same repeated. I didn't scrutinise restaurants in Ayia Napa, but have been told that there are decent restaurants there.

I found the same problem with Cypriot food as I have with Spanish. I don't eat meat, so end up eating a great deal of fish when I am abroad. In Cyprus's favour, the freshness and quality of the fish was excellent. I particularly liked the fact that menus highlighted which fish, seafood and meat were fresh and which were frozen. But, once you've chosen your fish, the rest of the dish is entirely predictable, and pretty much interchangeable from one restaurant to another. We ate in two decent restaurants outside Kapparis, including Onassis on the road to Pernera. Jimmy had the lamb stew that the owners (mother and son) were eating; he said it was the best meal of the holiday. We also ate in a place in the mountains, that was nice, adequate and just like the offer in Kapparis (except that the fish was trout, not seafish). I photographed neither.

There were two contenders in Kapparis for 'best restaurant'. Faliros had the widest variety, and entertainment two nights a week; at Karas you could choose your own fish from the display and it had been caught by a family member; they were attentive and personal (in a good way) in their service.

We went to Karas on the first night and ordered the seafood mezze. Jimmy was overtired and ordered large, without consulting me. It was too much, it kept coming out, too fast to photograph (and I was tired and mildly anxious at being in an unfamiliar environment). Plates and plates of fish and seafood, without sauce, and with a 'Village salad' to accompany. Twice they did us an off menu special - the second time was identical to the first and they had clearly forgotten we had already had it. I suspect they offer it to anybody who doesn't immediately plump for steak and chips or deep fried fish. This squid - or was it octopus - was a highlight: lightly fried in a light batter

    

We had a very good fish and chips at The Pig and Whistle and I thoroughly enjoyed my strawberry mojitos. We went back the following night, which was the owner's night off. For pudding Jimmy ordered strawberries with ice cream but instead got strawberry ice cream, which wasn't actually on the menu. He raised this with the staff and she was really quite aggressive, more or less accusing him of lying. He decided not to pursue this but ordered a strawberry mojito, which looked nothing like mine from the previous day - all churned up and dull coloured, and no strawberries to decorate. Barmaid with an attitude said accusatorily that they had run out of strawberries, because that was obviously Jimmy's fault for having ordered strawberries. We didn't go back. He murmured to me "You know who she reminds me of?" and I replied with a name. The right name. Someone we used to know who used to run a pub with an attitude, and we were not alone in disliking. They could have been sisters. We didn't go back.

 

Then there was Just Italian. We had gone for a plate of pasta the evening of the lunch at Onassis and it was fine. We went back another time and I made the mistake of ordering prawns in sauce. 

I was pretty annoyed at what was offered.

Where to start! The prawns hadn't been cooked in the sauce which had clearly been thrown onto them lukewarm. In order to eat the prawns I had to shell them and get the gloopy sauce all over my fingers - I had to request a finger bowl! The potatoes and the steamed veg were the standard accompaniment to every dish. It seems standard Kapparis custom to serve food in three vertical lines, so kudos for putting the veg under the prawns in the lukewarm sauce on the cold plate. Now, I'm not a great one for salt, in fact, I'll go as far as to say I have a mild aversion to salt eg I don't put it even on chips, but even I noticed a complete lack of seasoning for any element of the food. And, ultimately, it just tasted of nothing. We didn't go back.

Then there was Avgoustis. I found the decor gorgeous and the owner was a sweet, warm and welcoming woman; I had heard from my source for village gossip that she lost her husband suddenly and too young, last Autumn. There was a good atmosphere from a party of British immigrants, possibly the local WI or similar. And the food was okay. But only okay. I was satisfied, but Jimmy wasn't really.

 

  

We went to Faliros three times. Once when they had a Greek night, once on International night and once when there was no entertainment. The Greek night featured two male dancers and the highlight was how one balanced a pile of glasses on his head. Various women were plucked from the audience to add the next glass. The International night featured a group of dancers. They weren't awfully good - poor posture etc - but they were pleasantly entertaining. Before the dancers appeared a man with a guitar and, alternatively, a flute and a guitar, performed well known English, Swedish and US pop songs with a background track. He was very good for the occasion. Not outstanding but competent and a good sense of what songs would suit the audience, especially as we finished off with a sort of disco for the middle aged. Made me laugh watching two young women barely out of their teens and well out of their comfort zone.

  

  

Again, the food was fine, inasmuch as it was as advertised, eatable, flavoursome, fit for purpose etc. Just about every restaurant had a menu that was far too long, and seemed to work as many Chinese/Indian restaurants too - endless different combinations of fairly few elements. No flair, no imagination and every restaurant basically serving the same. You have three elements - protein and sauce, and alongside that steamed vegetables and potato. Irrespective of what you order, it's steamed vegetables and potatoes. No attempt to combine the different elements, or to create a dish that combines protein and vegetables from the start and a sauce that is based on, or complements those elements. Apart from baked beans for breakfast and the occasional appearance of green beans, pulses (or legumes) were conspicuously absent from any restaurant menu. One of my favourite food groups, and so versatile.

Cyprus is known for its potatoes. In late April/early May, you really want to eat Cyprus potatoes. Surely the best way to eat them is boiled, and dabbed with butter. But it was devilishly difficult to get Cyprus boiled potatoes. Chips, yes. Baked potatoes, yes. Mash yet. But boiled, no. So disappointing.

As for breakfasts. We went to several places for a full English breakfast. In my case, a veggie breakfast where the meat was substituted by halloumi cheese, a Cypriot delicacy. In several places I asked for 'real' coffee. Not available. It was Nescafé instant or nothing - I opted for tea. Tea that was made out of poor quality teabags in some circumstances. I also asked if I could have wholemeal bread. In one place I was practically laughed at. Processed white sliced or nothing. These were British places, catering for British people. I can't believe we've got to 2015, and there's no demand either for coffee from ground beans or brown bread. It's sixteen years since I erroneously asked for a latte in Hull and the young woman - girl - behind the counter said I was just like the people in American TV shows!

When we returned from holiday, we discussed the food and concluded. One of the reasons we go on holiday is to enjoy eating out, savouring food we might normally eat, enjoying each other's company. But yet again, abroad, we failed to get anything as good as we got in Northumberland, Cornwall, Dorset, Cotswolds, Kent or other places we have visited. I'm not applying the standards of expensive London fine dining restaurants, but pubs and bistros in small English towns.

A trip to the Farnes

One day last summer, I got on a boat that took me from Seahouses to to Staple Island on the Outer Farnes, a leisurely cruise and some photogenic sights. We landed on the island and stayed for about an hour. I took 175 photos, so you have to admire me in whittling it to fewer than 20 on this post, with a few more in my Northumberland photo album.

When I was a child I had several books on seaside life eg I Spy at the Seaside but I was never really into birds. No, let's stake a step back. All these books were designed to give children the confidence to go and explore. To wade through rock pools in wellingtons and carrying a fishing net. But they assumed that by the age of 9 or 10, parents would allow children just enough freedom to do that, either engaged with one or both parents, or with an adult watching from a safe distance. But, as you may have gathered, my childhood wasn't exactly like that. We didn't do things like. They weren't sufficiently intellectual, or perhaps it was simply that 'people like us' don't do such things, dismissed in a condescending gesture. At about 17 I was gutted to find that people study Marine Biology at University, but by then it was too late - I had been discouraged from doing Biology or any other Science at O Level. and anyway, I hadn't been one of those children wading through rock pools at age 11.

When you're in Seahouses, it's daft not to take a boat out to the Farnes.

Actually, pause there.

The woman in the ticket office was grumbling in a negative way about all the people who don't do it. I commented mildly that it was quite expensive. "No it isn't, don't be ridiculous". Hmm, we paid £30 for two of us, landing for 'free' because of our National Trust membership. If we had 3 kids and weren't NT members, it would have been £77.50. From my point of view, it was good VfM. I was very nearly that middle class Londoner explaining to a working class person from a deprived region how tight budgets can be. Or perhaps in these low cost regions, they do actually have nearly £80 to spend on a half day excursion.

Some good sights to see en route to Staple Island.

Basking seals. I always enjoy seals, because Jimmy hates them to a point of irrationality. Yes, they're smelly, but other than that, they're pretty harmless.

Lots of opportunities to take photos of puffins, but I didn't manage a 'money shot'

Lovely views of the cliff sides - or Pinnacles, as they're known - with cormorants atop: I was stunned at how similar they look to penguins. I also learnt the difference between cormorants and shags.

We passed the famous Longstone Lighthouse. Grace Darling was the daughter of the lighthouse keeper  and became famous for her role in a rescue from a ship wrecked paddle steamer in 1838. When I was young I visited the Grace Darling museum in Bamburgh & she featured in the sort of books that flourished in the 70s & 80s of women role models. At the time, I thought, she didn't do that much, handing over to men at the first opportunity. I have a more nuanced understanding these days. And yet, despite the example of women like Grace Darling, men persisted in avowing despite no evidence, that no woman is capable of physical tasks. 

 It was fun being on Staple Island. It's an uninhabited island and is quite difficult underfoot in places. I think people with limited mobility might be better going to Inner Farne.

There's not a great deal to do, except look at birds, and take photographs of birds. I enjoyed it and there was a nice feeling of camaraderie.

I used a compact camera, albeit a top of the range one, but if you're serious about getting stunning bird shots, you need more equipment. You also need patience and know how to use your equipment, to frame shots and use the light. Just about everybody on my boat was wearing sensible shoes, and all but one with cameras had proper cameras - half decent (or better) compacts or SLRs.

 

I'm not sure I like those trousers. They're comfortable, and go with most things, except walking boots, but they don't seem to hang properly round the waist/stomach, as illustrated here.

One annoying man used his Apple pad to take indifferent photos. I sat next to him on the boat, something he begrudged, misbelieving he could take the space of three people. He spent some of the time on the boat making work-related phone calls. I know, needs must, but when everyone else is trying to get away, relax and recharge, and in a packed space, it's quite intrusive. 

On the way back we passed Inner Farne, an alternative venue for the boat trip. I hadn't fully understood when booking that there was a choice of islands to go to; this photo shows St Cuthbert's chapel, and going there might be an important part of your visit. St Cuthbert was exceptionally cool: according to Wikipedia:

Among other acts, Saint Cuthbert introduced special laws in 676 protecting the eider ducks, and other seabirds nesting on the islands; these are thought to be the earliest bird protection laws anywhere in the world

If you go to Inner Farne you are advised to take an old hat or headscarf that you can bin afterwards, to protect you from the worst of the bird droppings!

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Seahouses,beach, Northumberland Uk

Land of castles and islands

Ayia Napa and back

It wasn't a nice day, and the weather forecast for the next three days was mediocre. Not beach days. We set out for a walk, but it wasn't warm, and we hadn't brought the right clothes for a serious walk. We'd already spoken with the local car hire people, so it was obvious what to do next.

With very little planning, we cruised down the coast. This map is a summary of where we went, although we took the coastal route rather than the main spinal route

Our first stop was a nearby beach, known in English as Trinity Beach. Practically deserted because of the weather. I imagine it being teeming on lovely days. In the distance we could see Famagusta.

 

We retraced the route we had walked earlier in the week. When we walked, I was disinclined to take photos. As we sped along at a modest 40 kmph I spotted many opportunities to take photos that would, somehow, capture the essence of that corner of Cyprus. It's an eternal problem for a photographer. I'm sure that if I had asked Jimmy to stop, he would have, but I didn't.

We arrived in Pernera. Pernera is not the busiest town in Cyprus, even in Paralimni Municipality, but it was as a shock after several days in Kapparis, a residential area with a small shopping parade either side of the main road. Quite alien to see in-yer-face commercialism, the Neon signs stressing the Englishness of the offer - even though several of the pubs and restaurants in Kapparis are English and make sure you know that. 

We strolled for a while on the seafront, the weather fine, bright and dry, but not warm. I saw some young women who, I suspect, had tumbled out of bed, looked out the window, seen it was bright and headed straight for the beach for sunning or swimming. They would have been on their own!

The seafront was well tended and neat, with intense planting of flowers, pleasant if a little uninspired. In Spain and Greece, and now I was seeing this in Cyprus, local authorities invest in their seafronts and beaches, understanding that a welcome to tourists boosts the local retail economy and jobs (while acknowledging that seasonality presents its own problems).

Back where we were staying, we had free unfettered access to sun-loungers and umbrellas in April. In May we had to pay. But in England, even on exceptionally hot days we have been told: you can't hire deckchairs after 3pm. You can't hire deckchairs on weekdays. Many English beaches are virtually impossible to access in a wheelchair or with a buggy, and lack showers or taps, changing rooms, children's play areas or facilities for light refreshments.

We took brunch in a café whose name I now forget. Spotlessly clean - as was everywhere we went in Cyprus (this place was sparkling!), nice friendly atmosphere of locals (Brits) who didn't resent our presence as visitors, and decent food - I had a salmon burger.

 Bypassing Protaras, we headed down the coast, but dark clouds and droplets of drizzle made us worry we'd be caught in a shower. We saw a couple in late middle age, who had hired a quad bike, without a roof or walls. We saw them several times during the day, they obviously had the same idea as us to sight see, but they looked bloody miserable, open to the elements and buffeted by the wind.

 

From there we went to Ayia Napa but didn't stay long, just enough for a stroll round the Marina. Ayia Napa's a busy town and known for its party atmosphere. Our taxi driver said they know which blocks to dread pick ups from, larey parties, often single sex, of young people. That having been said, talking to people where we were staying, there are decent restaurants in the town, if you know where to look. It seemed a poor relative of Benidorm. Much maligned, but popular for a reason. Densely populated, so not using much land, and easy to have a week or two's holiday without a car. (I presume there are ferries to Cyprus but all holiday I didn't see one car whose number plates weren't Cypriot).

It took me ages to figure out what was wrong with this second picture, then I remembered the definition of 'submarine'

 

From Ayia Napa we escaped to the hills, specifically Cape Greco, a headland and National Park outside the town. Where we first parked, in rocky, steep scrubland, there were strict signs forbidding any photography. I'd probably get away with it, but the hassle of the penalty for being caught, however remote, wasn't worth it.  We were close to radio masts - this photo was taken later, from further away - which reminded me of the strategic importance of Cyprus to Britain, Europe and NATO, so close to Syria and the Middle East. 

Further down the road is a car park by a chapel; an ice cream van was also parked up. A nice opportunity to stroll, enjoy the view, and take photos. I was realising I have a similar problem with Cyprus that I do with Greece*. I have previously been to three different Greek islands and I simply don't like the scenery.  I've never stopped and caught my breath and wondered at the beauty of it. It's down to personal taste and conditioning/familiarity, but I do so prefer the scenery in parts of Northern and Central Europe I have visited.

We attracted a plague of feral cats. I'm not usually bothered by them - I prefer not to get too close or pet them, but see them as like pigeons in England. But these creeped me out. Half a dozen tiny kittens scurrying around and a couple closely following me. I took a step and, just in time, realised my foot was about to come down on one of them. I really didn't want inadvertently to kill one of them, so I had a sort of anxiety attack. Jimmy decided they were my 'pets', and, later in the week, when we saw feral cats foraging in paladins, he looked at me reproachfully and told me I was a monster, not looking after my pet cats properly and forcing them to hunt through waste bins for food.

The mother cat looked listless and disinterested. She was alive but didn't move while we were there. Presumably other mammals die of postnatal sepsis, like humans who lack(ed) modern Western hygiene and medicine. Some people would try to rescue her out of sentimentality but I try to allow wild animals to be, and to let Nature take its course.

     

From Ayia Napa we went to Deryneia, to see the Ghost City of Famagusta. Again, no photography allowed at ground level. It was a dreary day, and soon to rain, so the view was not as clear as it might have been. Even so, it was strange to see. We were benignly held hostage at the cultural centre - no cup of tea unless you watch the video. "Very interesting" I said politely to the woman, after a twenty minute propaganda film.

I can't imagine much worse than being forced to flee your home, taking only the clothes you're wearing. People who can't go home are sorrowful, even when it was their choice to leave. That story plays out yet again  as it has throughout the 20th Century and time immemorial. 

It's rude to express an opinion about other people's territorial and ethnic disputes, unless  you have reasonably informed yourself. It's stupid to use Wikipedia to get the 'facts', unless you apply a healthy dose of scepticism. However, there is a difference between the Greek Cypriot propaganda which implies that 'suddenly out of the blue without provocation the Turkish Army invaded and oppressed Greek Cypriots' and a narrative of events that causes a Wikipedia page Cypriot intercommunal violence. All I can conclude is that many ordinary people have suffered while the minority of power hungry/sociopathic/nationalistic agitators jostle for advantage.

 

*NB I stress that Cyprus is a sovereign state that's a member of the UN in its own right and is not part of Greece. However, the main language is Greek, the dominant religion is Greek Orthodox, and the culture - including food - is similar to Greece. I found the scenery (and feral cats) to be similar to what I experienced on Kos three years ago. Irish Times article: Cyprus, a small country heavily reliant on Greece, is facing its own fragile recovery

A day in Berwick on Tweed

 Last year I went to Berwick on Tweed. I had also been there in 1976, the family's first experience in a Hoseasons chalet park. That one had quite a bit of entertainment on site and was within walking distance of town. The parents learnt from that, and in future years we stayed at various sites without entertainment, each far enough away from the towns of Skegness, Tenby, Holyhead, New Milton, Lowestoft, Brixham, Dunoon and Bangor to avoid contamination. I don't remember much from that holiday, although I now have the family photos buried in the Tardis-under-the-stairs (scanning will be a winter task). I do remember:

• it mostly rained - yeah, in 1976, just our luck;
• one day it didn't rain so we went to a beach, a large beach empty but for us, until a few hours later when another party arrived and sat down just a few feet away;
• another day, it didn't rain, and we went for a walk around the town walls

For this 2014 visit we checked the weather forecast and it was set fair and mild, with the chance of a light shower. When holidaying in England, do not be deterred by 'chance of a light shower' - either take waterproofs, or, if visiting an urban area, there will always be somewhere to shelter.

I was surprised at how run down the town centre seemed, albeit while trying to make a contrast with a faint memory from nearly forty years ago. One of the few significant towns between Newcastle and Edinburgh; I suppose focus is now on the out-of-town retail park; a familiar story from around the country.

After a decent coffee and brunch we set out to circle the town by the walls. We started by looking at the bridges, and the trains crossing the bridge to cross the border.

          

We popped into the town's museum and art gallery for an exhibition on LS Lowry. As a Mancunian I had grown up with Lowry, of course I didn't know about his links with the North East. I was struck by his sketches on industrial cityscapes, scenes that would have been taken for granted as unchanging back then, but have largely vanished. Until fairly recently most people's photographic efforts were concentrated on portraits and shots of group of posed people rather than documenting the quotidien. It's often only by looking back at old photos or sketches that you realise quite how significantly the cityscape has changed, but often in increments you barely notice as they happen.

I managed to leave my walking stick in the museum (I'd had to leave it at Reception) and Jimmy went back to get it while I stood at the junction of the riverside path and a road bridge. I looked down on a derelict shop that nevertheless announced it was the home of Berwick cockles. It had closed four years earlier: MORE than 200 years of trading in Berwick will come to an end this week when Wm Cowe & Sons closes its doors. Lowry had painted it, so I felt no need to photograph it!

We walked around the walls, which is an experience you don't get in many towns - they form fortifications to keep out the Scots. If you look at Wikipedia there is an long tedious narration of how Berwick swapped between England and Scotland, and there is an urban myth that Berwick is technically still at war with Russia. Sadly, it's not true. But I've learnt that the Second World War didn't technically end until 1990.

 We stopped for coffee and ice cream (local, artisan, good quality) in the Loovre café, recently opened after conversion from a derelict public toilet.

There's a lot to see as you walk the walls: views out to sea and into people's back gardens.

     

It's always interesting to see how people use the space for leisure, such as safe cycling for small children.

Lots of (presumably) older people efficiently using a small green space for crown green bowling. And far fewer people using the land hungry golf course.

 

Imagine how much nicer that land would look if the golf course was returned to nature and used by greater numbers of people.

Picture of barracks

An interesting building looking oddly derelict - surely ripe for conversion to Yuppie flats: easy commute to Edinburgh

 

Just before we left the town, we popped into the supermarket for supplies. I couldn't help noticing how different the people seemed from those we had seen in Seahouses and Alnwick. the indoor pallor of skin, the flabbiness of bodies rarely exercised. And the dead look behind their eyes.  

A holiday in Cyprus

In April, not long after I left my job, we went on holiday to Cyprus, to the small town, or village, of Kapparis, in the Paralimni area, not far from the border with Turkish Cyprus and Famagusta. Almost everything about the holiday was mediocre and adequate. A rented flat that was as advertised and met our needs, but with a distinct feel of shabbiness, cheap equipment, and a roomy but uncomfortable bed. There were several mediocre restaurants in the village, shops that met your basic needs (except that the bakery and highly-rated ice cream parlour immediately below our flat had closed down and was only reopening for summer on the day we left!). 

The beach near our flat was lovely, but I didn't take any photos! It was called Fireman's Beach. I can imagine it gets very busy in high season, but we never found it too much, except on the May Day Public holiday. In April, we were able to use the loungers and umbrellas for free.

It wasn't a great holiday but it wasn't in anyway awful .Nothing went wrong. We had ten or more days of glorious warm sunshine, and hired a car for three days when the weather wasn't so good - but good enough. There was only one meal that I could honestly say was uneatable, and there wasn't a single incident one could describe as unpleasant. I spent a lot of time on the beach, in and out of the sea, loving the sensual pleasure of swimming, or floating, or gently resisting the gentle current and negligible waves. When I wasn't in the sea, I was able to lie on my lounger reading my way through several books: 

• The Diaries of Nella Last: Writing in War and Peace
• Regeneration
• The Ties That Bind
• The Clothes On Their Backs
• A Greedy Man in a Hungry World: How (almost) everything you thought you knew about food is wrong

Oddly, I didn't take any photos on my first couple of days. Perhaps I remembered too many other holidays when I have spent the first few days snap happy, and, on reviewing the photos, have realised that most of them were repetitive or insignificant.

On the first evening we ate at Karas Village Taverna, one of the two better restaurants in Kapparis. We chose a fish mezze. Given the choice of medium or large, Jimmy chose large. Medium would have sufficed. Each course came so quickly that I felt rushed and didn't get round to photographing them.

The next day was a beach day; when we had finished on the beach I got very drunk  (by my current standards) on three cocktails and ate at Tony's Tavern. I suspect we didn't get it at its best; not yet geared up for the season, each of the dishes we initially ordered wasn't available. And it was far from exceptional.

The following day we walked almost to Pernera. That wasn't our intention, but nothing was open, even for coffee, once we had left Kapparis. We ended up in Onassis as the only customers. they suggested we went off menu, and Jimmy said that his lamb stew was his best meal of the holiday - it was what the owners (Mother & Son, I assumed) were having for their own lunch. I had a decent piece of fish.

Much later in the evening, we had quick plate of pasta at Just Italian which was flavoursome and nicely served. I actually got my camera out 

I don't really like doing a blogpost with so few photos and thought I might add a few random photos which might be my 'best from Cyprus'. But there aren't really any: not ones that I can publish without an explanation of them. 

After we got home we agreed that it wasn't by any means a horrible holiday, but it was a lot of money to pay for such mediocrity. I tried to like the landscape but I just can't. I wasn't sufficiently interested in any of the touristic or historic sites. And I didn't have a single meal that I thought was in anyway memorable; everything seemed dated and uninspired; every Cypriot style restaurant had just about the same menu, the same plain dishes and boring salad, or steamed vegetables, rarely with a sauce, and with no demonstration of the 'chef's' culinary skills or appreciation of ingredients. I guess they provide what they think the tourists want; perhaps that is what the tourists want, but when people have to eat out, they tend to take what's given and don't complain - it would be too rude - nor inform management of what is lacking. You order it, eat it and pay for it, because it's eatable and nutritious.

We concluded that we keep making the mistake of heading to Southern Europe in order to swim in the sea. But in every other aspect, we find holidays in Britain to be preferable - nicer beaches, much better food, and culture we're actually interested in, as well as trivial aspects such as having access to British TV.

Dunstanburgh Castle and The Links

Walking from Craster village to the ruined castle at Dunstanburgh is one of the recommended highlights of the area of Northumberland we visited last year.

The car park was busy when we arrived; we had to park in the third level up (not a multi-storey, but set on a hillside). 

The weather forecast was fine and warm, so I had decided to dress in a floaty, flowery summer dress. In the car I wore flipflop style flowery sandals (Doc Martens, as it happened, but no ankle support). I was amused when I got out of the car and outdoor types in nearby vehicles glared at me, and especially my shoes, and actively retracted their glares as I changed into padded socks and my proper Outdoor shop-bought walking boots. I thought to myself, 'this is walker's country'.

We walked through the village with its pretty harbour, and through a gate onto a seemingly long grassy walk up to the castle. There were a lot of people around; a few too many for my comfort.

To my surprise, by the time we reached the outskirts of the castle, the crowd had thinned down to almost nothing. It's about a mile from the village to the castle (and back again).

I do understand that can be challenging for some people. But I just don't get why the majority of people will drive to a car park, start a two mile return walk, and give up after just a couple of hundred yards. It's a phenomenon I notice over and over again, and I'll never get an explanation. Perhaps it's partly about footwear. A gentle walk on grass doesn't require walking boots, but it's going to hurt if you're wearing fashion or beach shoes!

The walk was along the coast, where sheep grazed on the rocks and cattle lay in the field.

  

We reached the castle and sat for a while, soaking up the warm sun. Very few people passed by.

 

We didn't go in the castle. It's a ruin, after all! It's managed by English Heritage and I've just read we could have entered for free with our National Trust membership. No regrets, though, we were heading for the beach.

We took the path less travelled below the castle, passing fertile fields and walking the edge of a golf course, as ugly as every other golf course, and used by fewer people than the walk to the castle.

 

The castle remained in sight.  

 

Build a castle on a cliff face - makes it even better defensively, and more difficult to attack.  Kittiwakes breed on the cliff face.

 

We reached the beach near Embleton and settled down to spend some hours there. I kicked off my walking boots and went for a paddle, resolving that within half an hour I would be swimming in the sea.

Within twenty minutes, the weather had changed. Clouds covered the sun and a breeze whipped up. I couldn't believe it. Not only was it no longer warm enough to swim in the sea. it wasn't that comfortable sitting on the beach. And even walking back the way we came wasn't that great. I wished that, for the small effort it would have required, I had carried a light cardigan to wear over my floaty flowery dress. I should know English summers well enough to know how the weather can change. 

We went to Alnmouth later but strangely I took no photos. Perhaps I had had my fill of sandy beaches. Photographically at least!

In the evening we ate at The Links in Seahouses. It looked unprepossessing from the outside. On the inside it looked dated, like an estate pub or an Eighties Labour Club (I read it's been refurbished since). I'm not sure whether it's directly connected with the local golf course or simply takes its name from there. In any case, my expectations were low.

The Links proved to be an excellent restaurant. Basically, they serve pub grub, but not fancied-up with the name 'Gastro'. I started with a deep fried Camembert. A bit 90s I suppose, but it's always been a favourite of mine and I wasn't disappointed by a huge and tasty serving. Look at that side salad. Judge a restaurant by the side salad it serves with its starter. This is a kitchen that understands good quality fresh ingredients presented in a way that stimulates appetite.

 

My main course was mushroom risotto, always a risk in an unfamiliar restaurant. It seems an easy dish to make, but have you noticed on Masterchef how often it goes wrong? This was flavoursome, a hearty stock and strongly flavoured mushrooms - and look at the elegance of the presentation with the Parmesan. Nothing poncey, but a bit of thought and care.

Oddly, this large portion of risotto came with added potato. I opted for chips. Lovely chips, look at them. Proper! But chips with risotto was a new one on me.

 

How can you resist chips like that?

I've looked at recent Trip Advisor reviews of this restaurant and, aside from the inevitable grumpy exceptions, everyone seems in agreement with me about the quality of this restaurant. and everyone has the same observation - huge portion size. I could not make room for pudding, a very unusual situation for me, and a TA reviewer made a similar remark. A pity, because the starter and main showed that this kitchen can cook - and from a business point of view, they're losing money - puddings often have big mark up, and people often order more drinks to go with pudding. 

We went back there on the Sunday, an early dinner, and like many other customers we were in a hurry for the Men's World Cup Final. Staff were obliging and understanding.

So, basically, my criticisms of this restaurant  - awful decor which has since been refurbished, and enormous portions!

Around Seahouses

When booking a holiday in the UK, several factors must be considered. 

You want good quality accommodation, and we certainly got that. You want several restaurants, serviceable or better, within walking distance, and probably something above average not too far away. I think we got that, too.

And you want to be somewhere where a rainy day doesn't become an abandoned day. We got that, too, in Seahouses. A slightly odd town. It serves as some sort of tourist hub, not least because it's the place where the Farne Island boats go from. There's a National Trust gift shop. There's an excellent bakers, and good greengrocers and deli; the only 'supermarket' is a small and basic Co-op - for anything more than booze, milk and snacks you have to go several miles to Alnwick. There's an amusement arcade which seems vulgar and a little out of place. Weekend visitors seem a bit rough around the edges; weekday visitors are better-heeled.

 

Michael Portillo visited while we were there, for his Great British Railway Journeys. I was probably holding a copy of Bradshaw's in the NT Gift shop whilst he was en route back from the Farnes. Robson Greene was due a visit just after we left.

Another day, the weather forecast was awful and the morning was unpleasant: wet, windy, not warm. Much to my surprise (and that of people I subsequently encountered), the weather improved. Enough to make it worthwhile to stroll down to the town and play a round of Crazy Golf. I slaughtered Jimmy. I just want to make sure everybody knows that. I was so focused on the important task of winning Crazy Golf that I took no photos. As much as I despise 'real' golf and consider it a waste of time, socially divisive and a despoiling of the countryside, I love Crazy Golf. I don't think there are enough good Crazy Golf courses in this country. Seahouses is as good as any I've played in England. I've played better in Jersey and the US.

We wandered around town and watched the waves. So did many other people.

   

The weather became warmer and brighter, so we revised our plans from 'wander' to 'stroll'. Not a proper walk, but a bit of gentle exercise and lots of fresh air.

The beach at Seahouses is separated from the road by dunes. As you follow the path, you feel a little as if you are walking along a clifftop but without the height. A long and sandy beach that stretches to Bamburgh and beyond. Indeed the North Northumberland Coast is several miles of sandy beach more or less uninterrupted, but for the occasional harbour, estuary or castle.

As you see, there are outcrops of rock, but I don't think that contradicts the 'sandy'. I never actually got round to swimming while we were there, a frustration because, other than the air temperature, it would have been perfect.

 

 

I suppose I could have hired a wetsuit; I'd even been in contact with a shop that hires them out, and bikes. They came over as helpful people in our email correspondence. Definitely a regret I didn't hire a wetsuit and get in the water. These lads knew better.

 

 

 

 

 

We returned to out holiday let the 'back way', avoiding Main Street. We thought we'd have to walk along the B road, national speed limit, no footway. But we discovered a public footpath that ran parallel to the road and yet seemed almost a different world.

 

Another day the forecast said it would be warm and sunny, so we went to the beach with our swimming gear. The weather forecast should have said 'warm and sunny with stiff cold breeze, later clouding over'. I did go in the sea, but only paddling, as deep as my knees. I mainly lay on the beach, with my friends, while Jimmy clambered on the rocks.

 

Old photos, short stories: Viñales

Viñales valley in the Pinar del Rio province is a Cuban National Monument and a UNESCO World Heritage site. Before European settlement, the area was the home of a remnant Taíno population swelled with runaway slaves. 

We visited in December 2001, enjoying the mogotes or rocky outcrops, formed by rocks such as limestone dissolving around them.

 

We took a boat trip into a cave (not a great photograph, on a basic point-and-shoot, but it tells a tale.

I had a ride on a buffalo called Thomas!

Cragside

The first Tuesday of our holiday was rainy, grey and a bit windy. We took the opportunity to relax, having been on the go relentlessly for several days: packing, travelling and sight-seeing. We wandered around Seahouses and joined the National Trust. I explained to the chap who signed us up it was the final proof I had reached middle age. He explained that plenty of young people were members.

Regular readers will know that, on the whole, I hate Stately Homes. My main objection is the distorted view of history they represent. A misplaced belief that they are acting altruistically as custodian of a common good, but actually the defender of ill-gotten gains. The visitor is obliged to admire portraits of the 15th Baron or the 3rd Earl, whose accomplishments remain a mystery, other than 'serving the King', or being on the right side of a battle for power, or having the skill to be the oldest surviving (male) son or great nephew of the previous incumbent. 

Cragside is different. Cragside was the home of William Armstrong, engineer, scientist, inventor and philanthropist, the first engineer (or scientist) to be ennobled.

I don't suppose many people have heard of Armstrong. I'm not sure that I had until I started to read up on 'days out' in Northumberland. I despise that facet of Englishness that bangs on about our glory days but conspicuously fails to celebrate the engineers and inventors upon which the nation's wealth was founded.

Sadly, I found Cragside disappointing in its failure truly to celebrate the glory of engineering. Like all these Stately Homes it was acutely aware of its main selling point: people want to walk round houses, gawp, imagine the life they'd live if they were richer, and study the interior decor. I took several photographs within the house, of variable quality due to the variability of the light, and in hindsight, I too fell into that trap of focusing on the fripperies and ignoring the wonder of science.

      

It was busy in the house. Not oppressive, but busy. One had to manoeuvre round people. "oops, sorry, after you, no no, after you." apart from one ghastly little woman who...oh I can't even be bothered, some people simply can't cope with being out in public and need to take a long hard look at their behaviour. It was heaving in the café where we stopped for a disappointing cup of coffee. It has to be said the grounds are quite challenging, especially for people with limited mobility (a core NT demographic, especially during school term). But they do run a shuttle bus around the place. Once we had finished in the house, we had several hours of glorious tranquility, barely encountering a soul.

We descended steeply to the river and ascended again up to the Formal Terraced Garden, where we baked in the sun, admired the view and enjoyed the gardens. Regular readers will know that much as I love being in gardens and photographing them, I am hopeless at identifying plants. I am learning, from visits and from the TV, but it's a slow process.

         
After the garden we took a stroll along the River Coquet, still within the grounds. So did maybe half a dozen other people. I was puzzled, because the car park had been extremely busy - I just don't understand what these people do. Once again I thought of the '100 yards from the car park' rule.

 

Since we visited, they have launched an Archimedes screw to generate electricity. That article references one also at my beloved Morden Hall Park. Cragside was the first building in the world to be lit by hydroelectricity, and Armstrong visualised the potential for solar power. 

We returned to the coffee shop and wisely chose, rather than indifferent beverages, a superb ice cream from Doddington Dairy. The National Trust, complacent about its captive audience - and indeed many independent visitor attractions - don't have to care about the quality of their tea and coffee. Most of their customers couldn't care less. A diversified dairy farm has to ensure its products are high quality and must actively market them.

We drove out the long way, via the Estate Drive, which featured in one of my guidebooks as a walk. Again, I was astonished how few people we passed, or even saw in the distance. If I were to visit again, I would spend more time in the wilderness beyond the touristic centre.

 

 

Old photos short stories: Havana

We visited Cuba for Christmas 2001 and the New Year, as 'independent travellers'. In Havana we stayed in someone's spare room and took time to explore this extraordinary city, capital of an extraordinary country.  I was not so trigger happy with my camera as I became in later years. For example, I didn't take one photo of the 1950s 'Yank Tank' cars that you see so many of and are an instantly recognisable symbol of Cuba.

 

Seahouses to High Newton walk

An all-round super day. My Tracks recorded the walk as 7.22 miles; Samsung Walking Mate calculated I walked 9.5 miles that day. Not inconsistent; the extra two miles easily add up by walking round pubs and the holiday let before and after the walk.

We walked down to the sea via the most direct route, the Golf Course. There was a clear sign pointing to the Coastal Path, and another sign saying Keep to the Paths. Fine, but the tarmac path soon ran out, and there simply wasn't anything else that resembled a path. Wasn't clear where to go, and it certainly wasn't possible to stick to a right of way.

So, we got shouted at by some angry little man. We pointed out that there were no paths. He was yelling 'this is the fairway'. Yeah, because that means something to me. Sorry, I don't live in your internalised world and speak your hobby-specific language. Still, I probably shouldn't have said "You should take some exercise, you know, dear". I expect he probably had exercise recommended by a health professional or probation officer to cope with the anger management issues, but instead he decided to spend all day knocking little balls into holes. I concede it has to be better than beating people up on the rougher streets of Glasgow. There seemed to be six of them all told, all white males, all wearing the same sort of bad taste 'leisure wear'.

What is it with men's summer clothes? For work they wear the same heavy cotton long sleeved shirts they wear in winter; for leisure they all wear polyester 'polo' shirts or other versions of what used to be known as PE kits. And not just golfers.

Down on the beach, it suddenly started to rain, and continued to do so for over a minute. Just awful. Alternatively, enough to deter the fair weather strollers. We walked a good mile and a half along the beach and for most of the route we barely passed anybody. Until we approached the exit for Beadnell and suddenly someone's invading our personal space by throwing a ball at her dog so the mutt was running and panting way too close. It wasn't really a problem, but I couldn't help thinking that, given the size of the beach, and the small number of people using it, it was really quite inconsiderate. Perhaps I was supposed to turn round and go gaga over the dirty animal. Never.

We stopped for lunch at The Craster Arms in Beadnell, a well-reviewed pub. Crab sandwich was irresistable. The salad was mediocre. Plus point, it was dressed, but chopped a bit small - and you should never chop lettuce. Decent pint of cider.

We sat in the garden, as far as possible from the couple with a toddler and a baby. There were two other couples there, too, no children. The toddler was allowed to run around all over the garden, stamping his feet up-and-down on the decking. While I was eating, he came within inches of me, tens of yards away from his parents. "Go  away go away go away go away", I said. One of the other women in the pub garden gave me a smile of support.

Oddly, the child spent the rest of his visit to the beer garden sitting down. Did the parents think that it was their personal private garden, or that three decidedly middle-aged couples would appreciate being entertained by a toddler? They' d probably given him a bowl of sugar for breakfast and driven him to the pub, rather than letting him run round on the beach. I got the feeling they didn't like him. Odd. They were British, so they could have got free contraception or a termination. I wonder why they didn't.

From the pub to the harbour was a rather  a dull walk, along the road, but it wasn't far, and we were soon back where we had first hit the Northumberland coast on the Saturday. They say small things amuse small minds and this certainly put a smile on my face.

 An even bigger smile was caused by this

Several miles of sandy beach occupied by no more than 30 or 40 people, if that. Fleetingly, I thought about a rather sad little woman who went through a phase of bullying and harassing me online, as a direct result of this blog. One of her theses was that Jimmy 'forced' me to go on beach holidays and she didn't approve because she didn't like being very close to someone on another lounger, oh, and she doesn't like being out in the sun. So many things wrong with this thesis I don't know where to begin. And the odd thing, she has told me the town she lives in (no need for me to repeat it here). I don't know the town, but I do know it's just a handful of miles from the coast, which, according to the internet, is a 'scenic coastline' and part of a SSSI. Once I had a banished unwelcome thoughts of a pitiful troll, it was time to enjoy the near deserted beach, although I took surpisingly few photos.

We lay on the dunes for a while and contemplated how to overcome a dual barrier that prevented us walking all the way to Newton along the beach. One obstacle was the Long Nanny Tern breeding site 

and the small matter of a beck to cross. I'd initially assumed it was just a small  beach stream that could be waded, but not quite...

Because of the protected breeding site, the path was diverted off the beach, across a bridge and through long dune grass. That was pleasant, not least for the wild flowers and the plethora of butterflies.

 

I was just puzzled that none of the reference material mentioned the breeding site. Many recommended walking Beadnell to Low Newton by the Sea  across the sands, but no hint of a diversion. The Ship Inn there is well recommended. Instead, we headed for High Newton, which has a bus stop. It was a difficult final stretch for me, wishing I was already at the pub for the final half mile. This was slightly but steadily and continuously uphill, and if there had been a passing bus, I would have caught it. But there wasn't, and to arrive at the village without succumbing to tears was a real sense of achievement. And after a few sips of cider, I wondered what I had even been bothered about.

The pub was the Joiners Arms, an exceptionally good pub. We ate there and it was very nice. Jimmy had fish and chips and later said it was the best of four such servings he'd had during our holiday. I had this Haddock and leek chowder, and was looking forward to pudding, But this was so tasty and so filling, I felt satiated.

We also had the unusual pleasure of neighbours' conversation. It was slightly odd, a local couple who had retired to the area and whose son was living in the USA. Parents and three teenage boys from the USA, friends of the couple's son. They'd never met before, so the opening gambits were nervous and hesitant. By the end, they were firm friends. If they weren't so nice and interesting, they might have annoyed me, but I learnt a lot about the area and about life from listening. In truth they weren't overloud; I suppose I listened because they were interesting. It was mainly the American woman and the English man talking but neither was over dominant, and all contributors seemed thoughtful sensitive people.

We caught the bus back to Seahouses. Jimmy used his Freedom pass but I had to pay - £4.70 for a single journey of twenty one minutes, on a service that only runs every two hours. It's almost a joke of a bus service; I wondered whether I should be surprised it was so empty. It's unlikely that many people could depend upon it to take them to and from work. 

Old photos, new stories: Gorey

We caught the bus from St Helier to Gorey and walked back. 

After walking for several miles, we were still a long way from St Helier. We found a pub; they directed us to a restaurant a mile or so away. We ate a lot of food. And took a taxi back to our hotel.

Bamburgh and Alnwick

Our first full day of the holiday. The weather forecast was not encouraging, either for that day, or for later, when they predicted the tail-end of a hurricane would hit Britain, bringing wind and rain in its wake. Decision: find somewhere local and have a quick look round before the rain comes. Result: a very pleasant if unplanned two mile stroll without ever getting wet.

We parked across the road from Bamburgh Castle - delighted at free parking! There is a sign-posted walk that takes one around the outskirts of the castle, and we thought we would follow that - until we realised that we could head down to the beach.

What a splendid beach! Long and wide, and mainly sandy, but with rocks and rock pools for added interest. Several parties out, walking or encamped in a well-rehearsed routine. What I was to find over and over again was how uncommercialised the beaches are in all the area we visited. I made jokes about the abusive parents who were denying their children the right to sit in a shopping precinct drinking sugary drinks. One family included a child who was obviously a 'problem' - she laid down in front of me, which I found bemusing (rather than obnoxious) and I noticed later a couple of aspects of her behaviour that seemed more toddler-like than the age her appearance suggested. She and her older brother were obviously enjoying themselves exploring the rockpools and playing on the beach.

We had our own fun exploring the rockpools.

I decided I would devote this holiday to photographing nature.

 

We walked as far as the lighthouse, which had a face. I'm always slightly disappointed when lighthouses aren't made out of tall towers, even though I know it makes more sense to build a low-level squat building on a high cliff.

We walked along a minor road with views of an unremarkable village, and flowers.

 

 We reached the spot on the dunes where we had earlier diverted to hit the beach, and continued our walk round the castle. I took a lot of photos of Bamburgh Castle, and then remembered how last year I got totally fed up of photos of St Michael's Mount.

More wildlife 

   

 This couple intrigued me, walking the dunes. 

We had a great view of Inner Farne (I found out the next day that a Twitter 'friend' from South London was visiting the Farnes as we did this walk, and was staying in Seahouses, too!)

And more flowers

As we approached the car, it seemed like it would rain, After a discussion, we decided to head for Alnwick, the nearest town of any size. It was quite a drive, about fifteen miles mainly on B roads with their fair share of bends, often sharp. On a Sunday, there wasn't much open, and what there was was due to close within little more than an hour. A quick dash round Morrison's for a few things we hadn't been able to get at Seahouses co-op, and then a sit down and a cup of coffee. At quite possibly the worst café ever.

Imagine if you will, a country town serving a wide rural and coastal area, residents and tourists, just off the main London-Edinburgh trunk road. A town with several cafes and similar places. all competing for the passing (and returning) trade. You make an offer to the customer; the customer pays their money, and expects a certain standard.

I ordered a scone with butter and jam. She upsold me one with cream. I am capable of resisting upselling, but she was pleasant, I was in a mood to relax, and I like a bit of cream with a scone. We agreed to sit outside on the cobbles of the market square and she'd bring our order out.

The scone with cream arrived. Cream? Squirty cream! Who puts squirty cream on scones? Is this even a thing? I was rendered speechless. I bit into the scone. The key to a good scone is to serve it the day it's baked; at worst, the day after. This was so stale I concluded it must have been Friday's batch. Perhaps baked on Friday afternoon 'to do the weekend'. I suppose I should have complained and demanded my money back. But we don't, do we. Better to bear the loss than endure the stress of the confrontation.You walk away; you won't come back. But as a visitor, even if it was the best scone ever, you're unlikely to return, you have other destinations planned. Stale scone with squirty cream. As if!

In the evening we ate at The Spice House in Seahouses. Mixed. The young men who greeted us and took our order were warm and welcoming. We were able to buy bottled Northumberland-brewed ale (surprising for a curry restaurant). And my starter of mushroom and paneer was delicious.

 On the other hand, my main course didn't really taste of curry and didn't consist of much other than prawns and sauce. The middle-aged man who took over serving us was super-grumpy. I decided to put it down to Ramadan fasting. 

Obviously, people are free to choose their religious practices etc etc etc, but it got me thinking. Whoever invented Ramadan fasting in the Dark Ages didn't know that Sunrise to Sunset could last 17 hours (18 in Inverness on 21 June), had no concept of Bangladesh or England, nor would be able to imagine people from one place serving food in the other place to people who had no intention of carrying out a dawn to dusk fast, ever. And, frankly, the Dark Agers knew little about physiology, hydration, energy levels or anything. I do understand why a Bangladeshi immigrant observes the Ramadan fast. But I'm not entirely convinced it's an unfettered free choice.  

Northumberland Holiday

In short, I have edited 350 photographs and still have 200 left to edit!

We started our holiday the first weekend of July and stayed in Seahouses for two weeks. A splendid time was had. My brother, who visited Alnmouth last year, described Seahoouses as 'like Blackpool', which got me rather excited. But although incorrect, I could see his point. More commercialised than the rest of the North Northumberland coast, which has its advantages and disadvantages. We chose Seahouses as having amenities, and we chose a cottage in North Sunderland as being slightly away from the main drag. The 'slightly away' became the main - only - downside of the cottage; the walk back from eating places seeming longer and longer each time.

The journey up seemed epic, even though we split it over two days. On the first day we travelled as far as Darlington, largely because there wasn't a hotel to be had for many miles south of there. We crawled through Yorkshire, but were grateful that we were passing through before the Tour de France the next day. You don't want to arrive very late at your holiday cottage; as it was, we arrived at 5pm at Darlington, which was fine for a Premier Inn. Premier Inn fulfills its offer splendidly - ideal for one night, especially when in transit.

Saturday's journey was much easier. A good breakfast and no sense of rushing. Getting past Newcastle was surprisingly easy, and not much later we followed a sign pointing to the Northumberland Coastal Route. We were disappointed that we couldn't actually see the sea, but, slowly, it dawned on me that it's a spinal access to the Northumberland coast. It avoids the A1 and there are numerous turns off to coastal settlements. 

We tried High and Low Newton, but the pubs in both villages were hosting wedding receptions, unsurprising for a Saturday in August. I'm sure they would have been welcoming but you can't reasonably expect attention in such circumstances. And it had started to rain. As we approached Beadnell I realised I was dying for a wee. The weather wasn't great, but I was sure we could find a loo. As we did, free, in a free car park! And the weather bucked up. We followed signs to the beach and, to our delight, found an enormous expansive sandy beach. There were a good few people on it but it was far from crowded.

We walked for a while, especially near the harbour. This features some historic lime kilns (1747), later used for curing herring; oddly I didn't photograph them

 

It started to drizzle just as we returned to the car and we drove away, to Seahouses. The drizzle soon stopped. As expected, our cottage was not ready; we were early. But we took the opportunity to wander round town. Tea and quiche at Trotter's Bakers; we returned frequently for bread and other baked goods. A look around the harbour and a quick drink in the Olde Ship. Good pub, decent ale.

It was time to take possession of ou rental cottage. Slight trpeidation on walking through the door, followed rapidly by great relief. Spotlessly clean, recently re-decorated, tastefully decorated and fully equipped. The owners had obviously put some thought into it, with a comprehensive residents' guide and everything you need for a self-catering holiday.

Such a contrast to the place we had in Cornwall! They even left us a pint of milk and a packet of chocolate digestives, as well as unopened soap in the bathroom, washing-up liquid and enough dishwasher tablets to see us into the week. I joked with the next door neighbour that I had finally found the thing that was missing - a tea strainer, but we were using teabags anyway. And the neighbour offered to lend me her spare strainer. There was a decent selection of board games, books (and not just the usual holiday let Da Vinci code) and DVDs. I'm sure last year's man would have whipped away anything like that.

 

In the evening we went to one of Seahouses three fish-and-chip restaurants, Pinnacles, a favourite of the Hairy Bikers and Robson Green. It was fine, although, to be honest, it didn't strike me as anything special, and we later agreed it wasn't the best fish and chip restaurant in Seahouses. When we ordered, I was a bit taken aback when she asked us whether we wanted a slice of bread; I later learnt that, round there, it's not fish and chips without a slice of tasteless processed white sliced.

When we retired to bed, we found the bedroom to be very good. Lovely comfortable king size bed, and, again, tastefully decorated, although I forgot to take a photo. The only downside was that, being an attic bedroom, there were low beams and sloping gables. Even I bumped my head several times. You get used to it, but I'm not sure I'd want that permanently.

Lythe Hill Spa Weekend

We booked our main holiday last year for September. At some point it seemed a long way off so we thought, hey, why don't we have a weekend away! In summer hotels are often booked up on Saturday nights, and generally don't have 'offers' - presumably because of weddings and other get-togethers. But we booked Thursday and Friday night and enjoyed a lovely little break at Lythe Hill. We've been before and I nearly opted to go a third time for my birthday this year (before opting for Bournemouth). I'm sure I'll return sooner rather than later.

Situated just outside Haslemere, Lythe Hill is accessible by bus should you choose. 2 acres and 44 rooms, so plenty of opportunity to 'get away from it'. We had a superior room on the first floor. Previously we had stayed in a room named after a novelist - Jane Austen, if I recall correctly. This time we were on Politicians' Corridor. I had mixed feelings to be staying in 'Nancy Astor'. Obviously great to be in a room named after a female politician, but, being among Baldwin, Churchill, Disraeli and Eden, I considered it a pretty appalling attempt to avoid naming a room after Britian's greatest ever Prime Minister. A very nice room, though!

A highlight of Lythe Hill is the spa. Obviously, not a good place to take photos, but worth taking a look on their website and I've copied their swimming pool photo - fair use for 'review and criticism'. The 16m pool is bigger than any indoor hotel pool I've been in, and is complemented by the jacuzzi, sauna and steam room, and the tempura shower (tried once, never again, although I accept that have a cold bucket of water dumped on your head is therapeutic). In between swims we reclined on the sun terrace, clad only in swimming gear and complementary bath robe, sipping tea and eating sandwiches delivered from the bar. The pool has a specific hour each day when children are welcome; outside of those times it's very quiet and relaxing. 

I did have a good laugh (in my head) at one pair of young women. They were barely out of their teens and had come for a 'spa day'. I noticed that they bore copies of 'Wedding flowers' magazine. I was quite aghast at that - imagine having a whole magazone devoted just to the flowers. I couldn't help fast forwarding to the bored housewives I'd seen at Devil's Punchbowl, and recalled a conversation with a friend a few weeks earlier. I think it was her cousin or somesuch she was talking about. She's of Sikh background. Her cousin was due to marry and she asked him what he and his fiancée had in common, what did they talk about. "The wedding" he 
replied. So she asked what they'd talk about when they were married. "The wedding" he replied. My friend was quite flummoxed by this, and we agreed that too many people plan the perfect wedding but not so much a great marriage.

These young women entered. They didn't spend long in the sauna, and made tentatively for the pool, one complaining how cold it was (warmer than a council pool, let alone a Lido or the sea). The jacuzzi was also too cold, so they went in the steam room for over a minute, before retrieving their bathrobes - which they had unceremoniously dumped on top of my belongings 'oh, that must be the place where people put things'. They were impeccably manicured and hair-done, bodies dictated by advertising, and their lives revolved around spending hundreds (if not thousands) on wedding flowers. Although an atheist, I raised a silent prayer of thanks for my life!

We spent several hours on both Friday and Saturday between the spa and the sun terrace: it's nice that even though you check out by 11am (industry standard) you're able to use the spa throughout the rest of the day. On the Saturday afternoon we had afternoon tea, which I blogged some months ago. On both evenings we ate in the hotel restaurant.

I started with a dish based around mackerel. As you can see,it incorporated several elements and I noted in my diary that it was 'extremely good'

My main course was a wild mushroom open lasagne. The individual elements were good, including proper wild mushrooms. I just wasn't entirely convinced it worked  as a cohesive whole.

I finished with what can only be described as a show-stopper, one of three great great puddings of 2013 - the others being Sweet Curry Plate from Ben's Cornish Kitchen and Vanilla poached pear, ginger ice cream, rice pudding, Nick's raspberry jam and peanut brittle from Wild Thyme

 

The Lythe hill pudding delight was a deconstructed strawberry cheesecake. Anyone who watches Masterchef will know how some critics - rightly - consider the deconstruction an abomination. One is tempted to say 'put it back together and stop messing sround, dear boy' and wonders whether showing off cleverness is a poor substitute for taste. Fortunately, this cheesecake was all about the flavour!

Ricotta doughnut sticks, vanilla shortbread (crumbled), very creamy vanilla ice cream and macerated strawberries. Delicious!

On the second night I had asparagus velouté. Full of flavour but surprisingly difficult to eat.

 

Main was a fillet of halibut with a halibut brandade (mash) and roasted baby vegetables. Nice without being exceptional

I finished with deconstructed carrot cake. Very tasty but not a patch on the previous evening's strawberry cheesecake. And an example where I was unsure how deconstruction added anything to a classic dish.

Overall, an excellent and relaxing mini-break at a good hotel. I really only have one criticism - the lake. Both of our visits have been in August and the lake really does stink. It's not a problem if you're in your room or on the terrace bar, but it's off-putting if you want a lakeside stroll. Several recent reviews on TripAdvisor have mentioned this. Also, I note the very recent comments on how stuffy the rooms are in a heatwave, not a problem for us on this visit but reminded me of when we visited in 2011. And, finally, weekday breakfast is brilliant, but Saturday is more slapdash with less choice.

To conclude, I would highly recommend Lythe Hill and intend to return, but a few issues require attention and do make the difference between it being a good hotel and an exceptional one.

These photos have been added to my Surrey album

Surrey Life review

A Unique Experience in Simplicity

Broadstairs, Wyatt and Jones

We stayed one night in Botany Bay. In the evening we went into Broadstairs to sample a well-reviewed modern British restaurant, Wyatt and Jones. Independent, family run, seasonal local produce. Also, I notice, our childrens menu consists of a selection of smaller portions from our adult menu. I know people who are frustrated because far too many 'restaurants' think children's food should be mechanically processed offcuts deep fried and served as finger food. So, although I have no direct interest, I will praise any restaurant which overtly states such a policy!

They open for breakfast and lunch (I've been told good things of their breakfasts) but they don't open all day - they close for three hours in the afternoon, presumably for staff lunch and rest and for dinner preparation.

Before settling down to eat I took a short stroll to the shore to capture the glory of the evening sun.

  

I started with a fish soup with scallops, prawns and mussels. Substantial, wholesome and tasty, although I'm not sure 'soup' is the right classification, but soup or stew it hit the spot. Good tasty fresh pieces of seafood and fish, and a sauce with robust flavours.

My main course was cod loin in garlic butter, creamed greens, fried potatoes, clams & asparagus veloute.

The sharp-eyed among you will have noticed I don't eat meat but I eat a lot of fish and seafood, especially when dining out - when I'm cooking for myself at home I like both big pulse-rich foods with lots of spice and also egg-and-cheese heavy dishes. But, possibly, my most favourite food group is sauce. And this is why I love Modern British food. Sauce, bringing the dish together. I have been in restaurants abroad - such as Spain -who have served up a lovely fresh piece of fish. but with no or few vegetables, and no sauce, the result is disappointing. (And I'm no fan of Nick Clegg, but his wife his Spanish, and he has made a similar complaint about Spanish food).

And this cod dish was an exemplar of great Modern British food. Ostensibly the cod was the star of the show, but the falvoursome veloute brought it together as a dish of balanced elements, each mouth ful a flavour sensation.

Furthermore, it was delightful to find this restaurant in Broadstairs. I fully admit to having misjudged the town, influenced perhaps by MArgate's reputation as a downmarket seaside town past its best (not entirely true). Nevertheless, it doesn't have a foodie reputation, and the town and area's marketing is driven by sandy beaches. I travelled for the bech and I found a restaurant that, although not 'cheffy' (or 'poncey' delivers good quality fine dining.

However, it turned out that the starter was far too generously portioned, and I didn't have room for pudding.

 

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Botany Bay

Wyatt & Jones..................

Round up of Bournemouth

Lovely mini-break in Bournemouth. A wonderful escape from the stresses of work and the stress known as 'Other People'. On the Friday we walked along the seafront to Boscombe A sunny February walk in Bournemouth and on both evenings we ate in our hotel Blake's Restaurant Bournemouth. On both days we had a light lunch in the local pub - the Goat and Tricycle, reputedly the best real ale pub in Bournemouth. Jimmy had a chat with the manager, who said how many barrels they turned over each week - and how many at Christmas. I forget the numbers now but Jimmy was seriously impressed. A good selection of ales and 'proper' ciders and a wide selection of food, from bar snacks to main meals. A good turnover of customers, too, and a reasonable social mix: local workmen, dog-walkers, retired or mini-breaking couples. I felt entirely comfortable there on a Thursday afternoon.

I had planned that we would spend all of Saturday in Bournemouth, perhaps even taking an early dinner before travelling back late, but the weather forecast was not good. Jimmy insisted we get away fairly early. I was disappointed, but I remembered how critical I am of people who travel unnecessarily, putting themselves and others at risk, in bad weather.

After breakfast on Saturday we walked to the clifftop, and down to the Undercliff Promenade to look at the brewing storm. It was lively out there, a contrast from the previous day's relative calm. and, yet, as pictures of the storm-battered winter of 2013/14 go, these are about the dullest you'll see! There was even someone on the beach with his small child, and they looked perfectly safe.

Nevertheless, there were signs of an impending storm and we decided to call it a day and head home. Ironically, our Railway Replacement bus service to Southampton Airport Parkway was a highlight - travelling through the New Forest in glorious sunshine. The train journey was uneventful. We changed at Woking and they were announcing (further) chaos on services to the West Country - this time, a landslip at Crewkerne. On Twitter I was reading various South Londoners caught in flash downpours. This was quite surreal, as we enjoyed surprisingly beautiful weather. Until we reached Streatham Hill, when the heavens opened, and we were soaked in the short walk - dash - from station to fishmongers.

In retrospect, we could have stayed all day in Bournemouth and still got home safely, but I think it was the right decision to make. There were still more storms to come - especially the Valentine's Day storm, which affected previous holiday destinations of Milford-on-Sea and West Bay, but I am rather relieved to have escaped this winter's exceptional storm without one dramatic photo to share with you.

Botany Bay

The famous Heatwave of 2014. A grey, rainy, cool Spring looked like there was no end. I got sick of people moaning "We've had no summer". I recounted the years when similar conditions had prevailed right up to the middle weekend - or even the quarter-finals - of Wimbledon and turned into two months of glorious summer. But no one paid me any attention!

The Heatwave broke out and we went to Battersea Park. The next two weekends involved day trips to Hove. They probably merit a blogpost, but on the first occasion I forgot to take my camera; on the second I forgot to take photos.

On the third weekend we booked an overnight stay near Broadstairs, on the recommendation of a colleague. Thanet is close enough to London, but, by train, a bit too far to do in a day and back. 

With the Heatwave holding and showing no sign of relenting, booking a seaside hotel wasn't easy. Most demanded a minimum of two nights stay, others were fully booked on the Saturday night, probably because of weddings. We settled on what was called the Fayreness Hotel, but has subsequently changed hands and is now called the Botany Bay hotel. At the time, I concluded it served our purpose well enough - decent breakfast and clean room, and extremely handy for the beach. And with the change of ownership, any further comment is irrelevant.

We caught the High Speed out of St Pancras, and on arrival in Broadstairs we walked own into town. I don't know what it is with seaside towns, but they all seem to have their stations well away from the town centre and the beach. We took a taxi to Kingsgate, although we could have caught a bus. We lunched while waiting for our room. I had a decent enough veggie burger, its presentation elegant if somewhat clichéd.

We spent the afternoon on the beach. For weeks before - and to come - Britain had basked in temperatures above the seasonal average. But not that day and not North East Kent. Officially, temperatures were struggling to get out of the teens.

The main beach was full of a 3-coach school party. From their diverse appearance I guess they had travelled from the London area. Well supervised and well behaved - they tidied their litter up into bin bags they left next to the bins - but there was a lot of them, probably Years 5 and 6. I felt a bit sad. Very few of the children went anywhere near the sea. A good few of them remained dressed in layers. The ones that did go near the sea were called back by the adults. (Damned if they do, damned if they don't. Not my idea of fun being responsible for other people's children in a potentially dangerous place. Dangerous especially because it seemed most of the children had no familiarity with beach and sea. And those that headed to the sea, presumably they were experienced, but could the teachers and helpers take that chance?)

We headed along the beach and past a rock that stuck out. That was fine for a while. But it began to feel very cold. It dawned on us we were now in shade, so we returned to the main beach and basked in the sun for another hour or so. There were plenty - but not too many - people on the beach, but no one was venturing in the sea beyond a hesitant paddle.

In the evening we ate in Broadstairs, and returned to our hotel for drinks. There wasn't much atmosphere in the hotel bar. We had tried taking a walk along the clifftops in front of the hotel, but bizarrely, we were swarmed by large hoverflies, which were quite scary. Perhaps not scary like wasps, but they kept flying at me, so my impulses - blinking, swatting, ducking - were in overdrive. I've never encountered anything like it.

 

We were on the beach mid morning and again walked along, to get away from what was obviously the main drag. It began to fill up with people, old people and young, couples, friend groups, families. We never felt overcrowded, knowing that if you want beach tranquility on a July Saturday in a heatwave you have to travel. 

 

One thing I concluded from this visit, and from my two daytrips to Hove is that there's no need to be on the beach early. I should have known this, but too many holidays in Southern Europe and beyond have caused me to forget England. It wasn't really that pleasant in the water at 11am; by 3pm it was gorgeous. So therapeutic. 

This stretch of coast is sandy; even so, I was glad to have brought beach shoes. We sat by some rocks that needed crossing to get to low water and were submerged at higher water. There is no feeling equal to that of floating in the sea on a day that - eventually - became very hot. I do regret that, having set our hearts on (a very fine) afternoon tea, we left the beach too early. We can have afternoon tea any time; sea swimming is a rarity in England - I haven't done it since (I had hoped to in Cornwall, given that the sea is at its warmest in September, but the air temperature rarely rose above 20C).

When we left the beach we had to return via the 'main' part. I gasped at how crowded it was. People's towels were almost touching the towels of their neighbours; there were perhaps a dozen rows of people. We had chosen a better part - but further to walk from the stairs and ramp. But perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised - a week or two earlier, I had seen pictures of 'Standing Room Only' at Brighton beach, such as this one, from Stephen Liddell's blog.

We returned into Broadstairs. The beaches were busy there, too. We wandered around for a while but it was too hot for wandering, so after a drink or two, we caught the High Speed home, avoiding the worst of the rush.

It was an enjoyable time away, but I made a mental note for the future - don't be the person who leaves the beach too early in the day. I'm sure it would have been great for swimming even at 6 or 7pm, and a hellish journey on an overcrowded train would not be the disaster one dreads!