During our All-Inclusive package holiday near Kos Town we booked a day coach trip to tour the island.
I have mixed feelings about coach trips. It is an excellent way to see the cultural highlights without having to juggle bus timetables or hire a car. But you don't have control over how long you spend at places and it's all a bit whistle-stop.
On the whole it worked out well. We had an excellent and knowledgeable tour guide. The coach wasn't completely full and there was nobody entirely obnoxious. There was one elderly woman who was clearly getting drunker and drunker and more garrulous as the day went by, but she was a hoot. One slightly odd woman seemed to want to follow me around and take the same photos.
As I have said before, the weather was much hotter than I had expected and despite drinking copious amounts of water, it did take a lot out of me. If we had been going under our own steam, it would have been even more draining.
Our first stop was the Asklepion, not far from Kos Town. One of the most important sites in Western Civilisation but I hadn't heard of it until I booked to visit Kos. It is a 'healing temple' sacred to the Greek god Asclepius. The Asklepion on Kos was probably the largest and most well-known in the ancient world, dating from 400 BC. Modern scientific evidence-based medicine has its roots here; Hippocrates worked and taught at this site. Medicine was 'systemised' . Pliny wrote that Hippocrates learned medicine by writing down the successful cures that had been recorded by patients on the walls of the temple.
One level of the Asklepion included hydrotherapy. Our guide explained the importance to them of clean drinking water. The guide recounted a story where he had to guide a school party round. He asked the children whether Asclepius existed, and one child, aged about 9, replied "Yes, because he exists in our heads." A profound comment. Of course these gods exist; it was the genius of humanity to create them to serve society!
Kos has a history of earthquakes, and the hospital is in ruins. Excavations were begun in the early years of the 20th century. Anyone who visits Kos must go to this site, with a good guide. However, you get more of a sense of space and the size of the place, and great views out to sea, then any insight into the workings of the hospital. Also, because it's built on four levels, there's a lot of stairs to climb. Those with greater mobility problems than me would not get the full experience of the site.
We drove into the mountains, to the touristic village of Zia that lies at the base of Mount Dikaios, the highest mountain on Kos. We visited during the day but it's a popular destination at sunset.
The coach dropped us off in the village square. Some people headed straight for the shops, which sell everything from the cheapest tat to local foodstuffs (eg honey) to some lovely pottery. I was tempted by tableware but I knew it would be a pain to bring home by charter flight.
We climbed up to the Orthodox church above the village - but first, coffee in a nearby restaurant. I was pleased by the photo I took of the steps but later saw other similar pictures on the web - clearly an obvious shot!
The church was highly decorated. I felt awkward. I'm not religious, and it felt odd being one of many people wandering around taking snapshots. But it's part of the tourist route, and presumably the church tolerates it as it brings money to the village. This is the point where I start to feel guilty as a relatively prosperous Western tourist bestowing my grandesse on a struggling economy. Does it feel more awkward when it's in an EU country?
We walked round the village, which is pretty, with magnificent views.
As we waited for our coach, I spotted this vintage mowing machine parked up in the village square.
Next stop was Pyli, in order to see a fountain. I understand why the coach tour stopped off there but it wasn't a highlight. The guide explained a rite associated with fertility - drinking from each of the taps or somesuch. One poor woman dashed round like she was desperate. I saw it as an opportunity to replenish depleted and warm water bottles!
We drove across the island to a beach town for lunch. Kos is said to be one of the greenest Greek islands. I've previously been to Corfu and Crete, but the scenery just doesn't grab me. The town we stopped in - whose name I forget, I didn't make contemporaneous notes - had an air of end-of-season. A few people sunbathing on the beach but not much else. Even the tourist train was parked up and seemed out of commission.
We had a decent meal in the restaurant recommended by the guide. A beau
There is no denying that Trinity at Clapham is a superb restaurant. Adam Byatt is a really good chef. However, it is unlikely that we are ever going to return for a Sunday lunch there, and certainly not when Adam is travelling in the Far East.
We went just about a year ago. I really liked my food. I didn't note down the precise details of what I ate, fondly thinking that photographs alone would jog my memory.
I started with a delightful wild mushroom concoction.
I say started but I had already demolished an amuse-bouche and quite a bit of their incomparable sourdough bread and home-churned butter made out of Jersey milk.
My main course was also a pleasure to the taste. I'm pretty sure this is hake, served with cockles,
I finished with a deconstructed Black Forest Gateau, which was full of good strong tastes.
Jimmy didn't rate his roast beef. It was supposed to be an expensive cut, but he wasn't convinced. It was stringy to chew, and difficult to cut. He recognises that places generally serve beef pink, but this wasn't so much 'pink' as cold in the uncooked parts. He left half of it.
There was an unfortunate incident involving some other customers which I didn't think was the restaurant's fault. Somehow, some wine got spilled onto someone's lap and the blame was attributed to the waiter walking past. Admittedly I didn't see it happen, but I felt that it was a group of people who want to create a fault in order to bully the restaurant into giving them freebies. I also sensed the restaurant staff knew this, too, but their hands were tied. We were coming to the end our meal, and also sensed we would help them a lot if we could leave our table, so they could combine it with the next, empty one to re-seat the complaining guests.
But worst of all was the coming-together of the Clapham Yummy Mummies. They behaved as if they never went out, barking, braying and boasting in loud voices, as if they needed to impress. Who? Why? How - it takes more than that to impress me. And to cap it all, they had a baby with them, under a year old. The baby was sick. And we had to endure the rest of our meal in an odour of baby sick. Maybe the Clapham mummies regularly spend £65 a head on dinner, but we don't, and we don't like to eat in the atmosphere of baby sick.
However, we did go back for the New Year's Eve tasting menu, and that was the right decision. There were several children at the early evening sitting, but they were children who had been brought up to appreciate a good restaurant, to sit up at table, and not run around, whose parents had the novel idea of conversing with the children, and not at them - exactly the sort of fellow diners you should expect at a fairly pricey quality restaurant.
The food was exquisite, and very little to criticise. We did have to wait a while for our first course. We were offered amuse-bouches soon after arrival, and were also kept supplied with a plentiful supply of the above-mentioned sourdough bread, freshly baked, which, perhaps unsurprisingly, proved to be my downfall.
Before booking I had checked with the restaurant and it was no bother to accommodate my non-meat tastes into the set tasting menu. I think they also had a vegetarian alternative. We decided to go wild and accept their recommendation of a glass of matched wine with each course, although some of our fellow diners, perhaps sensibly, opted for a bottle or two to last the length of the meal.
A tasting menu suits the restaurant perfectly. They know exactly how many to make of each dish and they can keep turning them out, almost like a production line. I think it works well for a busy evening like New Year's Eve. I started with a Roast white onion soup with truffle and curds, while Jimmy had Consommé of roast chicken and morels. My matching wine was Anjou Domain Rene Mosse Blanc from the Loire. I liked how they brought the bowls to the table pre-filled with solid and elegantly poured the soup round it. I'm a sucker for eating-as-theatre!
We both had Orkney Scallop Ceviche, with Rosehip Pickle and Charred Cucumber. We both judged this to be the star of the show. We both love scallops anyway, and these were a class apart. We teamed this with an Argentinian: Alamos Torrontes.
The next course was also identical for meat-eaters and non-meat eaters alike. The accompanying wine was a South African Chardonnay, Hamilton Russell. I'm not a great Chardonnay fan because so much mediocre stuff is sold for the mass market. However, this was very quaffable and went well with the Gnocchi Parisienne, Cauliflower, Truffle and Parmesan
Not at all a good photo but I don't like to use flash in restaurants so am dependent on ambient lighting. If I'm in a hurry to take the photo - usually one shot and then eat, especially if it's a hot course - I might move. And I was probably halfway drunk by this point.
I followed with Seabass, Pumpkin, Chanterelles matched with another decent Chardonnay - Toques et Clochers "Haute-Vallée" from Limoux. Jimmy had Salt-crusted partridge, artichoke and roast chestnuts.
This was probably my least favourite course. Everything tasted fresh and was cooked very well, but I didn't think the overall combination particularly worked.
We were approaching the home straight, with Black Forest, served with a Moscatel - Lustau Emilín.
The finale to the meal was Truffle baked Vacherin Mont d'or, with Savagnin, Domaine Daniel Dugois from Arbois. I am one of these people who usually takes an awful long time to realise that I am full and so carries on eating. But by this point I knew I was full and didn't get to fully appreciate the Vacherin. It almost hurt to put it in my mouth, which was a pity. I was well stuffed!
I'd do the tasting menu again, with the matched wines, as long as I didn't have to get up the enxt morning. But I would definitely eat a lot less ovenfresh sourdough bread.
The name 'Lost Gardens' attracted me the first time I heard it, several years ago. I watched a documentary on the TV 2 or 3 years ago and was fascinated. It was very much on my list of Must Dos, and, it turned out, other than the journeys to and from home, was our furthest trip from base (from which you can gather, we didn't do The Eden Project).
Before the First World War the garden required the services of 22 gardeners to maintain it, but that war lead to the deaths of...16 of those gardeners, and by 1916 the garden was being looked after by only 8 men. In the 1920s Jack Tremayne's love of Italy led him to set up permanent home there, and lease out Heligan. The house was tenanted for most of the 20th century, used by the US Army during the Second World War, and then converted into flats and sold, without the gardens, in the 1970s. Against this background, the gardens fell into a serious state of neglect, and were lost to sight.
It's quite shocking to think of so much land laying waste. Many landowners talk of their holdings as something held in trust, they are mere custodians. Some are conscientious in fulfilling this duty; for others, it's little more than a slogan because they know their ancestors got hold of the land unfairly. After the Second World War, productive land was in short supply as Britain aimed for greater food self-sufficiency and turned to intensive farming. Perhaps this land was less than ideal for farming, and we holiday-makers are the fortunate present day beneficiaries, but neglecting the land for so long was a crime against the community.
A tip to future visitors: the website says approach the Gardens from St Austell. They are absolutely right. I thought I knew better and allowed Tom Tom to guide us down the narrowest of tiny country lanes. We left via St Austell.
The public gardens are divided into broad areas - the Jungle and the Northern Gardens. In my diary I wrote "I don't see a great deal of benefit in me describing in detail everything of the four hours we spent walking around...I took about a hundred photos". A picture tells a thousand words!
The Jungle is green and dense. When you walk around, you feel the change in the atmosphere - it has its own micro-climate.
The visual glory is in the three dimensions. There are four interlinked ponds, descending down the Valley, with a boardwalk around them. Signs recommend sturdy footwear, but, nevertheless, there were a few people - all young - in fashion footwear, heels and so on. Their choice and their risk, but they didn't seem to be enjoying themselves, and one held everyone else up as she teetered slowly along a footpath, held up by her partner, and blocking the path for people in both directions. I don't understand the thought process that begins with "Let's go to a thousand acre garden set on a hillside" and ends with "...wearing disco shoes". The Jungle also isn't suitable for pushchairs or wheelchairs.
First we walked past the wildflower meadow, a visual delight, and one providing views to the coast at Mevagissey.
I took a few photos in The Jungle but I find that dense green areas generally don't make for exciting photos.
As we were leaving The Jungle, a schoolparty was arriving. I support 'Learning by Play' and think that much of the Primary School curriculum should involve activity, outdoors where possible. Letting 30 or so 8 year olds run through a paid visitor attraction screaming at the top of their voices is not educational. There are playgrounds for screaming; in a garden, children should be encouraged to stop and look, take in the atmosphere, and show respect for other people - the world doesn't revolve around them just because they're children.
Our next stop was the tea-room in the Steward's House. There are two catering facilities at Heligan: one near the ticket office and shop, and one conveniently placed in the centre. It was a bit basic - tea served in polystyrene cups - but the tea was decent and it was worth a stop to look at the prints on the wall of traditional rural crafts. The tea room was set in beautiful if unexceptional gardens.
Next stop was the orchard. I have read about orchards in books. I have seen commercial orchards on TV and when driving past. But it's only recently I have realised what a domestic orchard is; I will have one in my hypothetical post-Lottery win rural retreat.Trees laden with fruit, and a variety of waterfowl around the pond, obligingly posing for photographs.
We spent the rest of our stay strolling around the Northern Gardens. The guidebook divides them into Pleasure Grounds and Productive Gardens. The flower gardens were magnificent to behold.
I am still quite useless at identifying flowers (see also: birds and trees) and although I am learning slowly, it's difficult. I certainly won't be insulted if better people than me pop helpful hints into the comments box.
The Productive Gardens were just as beautiful in their own way. I envy people who had so much space to grow their own - although back in the heyday they would have employed a sizeable staff to do the growing, and more again to do the bottling and preserving.
Jimmy pointed out to me the difference between the shapes of Conference and Comice pears. I had never previously given it much thought!
I enjoyed this piece of garden sculpture.
We walked in some of the wilder areas nearer the formal gardens and found tranquility in quiet places, but they didn't photograph so well!
When we were finished we went to the main tearoom, hoping to eat, but they had run out of food by 3.30pm which was a tad disappointing. The quality of the tea wasn't that good, and Jimmy noticed that they hadn't replenished the napkin dispenser since our morning coffee. Signs that, having a captive audience, they were rather complacent. This happens too often at too many 'Visitor Attractions'. I've been to worse, though.
We finished the day off in Mevagissey. We had considered staying here, before plumping for Marazion, and having visited the town, I felt we made the right decision. A pretty town, and we didn't mind the walk to-and-from the Pay and Display on the edge of the village. But I was struck by the large numbers of shops selling downmarket tat and, without being snobby, okay, being snobby, an awful lot of people for whom buying downmarket tourist tat was nirvana.
We found a pub called the Wheelhouse. Their evening specials board looked outstanding, but it wasn't due to start for another hour. Nevertheless, we had decent fish and chips. I was surprised they didn't come with peas, and the couple at the next table complained that theirs didn't, either, and they had specifically ordered mushy peas. A minor niggle and if I were in the town again I'd confidently go back there to eat. I also had my first taste of Rattler cider. It was not to be my last.
I feel I ought to be more interested in Greek Classical ruins than I am. It would certainly seem wrong to visit the island of Kos, and not visit its main town, which has history dating back to the 11th century BC, and became a free Roman city. Kos was owned by Crusaders, became part of the Ottoman Empire, and was occupied by Italians and Germans in World War II, and was briefly a British Protectorate.
We caught the bus from our hotel to Kos Town and wandered round for a couple of hours. I would have enjoyed it more if it hadn't been so hot - above average for September, and English fools that we are, we went out in the late morning/ early afternoon.
Kos is major port, with regular sailings to Bodrum in Turkey, just a couple of miles away, and is frequently visited by cruise ships. It seemed that one had docked that afternoon. I think prices are inflated to make the most of cruise ship visitors, and it's a bit odd to see groups of overdressed people walking around even more aimlessly and uninformed than me, and slightly irritating to eavesdrop their overloud English conversations. We also overheard a conversation from distinctly non-cruise ship people planning a group outing to Bodrum which would largely consist of getting very very drunk and buying enormous quantities of cheap cigarettes (from outside the EU!). Funny, because the package holiday rep gave the impression that Bodrum exists to sell 'cheap designer handbags'. Nevertheless, we did contemplate going, for the history/sights, and to say we've been to Turkey without actually committing. But the weather was unrelentingly hot, and we concluded that we're just not interested enough in Ancient History to fork out. Looking at Wikipedia, I've just learnt that one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World is in Bodrum - Mausoleum at Halicarnassus - is in Bodrum, but in ruins! I've seen the Great Pyramid at Giza and don't need to see any other, although, if possible, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon would attract!
Kos is a pretty town and I am sure that I would have appreciated it more if I wasn't so hot.
The influence of the Ottoman Empire is evident, and reportedly there is still a significant Moslem population around the town.
Hippocrates, considered the father of Western Medicine, was born in Kos in about 460 BC. Everyone who goes to Kos is obliged by law* to photograph the tree of Hippocrates. The much photographed plane tree is only about 500 years old, but may be descended from the tree under which Hippocrates taught and Paul of Tarsus preached.
I also liked the local graffiti!
There are several sights of classical ruins around Kos Town, and now, more than a year later, I'm confused as to which date from the Hellenic period and which from Roman times, and, to be honest, which are which! Still, it was nice to pause for a few moments to look at them.
I particularly enjoyed the Bath house, which, if I read the internet correctly dates from 2-3 century BC.
There is a castle on the seafront , the Castle of St John, which was built by the Crusaders. We didn't go in, and by the time I took this photo I was so hot and bothered I didn't even notice this couple inadvertently photo-bombing!
I would have preferred to have visited in milder temperatures and a better physical state. I'm sure if the opportunity were to arise again, I'd appreciate it better. But I don't see myself returning any time soon!
I thought I'd write this because Bonfire Night 2013 is imminent.
I don't know what possessed me last year to go off to Brockwell Park and watch the fireworks. To say I on't like fireworks is an understatement - largely stemming from being hit by a firework ten years ago.
I think I was tempted by the announcement that Brockwell Park fireworks were done by the same team that did the Olympic Fireworks. And there was to be mulled Chucklehead Cider on sale.
The funfair was cancelled because the Parks department felt that after an exceptionally wet spring and summer, and significant autumn rainfall, the fair would damage the grass too much. They are planning a children's funfair this year.
Tens of thousands of people flocked to Brockwell Park. There were strict rules on not taking personal fireworks, including sparklers, into the park. There were plenty of stewards and a low key police presence. Kids could buy light sabres or neon tiaras. The cider was excellent, the doughnuts not so. And at 8 pm the Mayor of Lambeth announced the start of the firework display. 23 minutes of whoosh and bang with a pop music soundtrack. Some people living in flats overlooking the park complained, but I feel - it's 23 minutes of loud whoosh and bang, and somewhat dodgy pop music. 23 minutes. For 362 days of the year, you live in a flat overlooking a gorgeous park.
And I took some photos. Looking back, I see that I set my camera at its smallest aperture, and set the ISO to 200. Most of the exposure times seem to be about 1 second - I'm surprised they weren't more affected by camera shake. Quite a few people posted their applephone pictures on Twitter. Don't use an applephone to photograph fireworks!
No real need for words. Some photos taken last October and this, to mark the changing of the seasons. I expect it will look very different in a few days, especially after the fierce storm forecast for Monday.
NB I don't contribute any effort to the upkeep and maintenance!
Our idea on holiday is to have a busy day followed by a quiet day, and alternate. This was supposed to be a quiet day, where we took it easy.
The day began by exploring Marazion on foot. The town contains an Anglican church, a Methodist chapel and a Quaker meeting house. I had read that Methodism is traditionally bigger than Anglicanism in Cornwall, but the Anglican church seemed quite lively. I noted from the sign outside that they periodically conduct services in the Celtic tradition. It gets a relatively good write up from the Mystery Worshipper. While we were there we popped inside. There was a shop open, and although there was nothing there that appealed to me, I didn't feel nervous or awkward, and certainly not unwelcome being there. I liked the embroidered kneelers.
Like many small towns/large villages, Marazion has several clues as to being more lively in times past, such as The Old Police House. The village also hosts an old school house, although the local school seems to have outgrown it, rather than simply moved on or disappeared.
Like just about everywhere, there is a town War Memorial, and in every town you look at the names. Many of the names recognisably Cornish. The same surname appears under both World Wars, possibly a father and son, each killed in different conflicts.
I have mentioned before that Marazion overlooks St Michael's Mount; I felt obliged to take a photograph.
Behind the church sits a turret. Its purpose or history remains a mystery to me.
From the beach, the Town Hall clock is visible.
We stopped for coffee in the delightful Delicious deli, our first of three visits during our fortnight. I noted that they served loose leaf tea, £1.60 per pot. The coffee was very good, too, but their offer of tea stuck in my head, and became a benchmark. It's a wonderful place, a bit quirky and boho, but not letting that get in the way of serving up a good range of all-day breakfasts, light lunches, snacks and cakes. Small, but achieving a standard many superficially similar places only aspire to. Well deserving of its Trip Advisor Rating.
Back on the road and I declared we should walk to Penzance; after all, the signs stated that it was just two miles. Long story short, I set my Tracker app just by the Town Square in Marazion. It tells me I walked over 3 miles, and we never reached Plymouth.
It started off as a very pleasant walk, heading westwards out of town. past a memorial stone for HMS Warspite - do read the final section about her decommissioning.
We walked for a while on the beach until we met a stream flowing down to the sea. According to the map this is the Red River, but not the same Red River that flows north and enters the Atlantic near St Ives.
For some distance, it made sense to walk along the footway beside the road, while still looking out to sea.
I took a lot of photos of St Michael's Mount but quite early that evening I became very bored of editing them. When selecting photos for this blogpost I deleted a great many.
The beach runs next to the railway line, specifically the sidings serving Penzance, the extreme end of First Great Western's InterCity service. There are few crossings, and one former crossing has been closed, clearly not a popular move locally.
On we walked, and it slowly began to dawn that there were no further railway crossings before a bridge that seemed a great distance away. My feet were beginning to hurt, and the more we walked the more they hurt. Initially, the pain didn't stop me taking photos, such as this one of what appeared to be newly built holiday lets.
I also took several looking out to sea.
At first we agreed we would get to Penzance and find a bar or café, then it began to dawn us that Penzance was a long way away. I set my sights on, of all places, Morrison's; my thinking being that a) they have a café and b) it is likely we would be able to get a minicab if not a bus from there.
But even when we reached Morrison's we still weren't there, as it lay on the other side of the railway tracks. We had to walk its entire length, and further, until we reached a footbridge, which brought us back to civilisation - if that's how you can describe a large building site for roadworks for an under-construction Sainsburys on the site of a former heliport.
Finally we got to Morrison's, and their café. At this point I was grateful for anything, but, really, this was a shambles and an insult. It wasn't staffed when we and another twosome arrived. It was 'serve yourself' but it wasn't entirely obvious how - these two women had to explain to us that teabags were already in the pots which had to be carried to the warm water tap. Small, grudging-sized teapots containing a teabag of dubious quality tea.
The tables and chairs were plastic arrangements, screwed to the floor with room for just 4 people around each table. No thought that someone of, say, six foot height like Jimmy may have different seating needs than a small child, no recognition that groups, say family groups, may come in sizes greater than four. The twosome that came in after us included a woman in a wheelchair, who couldn't easily be accommodated at a bolted down table-and-chair arrangement. She had to stick out into the aisle, as would, I assume a highchair, although I don't know whether they had highchairs available.
Still, it was liquid, and the woman at Customer Service directed us to the bus stop for a bus back to Marazion. That was quite an exercise in numptiness! The bus was very full with pupils from the local college (ie secondary school) who, in my view, should have precedence at that time of day over shoppers and tourists. It did of course mean the bus was full, and I was obliged to stand downstairs. Fine. But every time the bus went round a corner an old boy sitting down reached his arm across the aisle to grab a pole, sending my body out of balance (I had nowhere to move ny feet).
As the bus approached the stop before the Town Square, a young couple at the back stood up and walked forward, making everyone move out of their way. but they didn't want that stop, they were just being prepared for the Town Square. Guess what, loads of people got off at the Town Square, and loads were getting on, but that didn't seem to make any impression on some old bloke who nonchalantly walked his rat of a dog right in front of the single door of the bus.
If I hadn't paused, I would have tripped over the almost invisible dog lead, and possibly hit my head on the cobbles, or been crushed by the stampede of people who were pushing to get off the bus behind me. I did call the man an 'Idiot' or somesuch but he was well away with the fairies in a world of his own.
I do wonder if these people ever go anywhere in public when not on holiday; it scares me even more that their habitual mode of transport is private car!
Back in the holiday flat I ministered treatment to my feet: ibuprofen to reduce the swelling, a hot bath to ease the the muscle pain, and a good massage with peppermint foot cream, because it feels nice. I hoped my horrible feet were not going to ruin the holiday.
We have cycled various stretches of the Wandle on several occasions but cycling is not as good for photography as walking. It was a decent day in late April when we adventured far into the distant reaches of Waddon. Eight months earlier we had discovered the source of the Wandle at Carshalton; now it was Croydon's turn. We started at Waddon because I was not sure of the state of affairs at Wandle Park, Croydon (NB Do not confuse with Wandle Park Colliers Wood - that will never do!). Waddon, frequent trains from Streatham Hill; unfortunately one has to brave the nightmare traffic that is Purley Way, to reach Waddon Ponds. These proved to be a surprise pleasure, an oasis of calm just feet from the A23.
The landscape changed as we walked along. Greenery, stretches where the banks are reinforced by concrete, and delightful artisan-style dwellings. It suddenly struck me I wouldn't necessarily rule out moving to live round here - it would be lovely to be right by the river and yet within easy commuting distance of Central London. I was quite shocked at my thoughts!
Over Beddington Lane and into the periphery of Beddington Park. With the sun beating down there was something delightfully bucolic about the river, at this point still little more than a stream.
The walk into Beddington Park was almost rural in its aspect.
This was slightly marred by some tattooed chav allowing his bull terrier dogs to run at me in a definitely aggressive way. A man passing by with his toddler looked at me with shock and sympathy. This was soon put behind me when we turned a corner and there was Carew Manor. Neither of us had any idea that this existed and in seemingly such an incongruous place.
Carew Manor dates back to the 1500’s and comprises of a number of buildings. Aside from the main house, the land also holds a Dovecote, Orangery Wall, church and parkland. The building itself has a Great Hall that is important being the only Grade 1 listed site in the London Borough of Sutton.The building has particular relevance during the time of the Tudors. The Carew family had direct links with Henry VIII and Queen Elizabeth I visited Carew Manor on a number of occasions during her reign.
The Dovecote is listed and the Lodge is intriguing.
The Church, St Mary's, seems more appropriate to a rural setting.
The Manor is also impressive, although I didn't photograph it well
Beddington Park is truly delightful. This is Canon's Bridge, given to the rector Canon Bridges. I wonder if that was a little joke! It's made of terracotta
We walked along the canalised river through parkland and woodlands still soggy from an exceptionally wet few months. Already, children were playing in the river. I envied them and approved of their parents' parenting.
The directions for the Wandle Trail refer heavily to bridges as waymarkers.
And on a nest, the moorhens were enjoying Spring. Perhaps sitting on their eggs.
An April Shower arrived andmy feet were aching, mainly because of the walk to Streatham Hill station and wandering the streets of Waddon, rather than because of the Wandle trail. We called it a day and found a bus stop, vowing to return one day.
Last year we spent a fortnight in an All-Inclusive hotel in Kos, just outside Kos town. We wanted sun and sea and that was what we got. The hotel, the Oceanis, had many positives. Absolutely scrupulously clean at all times. Beautiful landscaped grounds and thoughtfully set out. Food was plentiful and not without variety.
We had ordered a standard room, and were upgraded to a more roomy suite, which even had a jacuzzi on the balcony. The reason for the upgrade soon became obvious - it was directly above the hotel sauna and became extremely hot. Fortunately there was air conditioning.
However, we did remember why we had vowed never to go all-inclusive again. After a while, the buffet meals became monotonous in their bland lukewarm sameness. By the last couple of days I was surviving largely on fruit and cheese. Every night there was live entertainment in the Pool bar, often until after 11pm. This was amplified throughout the complex, destroying any sense of quiet. The most frequent entertainment was from the resident 'pub singer' by the name of Andy Foster. He sang versions of numerous classic pop hits from several decades. Bearable for one evening, when I was really quite drunk, but he just seemed to get worse and worse. No real musicality, whining voice and no real rhythm. But there was no escape. One night we made the mistake of inviting some people to sit at our bar table (it accommodated four, there were no free tables). They talked at us, boasting about all the other All Inclusive holidays they had been on; by the time the woman started on about how wonderful the Royals are I got rather impatient and was extremely rude, describing Kate Middleton as a lazy waste of space. I have no regrets!
Each week we were entitled to a meal in the 'a la carte' restaurant - ersatz Italian. Really quite poor and an insult to anyone who is Italian or has ever been to Italian.
It's also worth noting that the staff did not have a single day off for the entirety of the season, except if ill, and they worked long hours. Many of them were delightfully candid, making it absolutely clear that they were only working here because of the dire employment situation in cities such as Athens. I strongly suspected many were desperately over-qualified and/or experienced for this menial work. However, despite what they must have felt, they were unfailingly polite and efficient in their service.
We went into Kos Town on the frequent cheap local bus and also on two excursions (future blogposts) but otherwise we stayed in the hotel. We had intended to hire bikes and explore, but the weather was much hotter than we - or anyone - expected. I had seen that it averages 25 degrees during the day, and have been to Greece twice before at this time and found it pleasant, but there was not a day that the temperatures didn't exceed 30, often by quite some margin. Too hot to do anything but swim in the sea! The locals kept saying that it should have rained, there should have been rain. A short heavy shower would have been welcome.
There were two pools but we didn't much bother with them. One was called the Quiet Pool and we frequently had coffee beside it in the first week, noting how people clearly just wanted to read or snooze. We returned on our final day and noticed two parties who insisted on loudly playing bat-and-ball in the pool. I wonder about the mentality of people who see a sign saying Quiet Pool and go out of their way to make noise. "Oh look at me, I'm so interesting, I demand attention"
The hotel included a chapel, apparently one could get married there, but it was closed when we did our walking/photography tour of the campus
Some of the produce for the kitchen was grown in the grounds
It was rarely dull looking out to sea across a busy shipping lane to Turkey. When large or fast ships or boats passed, a few moments later a particularly lively wave would ripple onto the beach. It took me a while to work out cause and effect!
The grounds were nice and they had strict rules about leaving towels on loungers early in the morning or late at night. There seemed to be a natural divide between the lively noisy beach below the Pool bar and the further beach where peace and quiet was rarely interrupted.
As seems to be de rigeur in these hotels we experienced the delights of towel art. It all gets a bit tedious after a few days.
As I say, there's a lot of positives about the hotel, and if you're looking for a holiday of All Inclusive indolence I would strongly recommend the Oceanis, albeit with the caveats expressed above. But we strongly concluded that AI is not for us, not for a long time now.
Under-impressed by St Ives we sought alternative places to enjoy Cornwall's North Coast - Atlantic Coast? Or is it the Celtic Sea? I saw no mention of the Celtic Sea in two weeks in West Cornwall. but I did see references to the Atlantic.
I perused our map and saw long stretches of golden sand and sandcastle icons for miles to the East of St Ives. Tom Tom helpfully took us on a back road, single track with occasional passing places - but unlike in Scotland, such roads aren't labelled as this. The speed limit was 20 mph, a growing trend, and one I approve of, although all the roads I've seen with a 20mph limit, only a fool would drive that fast anyway!
The road down to Carbis Bay seemed exceptionally steep, although I found steeper ones later. I was briefly in conversation with a man in the beach café, saying I didn't envy hm having to cycle back up there - although I did say I was envious he was out on the bike. Didn't want to give the impression of being anti-bike!
The beach café was chaotic and over-priced but the 'Awesome Pizzas' lived up their billing. And the view was excellent, too. We walked along the beach and back again. I had entertained thoughts of swimming in the sea and Jimmy had plans to sit on the beach and chill for a while. But neither was practical, there was a stiff Northerly coming off the sea, so delightful walking weather didn't translate into beach weather. There were some people in the water, but with one exception they were in wetsuits. And the family groups were well protected by windbreaks, the toddlers happily dug in the sand while wearing fleeces. The good old British summer holiday!
Next stop was Hayle, but we couldn't a find a way to the beach, despite following signs along the road. We ended up in a dead end, next to an electricity Transformer Station. This one proclaimed it was powered by waves, but we couldn't see any! Someone I know was in Hayle a couple of weeks later and said that it's difficult to find the beach.
We passed through the village of Phillack, notable for the pub with the name The Bucket of Blood and we again found the sea by driving through a holiday park. Lovely views of the Hayle Estuary but parking was strictly residential so we didn't linger. Very few people were on the beach, other than a solitary kite surfer and a council employee in a sand buggy removing the red flag. Presumably unsafe to swim because of currents from the river.
Our next target was Gwithian but we overshot the turning - cars coming at us from two directions on an otherwise quiet road. We needed somewhere to turn round, and, fortunately I spotted a sign saying "Hell's Mouth Cafe 400 yards". I immediately had visions of there being dozens of motorbikes meeting in a Hell's Angels convention; instead there were just a few cars. Unfortunately, it was past 5 pm and the café was closing, otherwise we would surely have taken a tea.
Instead we had a stroll along the Coastal Path, at this point managed by the National Trust. It was sad to see the tributes left to people who had taken their lives there. The next day we were talking to someone whose friend is involved with the café; one day a young man asked him to hold his dog while he went outside. He never returned. I find such tributes poignant. They use words such as 'Much missed', and you want to turn back the clock to let the troubled soul know how much they would be missed.
There were some lovely views away from the coast, too
The flora was typical of heathland
We found evidence of fairly recent erosion
I Googled Hell's Mouth and found this video of an actual rockfall at this very spot. I find some of the comments rather depressing. These people filmed this, probably (subconsciously) with the likes of me in mind, and some bored, nasty childish people leave mean-spirited comments that add nothing to the user experience and probably reflect that they have never been anywhere like this, yet think they have an interesting life. (Rant over)
Despite the grim reminders of mortality, the stroll on the clifftop was a tranquil end to what had been a somewhat frustrating day. Nothing beats the sensuality of being out in the open, barely troubled by people, even less by cars, enjoying the light of the Golden Hour, and savouring the breeze.
A notable example of Neo-Mughal architecture, says Wikipedia. The inspiration for the Brighton Pavillion and also featuring in John Betjeman's autobiographical Summoned by Bells
“Down the drive, Under the early yellow leaves of oaks’ One lodge is Tudor, one in Indian style. The bridge, the waterfall, the Temple Pool And there they burst on us, the onion domes, Chajjahs and chattris made of amber stone: ‘Home of the oaks’, exotic Sezincote.”
We had tried to visit on the Sunday of our Cotswold adventure but it was closed. When we exited Batsford Arboretum, we realised that the entrance to Sezincote was just opposite and Sezincote was open. We drove down the long single track drive. I started to feel anxious: it's a bit odd to turn up to someone's house and expect to look around. But the car park and the sizable queue for the ticket office reassured us we were not alone! We declined to book on an interior tour - there's a limit to much walking one can do in a day, there was a long wait with several tours already booked up, and why go indoors on a lovely Spring day!
First stop was the Orangery, for a much needed cup of tea and a very welcome slice of cake. Proper cake, homemade, by locals I think - I had lemon drizzle. Tea came out of a pot, with tea cups. The teapot was wielded by Camilla, the lady of the house, with refills freely available.
And after the Conservatory, the lawn. There was a sheer climb to the top of the lawn, and it was very pleasant, one could imagine tea and croquet parties, but the elephant statues aside, there was far more to explore elsewhere. I enjoyed walking round the garden, the sun and the delightfully mild temperatures were an added bonus. Relatively few people ventured far from the house and lawn, which made strolling the outer garden even more pleasant.
It was quite a different experience from any garden I've been in before. I can't say I had any profound understanding of the Indian influences. I did especially enjoy their incongruity in an area which for many would epitomise the English rural idyll.
This folly is near the tennis courts, a useful place for storing deckchairs and so on. There was a church on this sight but this was razed to the ground during the English Civil War. It surprises me that they never bothered building a replacement - every village should have its church (especially in the days before motorised transport) but perhaps when it was gone they didn't miss it!
As we strolled around there were some great views back to the house and into open country.
I particularly enjoyed the area round the lake. Do notice the two chaps in red trousers and yellow trousers. I do have a zoomed shot of them and they look spectacularly Cotswoldy posh. On balance I decided not to blog the zoomed photo. Although I feel confident they would probably not be hurt by having their conscious fashion choice mocked, I don't want to set a precedent of mocking people doing no harm in photos where their faces are recognisable! But we saw probably even more yellow and green trousers on a certain type of man than even red trousers, and more red trousers than even at English National Opera or Brixton Village.
I'm convinced there must be some great photos to get of herds of cattle. This isn't one.
Now I'm writing this, I assume these are bluebells, but I can no longer be sure. Nice, anyway!
My favourite part of the whole estate was the Snake Pool with its Hindu temple and statues. If time or energy is extremely limited, I would suggest prioritising these.
You would think, with my political philosophy, I would rather visit gardens owned and run by English Heritage or National Trust, but this was the second place we visited in 2013 (the first is yet to be written) managed by the resident family and with limited opening, where the experience was far more pleasant, even down to details of proper fresh home baked cakes, served by local volunteers, rather than packaged processed stuff served by staff on zero hour minimum wage contracts. Ok, I'll admit that if I lived in a village and had time to volunteer it probably wouldn't be for the local landed gentry. On the other hand, it must be very social, mixing with fellow volunteers and the the public.
We left soon after four and realised just how hungry we were. We knew it would be difficult to find anywhere serving food at that time. We tried Churchill, and various places -under-Wychwood but were not surprised to find the pubs shut. We ended up in Chipping Norton just as full time was approaching in the Championship Play Off final between Crystal Palace and some other team. Himself is, technically, a Crystal Palace fan, so we sat in the car park in the Town Square listening to a crackly commentary with poor reception from Radio 5 until the glorious news that Palace had been promoted to the Premiership.
We then found a pub serving food all day, with a wonderful name, Bitter and Twisted As I said to the manager, I was expecting something on the level of Wetherspoons, or possibly Wetherspoons plus, but it was much better than that. Obviously, not comparable with The Wild Thyme over the road, but peerless, in my experience, in the All-Day Food category. For whatever reason, I didn't photograph my food, battered prawns followed by a veggie risotto, but I had fun photographing my Singapore Sling.
All the photos and more are in Cotswolds photo ablbum.
We drove home the next day. It absolutely chucked it down, with visibility extremely poor on the M40. We experienced a spectacular soaking-by-lorry-driving-through-puddle on the A40 Western Avenue which would have hit us head-on if it had happened a split second earlier. But it was great to have the three full days of our break in beautiful Spring sunshine.
I must have read a tantalising review and downloaded this to my Kindle. I had just finished reading several short reasonably good books. Enjoyable, but all containing several reasons to criticise (poorly constructed sentences and flaws in the logic or basic premise, to name just two). And then I started reading this. And read it over only a very few evenings. I had not previously read any Kate Atkinson, although I enjoyed the TV series Case Histories, based on her Jackson Brodie novels.
During a snowstorm in England in 1910, a baby is born and dies before she can take her first breath.
During a snowstorm in England in 1910, the same baby is born and lives to tell the tale.
What if there were second chances? And third chances? In fact an infinite number of chances to live your life? Would you eventually be able to save the world from its own inevitable destiny? And would you even want to?
Life After Life follows Ursula Todd as she lives through the turbulent events of the last century again and again. With wit and compassion, Kate Atkinson finds warmth even in life’s bleakest moments, and shows an extraordinary ability to evoke the past. Here she is at her most profound and inventive, in a novel that celebrates the best and worst of ourselves.
The chronology is confusing until you get what's happening, and perhaps it might annoy people to find that the plot is far from linear. It didn't annoy me, and each time something unpleasant happened to Ursula, it was nice to know that in her next life she would avoid that situation and survive.
Aside from the slightly odd conceit of a plot, the story is full of warmth. I really like Ursula as a character. All the other people are nicely two-dimensional. On the whole we know nothing of their inner lives or thoughts, which serves to make one identify even more fully with Ursula. I am left with a distinct impression that nothing happens in the book without Ursula being present, so we the reader knows what Ursula knows.
And most of all, this contains some of the best fictional writing I have ever encountered about life in the Blitz, painting broad strokes and intimate details of what it was really like - or so it seemed - not simply the morale raising chirpy tones of a Pathé News reader - abject fear, broken bodies, dear friends and warm acquaintances suddenly taken.
And, like everyone, I felt the scenes in Germany rather let down an otherwise splendid book.
Themes of fate, family life and renewal are brilliantly explored in this story of a life lived in wartime Britain, from the Guardian - WARNING, contains a lot of plot
Lambeth Country Show happens every year in Brixton's Brockwell Park, usually in July. A two-day extravaganza of largely free entertainment, laid on by the council for the enjoyment of local residents and those from afar.
For numerous tedious reasons I hadn't been for several years until last year. The 2012 Country Show was moved from July to September, because of the Olympics. There was the inevitable public dissent and threats of riots, but the day turned out to be beautiful and almost seemed to top off the glorious London 2012 summer. I had tremendous fun, and took a lot of photos. I went again this year, had some fun and took several more photos. On both occasions, I avoided the live music areas - although, to be honest, they could be heard in my garden - because on the whole they're not really my style. And we didn't get any Chucklehead Cider, due to the eye-wateringly long queues.
People from out of town refer to it as a County Show, but, despite its location in Inner City Brixton (and leafy suburban Herne Hill) it's definitely a Country Show. The following narrative doesn't distinguish particularly between the two years, because they followed a similar pattern.
There is an arena for quirky events, such as camel racing, owls, falconry, 'Dog and Duck' (I think that's basically sheepdog trials, with ducks in place of sheep), and jousting.
Local Nature and Growing people have stalls, including the Beekeepers.
The Council's Environmental Services and contractor put on a display.
And sell watering cans, for Alzheimers or Foodbank, to tie in with the Mayor's Charity.
Next stop is the Flower Zone, which contains the world famous vegetable carving area, and displays of produce to conform with the rules of the Royal Horticultural Society.
Carrots, representing Anthony Gormley's Another Place on Sefton Beach, created by my neighbour Harriet, who this year told the Edward Snowden story in carrots - see topless Putin on his horse.
The popular favourite was Patrick Moore
RHS-ruled displays of vegetables and fruit
5 tomatoes; collection of 4 distinct kinds of vegetables; 4 potatoes; 3 beetroots, round, 7.5 cm tops; onions; herbs, 3 cultivars.
Displays of plants
Group of cacti; 2 succulents; foliage pot plant in a container; 3 succulents other than cacti.
And all manner of flower arrangements
Two with musical themes
London Symphony Orchestra under Valery Gergiev at The Proms, strings, brass and percussion; The Proms
And collections of plants in troughs
Vauxhall City Farm display their animals; this section seems particularly popular with small children. Still, you don't often see sheep and alpacas in Brixton!
As well as Chucklehead cider, there is plenty of food on sale. I opted for Macaroni cheese with added chipotle, and had long finished it while Jimmy queued for jerk pork. When he reached the front of the queue, they had run out of rice.
There are also stalls selling the usual things you expect at these shows nowadays, from artisan cheeses to cupcakes. Stalls for organisations like the local FE Colleges and British Heart Foundation. Many of the voluntary groups also have stalls. I have, in the past, done my stint on the Labour Party stall. Last year, these were all down the hill, away from the main thrust.
Many people come specifically for the funfair. Nowadays, I don't generally do funfairs, because my Constant Companion gets travel sick on anything that goes round. But they're awfully good fun to photo.
We were escorted out of the park by these folks. They came up behind and took me by surprise. I commented that they ought to have some sort of warnign sound. Maybe one that said 'Neigh, neigh'. I thought it was blooming hilarious and was pretty proud I'd made a joke up myself. But I can't actually believe no one's thought of it before!
I visualised St Ives as a slightly-bohemian and somewhat intellectual town, where I could browse contemporary art galleries and convivial coffee shops and engage in stimulating conversation with other Guardian Readers in Ethnic Skirts. On holiday in West Cornwall, St Ives was a must visit. I knew that, on a Monday outside the school holidays, it would be quiet, a positive joy to which I looked forward.
We arrived on the outskirts and followed the signs to the car park. Ahead of us were several cars. The road climbed and climbed, up and up, away from the coast, until we found a car park, so far from the Town Centre it could have been described as 'out of town'. Indeed I noticed a shuttle bus service running between the car park and town. The car park was full but we followed the signs to a field, where parking was controlled by a team of stewards. By the time we had Paid-and-Displayed and generally faffed, the field was full, and two more fields were being opened.
It was a steep walk down. We met people on the way up who advised us to get the bus back. One woman complained that she had proposed that but had been 'outvoted'. No one used the prospect of a cream tea to motivate us. However, we knew we would find a divine and undiscovered coffee shop, overlooking the sea front, with a quirky collection of local paintings or artisan pottery.
The roads were narrow and progress down the tiny pavements was difficult. We seemed to be in amongst people who had little idea how to walk-when-out-in-public. We saw a sign for the harbour, my pulse increased. We rounded the corner, and my face fell in horror. All I could see was 'fish and chips here now' 'beer and burgers'. And hordes of people. Thankfully, we found a nice place for coffee, Al Fresco. I looked at the menu and yearned to return there for dinner. Sadly, we didn't but it was an oasis of class and quality amidst a town that wasn't exactly Blackpool but made Southend look distinctly upmarket.
I'm not particularly ashamed to say that St Ives brought out my inner snob. My photos told me how wonderful the light is, and why it has been such a draw for artists. But how can I enjoy a town when I have to watch every step I go, when if I move to avoid bumping into someone I risk tripping over someone else's dog lead? People wandering aimlessly. Not because they were relaxed into a world of their own but because they didn't know why they were there or what to do. It was summed up by seeing a woman sitting against the seawall trying to read her book; another woman had parked herself a couple of yards in front of her and was shouting a conversation with a couple who had stopped on the Prom.
We made the most of what could have been a bad day, walking out along Smeaton's Pier, and also along a jetty. Even on the jetty was the inability to walk-when-out-in-public. I saw a group aproaching, I moved to my left, they moved to their left, and we passed. Except for one woman who stepped back to her right and came up to me with confrontation on her face. It seemed she'd decided to walk on that side and I was in her way. How tedious.
If you notice in that photo, some of the boats registration number begin SS and some PZ, representing their home ports of St Ives and Penzance. I always like to look for boats registered well outside the local area and wonder what brings them so far.
We could have done more in St Ives but neither of us found it a particularly pleasant place. We could have gone to Art Galleries, but it seems odd to waste such a gloriously sunny day peering at pictures of scenery that we could see for ourselves, in fresh air and with walking. We found the queue for the bus back. Flat fare, pensioner's pass not valid. In actual fact a very sensible service, enabling the tourists to pour into town in their thousands and boost the local economy without entirely clogging up the town with stationary traffic. In my ideal world, the shuttle bus would have been free, but no doubt that would have raised the cost of parking for those willing and able to walk.
In fairness to St Ives, not all bloggers see it the same way as me, for example, The Londoner
This is situated just outside Moreton-in-Marsh in Gloucestershire and was recommended by my guidebook as a place to visit. I've never really visited an arboretum before, but they seem to be growing in popularity. I wasn't entirely sure what to expect, but hoped it wouldn't be rows and rows of trees planted in neat lines, sort of like a glorified garden centre. There was a garden centre, gift shop and café attached. My hopes soared when I saw the sign by the ticket office recommending sensible shoes.
The Arboretum is set in the grounds of a Stately Home, and it's good that they have turned their land over to display the country's largest private collection of trees and shrubs. I expect the income as a visitor attraction is useful, too.
The Stately Home isn't open to the public, but, like so many stately homes, the historical significant is virtually non-existent. It is of some minor literary note, having been the home of the Mitford sisters, and part of Nancy Mitford's Love in a Cold Climate was set there. For some reason I find the Mitfords faintly fascinating whilst retaining not one iota of interest in them. I think generally, their significance in the national consciousness has faded rapidly.
It was a Bank Holiday Monday and fairly warm and perfectly dry so there were a fair few people out in the Arboretum, although thankfully it wasn't as crowded as it ought to have been. It's possible to walk along a well tarmaced path, but there is more benefit in going onto the lesser paths, some well-maintained, some emerging from nature. On the whole most people were wearing at least semi-sensible shoes, although not one particular party, a mother my age with her 20ish daughter. One was wearing shoes with a sharp almost stiletto heel of medium height and the other was wearing flip-flop style sandals.
Their choice, of course, and none of my business. But it puzzles me, and it has puzzled me even more since, what goes through people's heads. If I'm out on the town, of course I want to dress up, put on heels, but I don't get why people do that for 'country' pursuits. Given that travel by car is fairly essential for this sort of destination, wouldn't it make sense to keep a change of shoes in the boot? I'd feel out of place dressed in fleece and walking boots in a trendy bar in a town centre on a Friday night, and I wonder why people evidently more anxious about fashion and fitting-in than me, don't feel out of place tottering around uneven paths and protruding tree roots. Surely it must limit your enjoyment of a place if you daren't leave the path for fear of stubbing your toe or turning your ankle?
I have little to say about the arboretum. I am sure that many people would appreciate it better than me, especially if they have an active interest in trees. I am poor at identifying species of tree, and hadn't read the leaflet properly to know to look for the specialist collection of trees. However, I thought it a perfect walk. Not too far, and with a variety of terrain, including steep slopes. I thoroughly enjoyed the experience on my terms. Stretching but not over-strenuous exercise, surrounded by managed nature on a lovely day. I respected the management.
I'm sure it's a difficult balance to strike. I doubt there are many accessible places in Britain that are truly wild, and all are managed to some degree, whether it be path and pond maintanance or expert thinning of woodland to encourage new growth. And, as far as my non-expert eye could tell, this was done sensibly. The signange was discrete and just about enough to guide a visitor with a complementary leaflet/map but the signs never dominated nature.
I enjoyed walking through the Waterfall, but it was a mistake to try and take a photo while doing so. It took me months to get the equipment - including Giottos Rocket Air Blower - necessary for cleaning the lens* and for a good while too many photographs were spotted.
We saw the Mansion where Love In a Cold Climate was set
but I was more interested in the Thatched Cottage and the Hermit's Cave
We wandered out of the Estate and into the adjacent village, including by a church. There seemed to be more signs of life there than other churches we visited in The Cotswolds. Well, I say 'signs of life', I mean an Order of Service remaining from a funeral the previous week. The churchyard was dominated by graves of the lords of the local Manor, from decades ago.
There were streams, ponds and marshes, demonstrating the balance between nature and management.
I was disappointed by the relative lack of colour - although, to be fair, I went to a place, an Arboretum, whose name derives from the word for trees. But there were some colourful sights.
Altogether a pleasant couple of hours and we were pleased we visited.
*The Giotto's Rocket blows away dust particles, which may scratch the lens if you just try and wipe it; it's also enormous fun as a toy/stress buster. I was being particularly stupid the day it arrived and pondered aloud "What happens when it runs out of air?" I was given an incredulous look.
It was a sad occasion when we last visited the Exhibition Rooms in Crystal Palace. We have been there several times over several years and never had cause to complain about the food or the service. A while back, we had an unpleasant experience when some man followed me into the Ladies loos. I made a written complaint, the management explained that he was an ex-member of staff who had been barred from the premises, but on management's night off, another member of staff had invited him in (and lied to us that he was leaving the premises immediately). The response from management was polite, professional and serious, and thus I put the incident behind me.
We have been a couple of times when there have been noisy children or out-of-control children running around. Sadly, if you avoided everywhere with ghastly brats, there would be almost nowhere in South London to eat. However, we have vowed that any Sunday lunch appointment would be closer to two pm than noon.
Throughout out meal we were subjected to noise and running about from a group across the dining room. It appeared to be two couples, an elderly relative and numerous children. Singularly unpleasant and utterly destructive of the relaxing atmosphere that we and, doubtless, all the other adult parties sought. I didn't particularly know why they went to a place that describes itself as 'Classic modern dining and drinking' when all they ordered was burgers and mass-produced lager. And then it became apparent that one of the party was a member of staff on his day off. We vowed never to go there again for Sunday lunch, although we were open to the possibility of evening dining. As it happens, we haven't been back.
The restaurant gets a lot right with its food - seasonality, good quality ingredients, prepared well, and attractively presented, with generous portions and an absence of the 'ponciness' which Jimmy despises. But to have the dining atmosphere ruined not once but twice by the anti-social behaviour of staff is just too much. If I wanted kids running around, as the adults shout about the toilet needs of the kids, I'd go to Pizza Hut, not somewhere where the cost of food alone, before drinks and service, is likely to exceed £30 a head.
I didn't note down precisely what I ate, but as you can see it was impressive.
Once we had settled into our holiday let, including the obligatory dash to the supermarket we agreed we would go out and eat at somewhere local and unfussy. This was the King's Head, said to be the best pub in the village, and only a few strides from where we were staying. We had to wait half an hour for a table but it was worth the wait. I chose a something labelled as a Bouillabaisse which was far from authentic but was so tasty and filling I was not complaining!
The next day we decided to go for a walk. I had seen this walk on the internet measured at 1.9 miles, along the south West Coastal Path. Easy walk, I thought, good way to break ourselves in. We walked through the town and I took a photo of St Michael's Mount. Important landmark, I thought, I must photograph this now in case it disappears. Suffice to say, by the middle of the first week I was bored of editing photos of St Michael's Mount!
The coastal path takes you up hill along the road through town for at least half a mile. We got chatting to another couple who had just arrived, too, and were following the same route.
A slightly obscured sign pointed to the Coastal Path, and we followed the sign. Down down down along a narrow path through the undergrowth, brambles and nettles obstructing the way, an uneven surface treacherous enough when dry but heaven knows what it would have been like six months ago! We turned a corner and found ourselves on a beach. A whole beach entirely to ourselves. Smelly Beach we soon called it because of the pong. Jimmy said it was raw sewage. I said it was rotting seaweed, remember that beach we found in Spain. Lots of rock pools. I said, if only we had waders. Oh, and I hadn't left my childhood beachcombing books at home. And a view of St Michael's Mount.
We were joined briefly by the other couple. I congratulated them on making it down the hill. She had been adamant she was not a serious walker, 'just a potterer', and her husband was spurred on only by the reward of a cream tea at the end. Still, their shoes were sensible and they had a sense of purpose. Furthermore, although they paused to chat they seemed instinctively to know the right length of time to stay chatting. We were passed by a serious walker - beard, khaki shorts and a map - and he served to confirm that the way off the beach was via an iron staircase. They followed at a suitable distance, and we gave them a chance to get away.
At the top of the stairs there was a choice of direction in which to travel. Ahead along what to me was clearly a path, and parallel to the coast, or to the left, away from the coast, on what was little more than a desire-line. Jimmy said the path we followed wasn't a path. There was the odd bramble branch sticking out. We've been together thirteen years and I have little sense of how much countryside he knew before then. I said that given the absence of walkers' corpses with their eyes being picked by vultures, this was the path! At one stage he suggested we headed inland across a farmer's field, then we'd get there. I said there was no there there. "It's a Coastal Path, let's follow the Coast!".
We walked past three coves, Trenow, Treveleyan and Temis. There were people on them, but very few, and we both enjoyed the thought that in this part of Cornwall, you could find a beach and have it largely to yourself. From the clifftop it was possible to take photos of St Michael's Mount.
and of people clambering on the rocks. I decided I liked the word 'clambering'.
We seemed a long way from anywhere and there was drizzle in the air. I paused to look at the map and to put on my kagoule. We passed two walkers coming in the opposite direction and asked them how far. Twenty minutes they said, and there's a cream tea waiting for you at the end. We trudged through a field and rounded a corner, where two benches were placed back to back on an outcrop. From one you could take photos of St Michael's Mount, and visible from the other was the expanse of Perran Sands
From now, St Michael's Mount and rocky beaches were firmly behind us. I was looking forward to my cream tea. The drizzle disappeared as quickly and stealthily as it had appeared. We admired the house with a bay window that looked down on a sandy beach.
And before long we had arrived at The Cabin in Perranuthnoe. Finally, we were to get our cream tea. Big fresh scones, and lashings of clotted cream and strawberry jam. Reward for walking what the South West Coast Path describes as a "Challenging" (not Easy or Moderate) walk. It was certainly more than two miles. I cursed myself for not setting my 'My Traks' app on my phone, in fact, over the holiday I only set it once. It was a good hour and a half walking, albeit with several pauses. For some reason I didn't photograph my cream tea, but here's a picture of the table decoration.
Afterwards we went onto the beach, with all of three other parties. Wide wide sandy expanse on a warm enough weekend day, and to all intents and purposes we were alone. A horse had been there earlier
Later, we found that Marazion is a lovely town but it is affected by the smell of rotting seaweed and people hope for it to be washed away in the next storm. That made me happy, far preferable to untreated sewage, and part of the circle of life.
A startling difference between my partner and me is our attitude to activities such as eating out, especially when we're away. I want to try as many different places as possible, he seems to establish a comfort zone and return to places he knows he can trust.
After we had driven round several counties we returned to our hotel, the King's Head in Bledington. We sat outside the pub for a quiet drink, and were shaken out of our reverie by the sound of the resident bantams sounding flustered. They appeared at speed round the corner pursued by a dog - on a lead, as per the sign outside the pub - and a man who was egging the dog on and was clearly highly amused at this hilarious entertainment. He looked at us to share the joke. I think the contempt must have shown on his face, for he suddenly reined the dog in and scuttled off - to talk to the children on the swings on the village green. Children scampered back to where their parents were sitting drinking outside the pub. It seemed that none of the children was his.
We decided to lay down for a rest but were disturbed by the sound of the evening's live singer practising. To be honest, I didn't think much of him, and I pondered the extent to which you can reasonably expect a residential pub to be reasonably quiet in the later afternoon. I came to no conclusion.
As it turned out, the pub singer was quite decent once ensconced in the bar, and we later spent a good hour or two enjoying the set, mainly of 60s and 70s classics that everyone knows, and quite a few drinks, knowing we only had to stumble up the stairs to bed.
We also enjoyed a pleasant meal in the hotel restaurant. I started with a seafood salad.
I followed this with fish and chips.
I call this photo 'Waiting for chips'. I don't think I've ever been served fish and chips with the chips served as a side dish, and when they came I was disappointed that they were American-style fries, not proper chips. But, in fairness as thin fries go, they were amongst the best I've tasted.
I finished with a Crème brûlée, which was good without being a showstopper.
I reflected that I really couldn't complain about the food, but the second time of eating in a place in a short time is never quite as delightful as the first. You've generally chosen your most favourite dish on the first day, and few restaurants alter their menus radically from day to day, although in my experience they've usually removed the dish that you almost ordered on the first night. But it was still very nice, and so convenient, and there was a really good atmosphere in the bar.
This post is more than a year out of date but I still think it's worth capturing what was a very memorable day out.
We didn't book tickets for the Olympics. A whole host of reasons and I don't particularly regret not doing so. I watched so much on TV, and bitten by curiosity, we did book tickets to the Paralympics. We left it late, so there was limited availability for our chosen day. We booked tickets for the semi-final of the Seven Aside football, at the Riverbank Arena, which hosted the hockey during the Olympics. This gave us access to Olympic Park for the day, and, if we had wished, we could have chosen to queue for admission to some of the other venues.
Our match was in the afternoon so we arrived mid-morning. Transport to the site was uncomplicated - we travelled in comfort on the 'Jubilympic' line. There were two people in my carriage in wheelchairs, a novel and welcome sight on London Underground.
Access to the stadium was straightforward, pleasantly handled by a chap from the RAF. We were made to throw away the water in our (Olympic branded) water bottles, but even that wasn't a problem - plenty of places to get free drinking water and short or non-existent queues. It was a hot day and we did a lot of walking; water was much needed!
I could write in painstaking detail of all the different sights we saw, but I'm not sure that would add anything to human knowledge above the copious amounts that have already been written about London's Olympic Park.
What struck me most was the amount of space. I had visions of shuffling uncomfortably in crowds all day but that didn't happen. It was very quiet when we first arrived, most people being in events, especially in the 80,000-capacity Athletics stadium and the 17,500-capacity Aquatics Centre. We wandered freely around the park, going up to almost the Northern reaches, looking at the various venues, and spending some time in the wetlands. I was impressed by how the land was managed, not just sports venues amidst concrete, but lots of gardens. The park had been planted with wildflowers. Up until then I hadn't given much thought to wildflowers, but since then I have noticed more and more areas being planted or left for wildflowers to flourish. (I know there is a question about whether 'wild' flowers can be 'planted' but I think we all know what we mean by 'wildflowers').
We watched the 7-a-side football match between Russia and Brazil. Seven-a-side is for players with cerebral palsy. Unfortunately, the Paralympics included football as a sport for men only; indeed, there seemed to be more gender imbalance in the Paralympics than the Olympics, but I realise that achieving gender equality in addition to fighting for Paralympic rights, especially in non-developed countries, is a significant challenge. Russia won convincingly, it was a little bit like men versus boys, and I was not surprised when they went on to win the Gold Medal. It was a moderately entertaining football match, and I didn't really notice that the players were disabled. But, to be honest, apart from being in the arena, it was the least memorable part of the day. And just for good measure I was sat next to a very annoying brat who honestly thought he knew everything about football, and he kicked me several times.
The Park was a lot more crowded when we emerged from the match. People who had been to morning events stayed on, afternoon events were finishing, and tens of thousands were arriving for evening events. We queued quite a while for fish and chips, but they were worth the wait. We did try to find somewhere to sit in the Park Live area, but that was just full up, so we found a place down by the river, ate our fish-and-chips, and watched the world go by.
We spent the early evening strolling through the southern end of the park. I was just finishing a period of sick leave and was really intensely shattered and utterly footsore. I don't think I could have walked any more. Walking into Stratford Station, a member of staff approached the man behind me to tell him not to carry his child on his shoulders in case he fell down the steps. Now, I would have thought that the man was quite capable of knowing how to carry what was presumably his own child, and was quite emotionally invested in not falling. I thought it quite rude of the LU man to shout at this man over my head, as if I didn't exist, and, also, it was really painful for me to detour and walk round him. It was also extremely painful changing trains at London Bridge. But all the pain was worth it, and I got home, and I recovered soon enough.
More photos of this walk, and the day the Olympic Torch came to Brixton can be seen in the photo album London 2012
Just trawling through my photos I found these taken in my back garden last year. Oddly, I didn't take any in the garden this August. I think I had this idea once that I should take photos at least once a month just to see how the garden changes from season to seaon but also as it gets worked on. Not by me, I hasten to add! I don't think that after the Autumnal Equinox is the best time to revive that semi-resolution, but, nevertheless, it's as good a time as any to record the changing seasons!
I have spent the last two weeks in Cornwall and had a jolly good time. I had hoped that somehow, we would enjoy an Indian Summer, with plenty of opportunity for sea swimming. It was not to be. On the other hand, most days were warm enough and fine, with plenty enough sunshine. This made walking a pleasure, and to my surprise, I did a great deal more walking than I feared would have been possible.
We stayed in the ancient town of Marazion, just a couple of miles from Penzance, and just opposite St Michael's Mount. We were brilliantly located, with a sea view. The town is big enough to sustain several shops and eating places, and a surprisingly good bus service, but small enough to have some character. There was a Morrison's less than two miles away, and a Sainsbury's being built just next door to that, and we were within easy driving distance of Sainsbury's at Helston and Marks & Spencer at Hayle.
We rented a flat which was spacious and light. When we arrived it was scrupulously spotlessly clean. There was sufficient furniture and the beds were wonderfully comfortable. The sofa less so. Having stayed in several similar rented places in the UK and Spain I did feel there were certain aspects that were less satisfactory. All of them quite petty, but the pettiness added up to an annoyance. Two lightbulbs, including the kitchen one, had gone before our arrival, as we discovered mid-evening Saturday in the dark. There were no spare lightbulbs in the place, something I have always noticed with previous places. The kitchen was poorly stocked lacking some of the most basic utensils, such as wooden spoons. Bear in mind that this was a two-bedroomed place seemingly ideal for a couple with two small children, whose holiday may depend on being able to make simple stews, pasta sauces etc. The saucepans all lacked lids, there were no storage pots eg for teabags or bread. Worst of all, the oven on the cooker didn't work. There was a combination microwave/fan oven instead, although we had to work this out for ourselves, and it was simply not big enough for cooking a casserole for 4 or roasting a joint, as many people might wish to do. There wasn't even a welcome pack. Most places include a list of hints and tips eg the WiFi password, 'the oven doesn't actually work' and maybe even numbers for local doctor, bus timetables etc. It was advertised as having reserved parking, but in practice during the day this was used by the owner's other business. Not a problem in practice, but communication/information would have helped. It was also slightly irritating that the washing machine wasn't a washer/dryer, considering it was a flat without a garden, which wasn't too great an inconvenience for us, but might have been a pain for the family with two small children. Admittedly, all petty moans, and we certainly didn't let them mar the holiday.
The town is lovely, and it was enormous fun people-watching. They came in their hundreds and thousands to cross the causeway, or catch the boat, to St Michael's Mount. It also lies along the South West Coastal Path, a truly wonderful thing, a jewel in England's crown. During our first week our neighbours never took their car out and were usually out early, often coming back late. If you're a keen, fit walker, I think with careful planning and bus timetables, you could cover a great deal of the path, returning each night to comfortable quarters.
Sadly, Cornwall County Council are consulting on withdrawing funding for much of the Rural bus service in West Cornwall. This was covered on the local TV news and it made me angry and sad. They illustrated how the buses, often visiting quite remote and isolated villages, are a lifeline for elderly people to get out to shops and doctors etc, for local workers, often on minimum wage or in seasonal jobs. They had a voxpox with someone on holiday in St Ives who said she chose St Ives because she could go walking and end the day with a bus journey. The local constituency is Liberal Democrat held, and Council is LibDem/Independent coalition. I doubt that many of those Liberal Democrat or Independent voters would have supported axing rural bus services.
I still have nearly 200 photos to edit from the holiday, having already processed over 300 (and that's not including the duds and duplicates!). Over the next few weeks I intend to compose several blog posts on the subject, and these will be varied with posts about days out, and other holidays as well. I just hope I have the time to do them justice!
Last year, there was a very hot Saturday. I know, it seems difficult to recall now. We had the truly inspired idea of heading to the South Coast. We arrived at Clapham Junction and sauntered over to the platform from where depart trains for Brighton and other seaside towns in Sussex. We were not heading for Brighton, suspecting it would be quite busy.
The platform at Clapham Junction was heaving. The Brighton train was in, but the station staff were preventing anyone else joining it due to overcrowding. They were advising people to go to Hove and then get a train back to Brighton. My heart sunk; we were aiming for the "not Brighton" train, via Hove. Not only were there a lot of people on the platform, but many of them had pushchairs. Even more had bikes.
We got on the train and it was pretty crowded. As the line approaches Brighton, it runs close to the A23 (Roman Road from Westminster Bridge, passing near my house and eventually becoming Brighton Pier). I looked out of the window and saw a queue of cars waiting to enter Brighton.
We alighted at Shoreham-by-Sea. For years, I have been convinced I walked once from Hove to Shoreham, but I think it must have been Portslade. Not so impressive!
You could argue that Shoreham isn't actually on sea, although you'd come over as being a bit of a prat if you dug your heels in
We walked down through town and crossed the River Adur to reach the actual seaside, and then we cycled to Worthing. It is without doubt a delightful cycle ride. As far as I know you can cycle all the way from Brighton, and perhaps east of Brighton to Worthing, along the coast, on dedicated cycle paths all the way.
I would observe that the public needs a tad more education about what a cycle path is. I speak both as a pedestrian and a cyclist. Firstly, there is no law or rule that prohibits people walking on the cycle path. However, should you choose to do so, you need to be aware that you may encounter cyclists. It's rude to shout abuse at them for cycling on the cycle path and ringing their bell to warn you of their presence. This particularly applies when you're walking five abreast and not actually looking where you're going. Also, it's rude to stop and chat with your mates on a cycle path when there is, as it happens, a wide pavement wide enough to drive a bus along.
Also, dog owners. You are responsible for looking after your dog. If the said dogs run out from behind a fence on a beach onto a cycle path and the cyclist screeches to a sudden halt and yells obscene words at you, please consider that the cyclist is probably very shaken, and really doesn't want to be told to take more care and the dogs were 'only playing'. The cyclist did take care; otherwise your dogs would have been 'only dying'.
I also have a lecture for cyclists. Especially unfit middle-aged cyclists with a chronic health condition. Cycling takes energy. It might make sense to take some tuna or hummus sandwiches to replenish the carbo and protein required. If half of London is on the beach in Sussex, this suggests the weather is hot. More water would be sensible.
Oh, and if part of your biography consists of 'I like take photographs', stop cycling more often and take more and more interesting photos.I salvaged three in total from the day.
This is one of my favourite crap photos of all time. Lancing College is situated on a hill which is part of the South Downs, and the campus dominates the local landscape.
Yeah, right whatever!
Shoreham is fun, and I'd like to return. There's an airport there, indeed it's the oldest airport in the UK. According to Wikipedia:
The airport is used by privately owned light aeroplanes, flying schools, and for light aircraft and helicopter maintenance and sales. A number of operators provide sight-seeing and pleasure flights, including the experience of flying in two T-6 Harvard World War II training aircraft.
So you get the unexpected pleasure of seeing bi-planes take off and land.
We spent some time on the beach but our luck being what it is, this was at the time the sun disappeared behind clouds that had suddenly appeared from nowhere. There were people in the sea, but, after a paddle, I decided I didn't really fancy stripping down for a swim. Missed opportunity. But it's worth remembering that away from the town centres there are miles of quiet under-occupied beaches. I have subsequently acquired beach shoes - a recommendation for the hotel we visited in Greece - and would strongly recommend them to transform the experience of visiting a pebbly beach in Sussex.
All day I saw dozens, hundreds of cyclists. I saw no one over the age of ten wearing a cycling helmet. The hot weather influenced my decision not to. I also saw no lycra. I concluded however, that when there are segregated cycle lanes, people feel safe cycling, and take to their bikes for pleasure. This lesson needs to be applied more widely.
Following this bike ride and the one on the Wandle Trail the day before, I took three weeks sick leave and began to reassess my capabilities and the consequences of 'overdoing it'.
Our final day in Dorset was almost a wash-out. The heavy rainy and heavier skies, and lack of light, meant there was only one thing to do - go out for lunch, and locally. Burton Bradstock seemed the obvious choice, and we had three places to choose from, all previously visited and all tempting. We opted for The Anchor. We have been before, although it's changed hands since.
We went in. We drank beer. We ate a seafood platter - this between the two of us
We just about ate it all
All of it (just about)
I love a seafood platter. This was no exception. It was unusual, because they gave it an Asian twist, which we both appreciated. Mind you, it's hard work eating your way through that. We weren't fit for much else for the rest of the gloomy rainy day, although we did a flying visit to the rather lovely Washingpool Farm Shop
We spent the late afternoon and evening vegetating in front of the TV, and the woodburner.
Nothing quite went to plan, but I think we got to see a fair sweep of The North Cotswolds, one way and another.
After another hearty breakfast, we set out on the start of our epic journey through the gloriously sunny Gloucestershire countryside. First stop Sezincote, a house and garden, open to the public, highly recommended by our Lonely Planet guide. Unfortunately, it's closed on Sundays. Time to replan.
Our plan took us via Fish Hill. Fish Hill is a steep descent into the outskirts of Broadway. Don't take my word for it
A rural trunk road, you'd expect the speed limit to be 60mph. It was actually 25mph. There were numerous signs and road paintings urging 'slow', 'use low gear', 'beware cyclists', 'careful now', 'oh sheeeet'. Lots of signs with black and white arrows indicating sharp bends. Not one but two escape lanes. Although, in a trucknetuk discussion, someone says yeah thats right but i dont think they would help you on that gradient!!
There are videos on YouTube, eg this from a lorry
or a motorbike
This is some hill. But it took me a while to persuade my other half, a very safe and experienced urban and motorway driver that that number of "Careful! Mind yourself!" signs kind of means they're not messing around. We survived, however, and agreed it was an awesome descent.
We ended up in Broadway, Worcestershire, the 'Jewel of the Cotswolds'. What a lovely town! Although, for some reasons, I failed to take any photos. In a sense there's nothing to see, but what makes the town truly outstanding is their parking policy. Simply put, there is no parking on the main road, all cars are directed to a car park. Admittedly, by the time we were leaving, it had reached a 'one out one in' situation, but whoever thought of that rule had their head screwed on.
To be honest, there isn't a great deal to see in Broadway but shops. It was too early for tea so we went for coffee. Fairly randomly we chose Prego. Of course, it's impossible to judge a restaurant solely on the basis of coffee, but I've rarely been sent such positive messages on service, decor, presentation. Even the Ladies' loos - spotlessly clean - had an understated elegance about them. Reviews on TripAdvisor seem to confirm my judgement.
We thought we would head for Moreton in the Marsh, but when we got there, it was packed. We didn't hold a hope to get parked. Perhaps the crowds from miles around were drawn by the junk - euphemistically labelled 'vintage' - market. We got out of town via the Fosse Way. Cars were queueing for several miles to enter the town. We knew there would be no turning back! The road just went on and on, straight, for miles, crossing the border into Warwickshire. By now we were hungry. Momentarily we toyed with the idea of Stratford-upon-Avon for lunch, but considering it was a sunny Bank Holiday Sunday we quickly changed our minds. We nearly went to Shipston on Stour. I went there with my father thirty years ago, on the way back from dropping my sister at college, as an alternative to touristy Stratford. Then I noticed on the map that we could go to Chipping Campden via B roads.
The guide book and Wikipedia paint Chipping Campden to be elegant, a delight for architectural eyes, one of the prettiest towns in the Cotswolds. I found it hideous. They have a one-way system and encouraged parking in the school carpark, just a few minutes stroll from the high street. However, they didn't discourage on-street parking, and the village centre was nothing but a mess of parked cars, poorly driven 4x4s, their incompetent owners distracted by the desperate search for a parking space. Very unpleasant.
Chipping Campden's one saving grace was the Badgers Hall Tea Room. A gem of a place, worth visiting especially to go there. Almost as if the dream tea room I had concocted from various novels had finally come to life under one roof.
It was run by a couple who were just this side of eccentricity, in the nicest way. A new girl had started just that day to wait; they were up front about this. I'm sure she has done well - I asked whether the quiche contained meat. Her answer "I'll go and find out" and she returned with the information I had a choice of quiche. I'm sorry I didn't take a photo, because it was beautifully presented and delightful to eat, texture perfect, good portions. Indeed, Jimmy ordered a soup and something else, and, actually, was really quite full. I asked the proprietor whether it was too early to order a toasted tea cake. He assured me it's never too early!There was a big table in the middle of the room filled with tasty-looking homemade cakes - proper cakes, not cupcakes and brownies masquerading as cakes - but somehow, a toasted tea-cake was just perfect. Tea came in a variety of blends, but this was before I began to care passionately whether it was bags or leaves, I can't truthfully say. Overall, I thought it was a lovely place, as if someone had somehow bottled the best of the 1950s, and enveloped it in the best of contemporary values. Wonderful! Some fairly decent visitor photos on TripAdvisor and Flickr
We did try strolling the streets of Chipping Campden but it wasn't just that pleasant because of all the cars, so we beat a retreat and returned to our hotel for a couple of drinks and a lie down.
In fact, I bought it because it was recommended by a well-known internet site when I was ordering guide books to Cornwall. Yeah, I'll stick that on my Kindle, it's not like actually buying - committing to - an actual book.
I started reading it and did wonder whether I would get past the first chapter. She described her life as marketing manager for Body Shop: long hours, conspicuous consumption, fleeting relationship with her children. Shallow. I cringed while playing the world's smallest violin. It didn't get any better when they went house hunting in Cornwall, with plans to set up a business as 'Paint Your Own Pottery' (yes, really!). I know everyone is judgemental when house hunting, it's actually quite fun even vicariously. But there's a line between mocking someone else's interior decor and considering oneself superior to them.
Then, suddenly the book changed. She got a job in rural post delivery, which I think deserves respect in itself. People predicted she wouldn't last until Christmas, the book covers her first year. By the end of the book, I really liked this woman, almost felt we could be friends, and I've downloaded the next installment, perhaps to read in Cornwall.
The book showed me I know less about Cornwall than I thought. I had a couple of Cornish friends at Uni, one an ex-tin miner, and I spent most of the 90s and beyond hanging out with two Cornishmen who had come to London largely because of the lack of prospects locally. I've visited as a tourist, and know a little of the tourist industry, including the Michelin star restaurants. Channel 4 News broadcast the other day from Fowey and Padstein, and underlined the issues that Tessa had highlighted in her book, the contrast between the moneyed second-homers and that the majority of jobs are low wage, seasonal or part time, and many locals having to leave due to the lack of prospects.
Nothing much happens in the book; it's a year in the life. I like the way she writes, conjuring up vignettes of local life and local characters. Just when you think that everything's a bit too cosy and friendly, she reminds us that, although people are friendly enough on the surface, it's difficult to get close to people and part of a community that, not without justification, regards incomers with a degree of suspicion.
It's not a heavy read: I finished it within a day whilst on a mini-break. You can judge my reaction to it by the fact that I ordered the next installment. Not immediately, but a few days later. It's also the sort of book that makes me think 'I could do that'. Write it, I mean. Not move to Cornwall, but write about the characters and places of everyday life. It's not boasting on my part nor an attempt to diminish her work, simply a thought that often the most engaging writers write about what they know, and life as it happens. The blurb for that reads:
Life is becoming hard for her and her family as they realise that being part of a small community is not quite the idyll she had been lead to believe
Almost exactly a year ago, in the interregnum between the Olympics and the Paralympics. Inspired (perhaps) by the glorious gold medal winning triumphs of Our Cyclists, we got on our bikes. Well, we got on the train, because, you know, riding to Carshalton wouldn't be that much fun. And I had discovered a direct train between Streatham Hill and Carshalton Beeches. From there it's downhill to the source of the Wandle, Carshalton Ponds.
As an aside, there are two sources of the Wandle, the other being in Wandle Park Croydon. Sustrans start the Wandle Trail in Coulsdon, as I blogged previously. The River Wandle companion suggests that on prehistoric times it may have risen in the Weald and flowed through a gap in the North Downs near Merstham.
It was a lovely day, bright sunny and dry but not hot. We free-wheeled into Carshalton and were taken by surprise. I don't think I have ever properly been to Carshalton. Twenty-odd years ago I visited a friend on Wrythe Lane a few times, but I must have taken a bus or taxi from the station away from the Wandle.
Before we even found the Wandle we found the Greyhound, a Youngs pub. I enjoyed my coffee, and Jimmy enjoyed his ale. What more to say!
When I was a kid my aunts and cousins lived in Thornton Heath and I grew up with the belief that Carshalton is posh. I don't hold that view now, having been back in the area a few times, but it's certainly pleasant. And, frankly, given that it is firmly Greater London, you can't argue with the views. One could live the pretence of semi-rural life yet with regular trains to town and a pretty decent bus service!
Sutton Council helpfully explains the origin of Carshalton Ponds - they're not natural! There is a museum, the Honeywood, but it was closed when we visited.If you read the Wandle Companion, it gives instructions for a pleasant little walking tour around Carshalton. This book, by the way, really is a must-read for anyone interested in the history and geography of the area. Perhaps not the most elegant prose style but nothing egregious and nothing really to interrupt the flow of my reading.
It was pleasant to stroll around the pond, watch children feed the ducks and feel a step removed from the incessant traffic.
There are some historic buildings in the area, and a fairly large park called The Grove. Some of the buildings are now used as council offices by Sutton. Perhaps not the best use, but better than them lying derelict or arguably, being in private hands.
The Grove is a lovely park. It serves a dual function, a run-of-the-mill park for the local community, and host to the River Wandle.
(Run of the mill. Geddit?)
It was pleasing to see children playing in an old fashioned way - wading in the river, splashing in the waterfall. Best not to photograph these, though. Two Nursery/Infant age children, actually being played with by their parents; a group of upper junior kids unsupervised but self-contained, lively but undisruptive.
The waterfall is pretty impressive!
We cycled out of The Grove and onto Wilderness Island, barely noticing what was around us. The downside of cycling - an overview of the bigger picture but lacking in any detail. And I forgot to stop and take photographs.
We finally managed to work out how to get between Poulter Park and the Watermeads. The Watermeads is a National Trust nature reserve, not generally open to the public, which I am fine about, this isn't my normal anti-National Trust rant. It just makes access to the Wandle from the North West confusing. From the South East, it makes more sense. And it felt rather wild to be cycling along a path barely wide enough for a bike, with brambles and nettles on each side, almost losing my shoes at one point.
It was nice to get to Ravensbury Park and stop for some water and a sandwich. I've never actually been into Ravensbury Park proper, which I assume is a standard local authority multi-purpose space (and that's not a criticism, Britain's parks are vastly under-valued). The stretch beside the river is one of my favourite places in London, so peaceful. From there to Morden Hall Park, another hidden gem. We didn't linger this time, wanting a cup of tea, and not sure we wanted to pay National Trust prices whilst surrounded by out-of-control kids, perhaps an unfair judgement.
I had an incident on the path leading down to Merton Abbey Mills. It was slightly busy, and in such circumstances I am careful about how I cycle - I am stronger, faster and more powerful than pedestrians, especially small children whose parents, understandably, believe the path to be traffic free. Therefore, it is my responsibility to take care. But I draw the line at annoying small dogs that career at me, causing me almost to fall off, only to be told 'He's only a puppy'. Irresponsible dog owners!
We stopped for tea and a snack at Merton Abbey Mills. It's a frustrating place, full of potential, but not quite meeting it. But, really, other than Sainsburys and the National Trust (plus a pub called the William Morris which we had forgotten about), there isn't much in the way of refreshments round there. And then we got lost on the way to Haydon's Road station, where we had to wait 27 minutes for the train, and then cycle back through Streatham.
It was a nice day out, but in retrospect it was really quite draining, and I know I didn't take on enough liquid whilst sweating freely in temperatures that were steadily rising. We didn't return to the Wandle for several months after this.However, I have over a hundred photos taken this year in a Folder called 'To be blogged/Wandle'. So, watch this space!
I've blogged about Upstairs before, and have been back. I went in November but didn't take photos of my meal because it was really quite dark - we sat in the bar area rather than the dining room! I have adopted a rule from somewhere of generally not taking photos in a restaurant with flash. It may not apply in a loud and larey bar, but in an intimate restaurant, definitely so. At the time I tweeted my selection: At Upstairs I started with Wild Mushroom, Celeriac, Prune; then Plaice, Romanesco, Walnut; & Baba, Quince, Vanilla. I also commented on my liking of the small choice of dishes and the spare description. I suppose if you're a fussy eater, it could be a problem. I don't know if my non-meat-eating classes me as fussy, but as a fish eater I never have a problem.
We also went in August last year. It was a warm, but not too warm, summer's evening, and we sat in the Upstairs dining room, light streaming in through the windows. Unusually, every party there consisted of two people, one female and one male, probably couples. I was amused that, barring one, every man wore a formal striped shirt, open at the neck, no tie. The exception was a man in his mid-to-late twenties who wore a t-shirt with some logo on. I forget now whether it was for a band, or a product, or what. But it set me thinking.
This restaurant has no dress code, yet most of the men had opted for an unspoken uniform. And the women's dress, although more varied, was consistent with this. The young man wearing a t-shirt had no negative effect whatsoever on my dining experience, nor, I assume, the other parties'. He was otherwise unnoticeable, unassuming and well-behaved, the sort of customer any restaurant would want. I pitied his female companion for being with a man who has no dress sense or sense of occasion. But that is very presumptive of me. They may celebrate that they are different, and don't feel the need to conform; up to a point I agree. They may dismiss the other men as boring or bland - although in my experience non-conformist clothing is often worn by people lacking in confidence in their character. This paragraph is woven with judgements and assumptions, and I acknowledge that it's none of my business what this man wore. But it bothers me, and I can't fully understand why!
The night we went in August last year was a glorious night for British Athletics(we actually won some medals in the Olympics which partly justified the huge and disproportionate amount of public funding and TV coverage devoted to track and field sports relative to many other). I sneaked a few glances at my phone, but I can't really summon up emotions beyond indifference when it comes to this particular sport.
The restaurant had recently featured in a New York Times article on must-do non-Olympic things to do in London during the Olympics. But I confirmed with Phillippe that this hadn't started a flood of Americans seeking out the imprecise territory between Brixton and Clapham.
I started with lemon ravioli with rocket and sweetcorn. I then moved onto Wild Salmon with crab, butter beans and watercress, like so - although I apologise for the poor quality photo taken in fading light
And I finished with white peach, raspberry and vanilla
Altogether, a lovely evening, with tasty food prepared and presented faultlessly.
We went again in June and although I found service to be generally very good and the food largely up to my expectations, I do have a serious niggle. It was again a warmish evening, and, as well as ordering cocktails and wine (at prices I wouldn't call exorbitant but reflect the market rate for a decent London restaurant), we also asked for tap water. The tap water arrived and wasn't even lukewarm. It tasted as though it had been poured from a mixer tap without even being run off first. And no ice. We rejected it and ended up with bottled water, (at a price, with service charge on top). No real apology and, I have to say, verging on the mean-spirited. It wasn't as if we were drinking just tap water (and even if we were, it's still not acceptable).
I started with Fazzoletti, girolles and hazelnut, basically an open ravioli dish, which was a brilliant combination of good quality tasty ingredients.
Main course was wild salmon, peas and chervil. It was listed as 'sea trout' but before we ordered, the waiter explained that they had been unable to get sea trout so had substituted wild salmon, which was fine by me. The dish was faultless, but it lacked a 'wow' factor. Jimmy had a meat dish, which he thought was poor, although I can no longer remember why.
I finished with Raspberry, vanilla and almond
To conclude, I think Upstairs is an extremely good restaurant, but can be somewhat variable. Jimmy compares it unfavourably with Chez Bruce, but Chez Bruce has a Michelin star. Jimmy says we pay more for dinner at Upstairs (£35) than lunch at Chez Bruce (£27.50), but the latter charges £45 for dinner. I'm glad I live where there is both Upstairs and Chez Bruce. To moan that a neighbourhood restaurant is not up to Michelin star standards is unfair and mean. It's the best restaurant I've ever known in Brixton, better than anything in Streatham, and only a bit behind Clapham's best restaurant, Trinity (which can also be variable!)
I referred to my book of Short Walks in Dorset and decided on Golden Cap. The house pack also recommended a walk there, starting and finishing at the house.It is said to be the highest point on the South Coast of Great Britain. I suspect that that sentence should end 'if you exclude such-and-such which doesn't technically qualify'.
The book wasn't that good in deciding where to start the walk. Indeed, we started by walking down to the beach, before deciding that was the wrong direction. At the top of the beach carpark a house was being refurbished, including re-thatch; the workmen gave us directions.
I took a photo of a stream, even though I have no recollection of doing so, or how it fitted in relative to other points of interest.
We walked across a field, which was quite nice, as fields go. And through several stiles to set us on our path. Our path which was, basically, a quagmire. Everywhere in England was unusually damp, so it was no great surprise to encounter mud. Rather more surprising to find myself flat on my back in the mud. And, of course, really struggling to get up, every scrabbling effort covering more of my outer garments in mud. This happened again. The third time it happened, Jimmy declared that enough was enough and we were turning back.
We turned back and went to the pub, for a coffee. It was perfectly pleasant to sit outside, basking in the sunshine - and it was only March. Only a couple of days later, it snowed heavily in many areas, causing massive drifts and creating severe problems for farmers with sheep that were lambing. Such a contrast.
My coat, trousers and shoes were covered in mud, so we decided to go back to the cottage for me to change, and we returned to the same spot for lunch.
But first, we played on the beach. Carefully, of course.
We ate lunch outside, and very nice it was, too. The Anchor's a good pub, and perhaps unique in that I was recommended it by my brother (but I had already been) and it has also been visited by an internet friend and someone I work with!
From here, I took Jimmy on a magical mystery tour, all the way to West Bexington. West Bexington lies hidden at the bottom of a cliff below the scenic Burton Bradstock to Abbotsbury Road. It was pleasant to spend half an hour so there, and I'm sure it's even nicer to visit in summer. However, they warn 'swimming is recommended only for strong swimmers'
We decided that we wanted Afternoon Tea, but first, I needed cash, and Jimmy wanted something or other. So, off the Morrison's. Morrison's is a large supermarket on the outskirts of Bridport, and, like all such places is surely covered by CCTV. At half four or whatever on a Friday it was pretty busy with customers and staff, including security staff. Inside is a branch of Santander, nicely carpeted, more staff, CCTV and an ATM. An elderly woman was using the ATM, so I stood back. Well back. Arguably, unnecessarily far back. Off the carpet. She sensed my presence and turned round to look. Fair enough, always good to know who's behind you at a cash machine. She did that three times, each time getting glarier and glarier. She finished using the machine and was taking her time putting away her cards, cash receipts etc. I made no attempt to move. I adopted a pose of utter indifference and extreme patience. And she glared at me as if I had coshed her over the head with a baseball bat!
I was still ranting about this as we drove down the A35 to our destinations. "Bet the bitch hasn't even earned that money. Bet it's her late husband's, and she drove him to an early grave being a bitch". I can be a bitch myself in private. JImmy said I was being unfair. I was. But she had glared at me like I was a criminal, even though I had done my utmost to be entirely non-threatening.
And a flash goes off. Chideock has a horrendous traffic problem, even reaching Wikipedia: Chideock was the first village in England to have two speed cameras installed in response to perceived excessive speed. Basically, vehicles come down a long steep hill in a 60 zone, into the village with a 30 limit. Absolutely right to have speed cameras installed and working there. And, for the first time in over 40 years of driving, JImmy ended up with speeding points. All my fault. And the afternoon tea place was closed. And we even messed up the refundable pay-and-display parking tickets when we reverted to Plan B, cakes from Waitrose!
Before I went on holiday last year, I asked for book recommendations. More than one person suggested this book, but I was unsure. I had seen reviews that either said 'This book is utterly brilliant' or 'This has told me nothing I didn't know before'. I had started to form strong opinions myself, so decided it was perhaps unfair to do so without reading it.
It sat on my Kindle for months, until the sun came out. I read 91% on beaches and 9% on the Sun Terrace at a spa hotel. In the end, I concluded that both points of view were valid!
I know that Caitlin Moran arouses strong opinions. I used to follow her on Twitter. she was fun, but only in small doses. I saw her as part of a clique of women who had it all and looked down on lesser mortals with disdain. I assumed that hse was some trustafarian, gliding effortlessly into a high-paid column. In actual fact she grew up in extreme poverty, and was barely educated, and she writes about this interestingly.
She says some sensible things in the book. Two examples which may seem trivial but are actually quite important. One is to wear flat shoes, or at least shoes you can run away in. And big comfy knickers, that don't dig in, are not only more comfortable but look better than silly briefs that give a VPL slicing each bum cheek diagonally in half. Falls into 'stuff I wish I'd known at 15. Or 25'.
To be honest, and fair, I don't think this book is aimed at my age group. And that makes the reading quite infuriating. Much of what she writes isn't novel or contentious, yet she seems to lack the insight that most sensible or intelligent women eventually reach these conclusions in time. But if it helps 15 or 25-year-old women, so be it.
There are a host of people who criticise CM for what amounts to her lack of academic grounding. I think a great deal of what masquerades as academic feminism is sham and irrelevant. Sham because it seems largely to consist of the churn of mantras and dictums, and irrelevant because its more interested in adopting the correct posture rather than critically examining the forces that lead to women's disadvantage and oppression.
Caitlin got be a hugely successful writer by a mixture of hard work and determining to be different, as well as being frankly, at times, quite brilliant. And yet she embraces a popular culture - epitomised by X-Factor style TV shows that don't especially or noticeably oppress women, but perpetuate a myth of what it takes to be successful - far too often, a body type which this popular culture has deemed to be the only one that matters. Caitlin's book is all about her personal experience; the title is hugely inaccurate.But she never stops to think whether some other woman may have a different experience or circumstances, and she reveals a lack of curiosity about anything outside her small, and I have to say, pretty shallow world.
It was quite an interesting book to read, but it's only a week since I finished it, and I've already forgotten most of it
An afternoon in Lower and Upper Slaughter! After we had exhausted the sights of Bourton-on-the-Water, it was time for lunch. We had no clear idea where we wanted to go, and, in any case, with a 7pm reservation at the Wild Thyme, we didn't want anything too substantial. I spotted a hopeful sign; following it took us to the village of Lower Slaughter. We quickly realised that the Luxury Country Hotel was not for us.
Apparently, the main/only road in Lower Slaughter was voted the most romantic street in Britain in 2011. I admit it's really quite nice, but, seriously, I think there must have been an orchestrated local campaign to write-in.
We stopped at The Slaughters, delightfully situated on the banks of the River Eye, with a beer garden and lawn sloping down to the river, It was fairly busy outside, with more than its quota of screaming kids and unleaded dogs, so we went inside. I ordered tea and a sandwich. The menu stipulated that the sandwiches were available in white or granary. I ordered granary. It came on white, with an explanation that they were out of granary. Fine, places run out of things, it happens. And the white bread was quite nice, certainly not processed rubbish. But, it did strike me a little bit casual just to assume!
The church opposite the pub had a banner outside inviting people in to see their flowers. A generous move, I thought. Unfortunately, nice as the vases of flowers were, they were few, and I think more money had been spent on the banner. The church looked moribund, no Children's Corner, no evangelising notice board, no Parish Notices. No sign of their having been a wedding this Saturday of a Bank Holiday weekend at the start of half-term. Wikipedia refers to the church being "13th century" but largely built in 1866. So no historical or social purpose as far as one can see.
I don't especially advocate the widescale demolition of redundant churches; on the other hand, I do feel they serve only two purposes. I imagine that having an "old" church - half a century newer than my house - in a village helps maintain house prices - three bedroom semi, £635k and it serves the Establishment and especially the Church of England that while their buildings remain dominating the landscape, dying or redundant, they seem Relevant to people's lives and Entitled to dictate how those lives are led.
We strolled around the village. A mixture of older houses (16th & 17th century according to Wikipedia), and many modern ones keeping with the local sandstone but otherwise non-descript. We strolled along one bank of the river, noting how the picturesque nature of the village was marred by ubiquitous motor cars.
We walked as far as the 19th-century water mill which has an undershot waterwheel and a chimney for additional steam power. Attached to this was a tea-room and a shop. It was one of the strangest shops I have ever seen in a tourist place. It included local ice creams and other artisan foods, local guide books, and local souvenirs such as staddle stones, but also a seemingly random collection of vaguely hippy clothes, some cheap/over-priced costume jewellery and an eclectic collection of books that should have been remaindered weeks previously - Fifty Sheds of Grey, anyone? Annoying on Twitter, even at the height of the 50 shades craze, but imagine that someone used paper to publish this, and expected people would buy it.
We walked along the opposite bank of the river
We passed the quaint old school house
We also passed the building at the top of the post. If I recall correctly, it's a former library and was hosting an Arts Show. With no little irony they advertised this with an ugly banner perched like vandalism on an interesting old building. I can only conclude someone in the village makes these banners and forces community groups, from the church to the artists, to buy them, or else.
It is suggested that one walks from Lower to Upper Slaughter, which is a fine idea if you're up to it. The downside of having a car is that any walk from A to B must also necessitate B to A. Instead, we drove, and having strolled around Upper Slaughter, I knew I had reached the limit of my walking endurance.
Upper Slaughter is even more delightful than Lower. We explored the church, which had slightly more signs of life than its neighbour, although hardly a thriving place. From the churchyard, we looked down on the former Manor House, now a hotel with a Michelin star restaurant.
We were puzzled that the churchyard seemed to contain no War Memorial. I only later found out that, despite its name*, Upper Slaughter, is one of only 52 Thankful Villages and one of 14 Doubly Thankful Villages. A Thankful Village was one which had lost no men in the Great War because all those who left to serve came home again. (England and Wales)
I write this on 4 August, the day when two people are finishing their visit to all 51 - some confusion about the numbers. See more details here. I have never heard of any of the others (with the possible exception of East Wittering - I've heard of West Wittering but never stopped to consider the existence of East). Upper Slaughter is really very small, for example, there doesn't seem to be be a village pub or any suggestion that there has been one recently closed. I guess the others are similarly small; every community of any size lost men in the First World War.
The graveyard includes relatively recent and well-tended graves of young children
We strolled through the residential area, across the Ford and a few yards along the river. The weather was just perfect - warm, but not hot, hard to recall the low grey skies and teeming rain of twenty four hours previously.
For a few moments I imagined myself living in such a rural idyll. But, aside from the fact that Cotswolds house prices are beyond the reach of ordinary people, even newly gentrified Brixtoners, I soon realised that a place that's lovely to visit would not be so nice to live in, lacking the most basic services. Still, it's good to have these thoughts and remember to appreciate home!
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