Gertsamtkunstwerk

A walk through Olympic London

Only a year out of date, I know!

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

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

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

 

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

     

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

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

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

Seaton and Beer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I couldn't resist calling this photo Beer Garden

The fishing boats and tractors were eye-catching

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rumours and Chances - Freya North

Chances is set in a gift shop and embraces tree surgery; Rumours is set in an estate agency.

Freya North is absolutely brilliant at this, finding an occupation for her protagonists, researching that role meticulously, and portraying that occupation plausibly. This puts her in a different class from many other authors rightly or wrongly labelled as 'chick-lit'. For them, the job is either a convenient location to set a romance, a passing irritation, or of no consequence. Cat was the pinnacle, a woman journalist following the Tour de France; other occupations have included clown and jewellery designer. Brilliant to find a writer almost exactly my own age writing about something other than domesticity.

Rumours and Chances are later works, and I'm sorry but they are just not of the same brilliance. Chances was okay, but Rumours really began to get on my nerves. I started making a mental list of Marian Keyes's strengths based on the reading of Freya North. I know it's unfair, and I loved Freya's books long before I discovered Marian. 

I felt in both cases her heart wasn't in the jobs. Too simple to portray a gift shop owner or an estate agent. I didn't feel I'd learnt anything, in contrast to her splendidly researched earlier works. But what annoyed me most were the characters.

Marian Keyes' characters are like my friends. They have personality flaws, some of them can be quite horrible, or insensitive, or thick, or self-centred. I don't dislike them as a result. Nor do I love them because of the faults. I accept them faults as they (I hope) accept mine (cue obligatory claim to have none). It's simply what makes us human, and Marian captures perfectly.

Freya, on the other hand, divides people into good people and bad people. Good people have no flaws, and only make mistakes that are later justified as being understandable in context. Bad people have no redeeming virtues.

The only exception are the people who originally appear as bad but are later shown to be misunderstood and become good people, motivated only by noble intentions, and are entirely selfless. I'd like a portrayal where the reader can see that they're decent and can also see that the heroine can't see it. Or see the heroine dithering between "Well, he's very charming and good company" and "He's got a hot temper, we have no interests in common and he keeps changing arrangements at the last minute".

The other thing is that she seems increasingly to use types. Halfway through Rumours, I was bored stupid by the old lady in the up-for-sale house. Posh, out of touch, but magically(!) in touch with a small child and always bloody pontificating. Think Maggie Smith-type role but entirely two dimensional. I found her unbelievable, not least the occasional hints into her vulnerabilities and self-doubt. Also, in Chances, the heroine manages to establish immediate rapport with her boyfriend's small son, who appears to have no emotional problem at all with another woman arriving to replace his dear dead mother. It just didn't seem realistic.

I was very disappointed to read both these books, but especially Rumours. And I'm sad to be writing this, because so many of her previous books were so compelling, entertaining and informative. The previous one before these was Secrets, which has planted Saltburn by the Sea in my mind and heart, and made me want to go there, or somehow recapture the magic of that book. 

See The Mystery of Mercy Close - Marian Keyes

Wild Thyme Chipping Norton

When I booked a weekend away in the Cotswolds, I had Gloucestershire on my mind. Only after booking a Gloucestershire Inn did I realise its postal town was Chipping Norton, Oxfordshire. I apologise to the majority of blameless citizens of Chipping Norton, but it does have certain connotations.

It wasn't difficult from the internet to determine which is the most highly thought of restaurant in the area, so I booked a table with pleasurable anticipation, yet tinged with some anxiety. (outside photo taken from restaurant's own website - I believe this to be fair use for the purpose of review)

It is very difficult to find anything to criticise about Wild Thyme. The biggest downside is it is so very small, and understandably, they've tried to maximise the number of people who can fit in. We were at a table between the service station and the kitchen. On the one side the manager was confirming reservations for the next few days, on the other side, a constant procession of waiting staff knocking on the door of the small kitchen (to ensure no one was in the way when they opened it).

That aside, no criticism. Good service, appropriately attentive  - they responded in a timely manner to our requests without trying to rush us or to interrupt our conversation to parrot a robotic "Everything alright, you guys?". I'm sure I was the youngest customer, and JImmy may have been the second  youngest, and possibly the only man not in red or yellow trousers. I would expect such a clientele to be quite conservative, but the menu certainly wasn't. Modern British, in the best way. A starting point of fairly classic dishes and using seasonal local ingredients (or those with provenance) to take them beyond 'staid' into 'refreshing' without reaching 'quirky' or 'frankly bizarre'. Portions generous enough to satisfy Jimmy, not so huge as to daunt me or leave no room for pudding.

  I started with Tian of dressed Cornish white crab meat, asparagus, poached quails egg, pink grapefruit hollandaise. 

Generous portion for a starter, and attractively presented, with each element given its space to shine, but not driven by the elements alone. This was the same with the taste, some distinctive flavours rolling over the tastebuds and yet blending into a coherent whole.

This was followed swiftly - minor niggle, possibly a tad too swiftly - by Sauté Cornish monkfish tails, brown shrimp, lemon, capers, ratatouille, braised haricot blanc, pesto.

What I said about the starter can also be said here. Choose good quality fresh ingredients, blend them intelligently, and prepare them perfectly. Chef either has a good palette, or, at least, one in tune with me. I had been unsure about both ratatouille and haricot blanc but neither was overdone and they acted as good base, without overwhelming the monkfish. The dominant taste was salty; I don't mean that negatively. I really don't like food with lots of salt added artificially/unnecessarily, I'm quite averse to it, and this was about the natural saltiness of the monkfish and shrimps starring in a way I found most attractive.

I nipped to the loo and searched the corridor and loo walls for photos of celebrity clientele. Assuming they have taste - and perhaps that is too big an assumption - I suppose Cameron, Clarkson and Brooks will have dined here on occasion. To my relief, there were no ghastly reminders of their existence!

We finished with poached pear. Such a risk. I'm sure we all remember poached pears from childhood which resembled nothing more than a once-decent piece of fruit boiled to within an inch of existing. This was the antithesis of school dinner pears, surely a signature dish, an elite pudding, and something I won't forget for a long time. It was on the menu as Vanilla poached pear, ginger ice cream, rice pudding, Nick's raspberry jam and peanut brittle. I was surprised at how well the ingredients combined, whilst (again) maintaining a clear separation. Vanilla poached pear would be to die for, I can conjure up a memory of the taste two months later. The rice pudding and jam added subtle waves of flavour. Outstanding! I may be misremembering but I'm pretty certain the ice cream was injected into the pear!

We finished dinner somewhat earlier than I had expected. We had had little time to linger between courses. But, also, the need to drive constrained our drinking, so perhaps speeded us up. Our drive back to our lodgings was spectacular, as an orange ball of fire slowly sunk into the Evenlode Valley, illuminating local landmarks, ranging from Bliss Mill, to Churchill church, to the nursing home at Kingham.

I wanted to stop the car, but being extremely squiffy (though well within the legal limit) I assumed that Jimmy, the driver, also well within the limit would also be squiffy and not wanting to stop. Actually, he wanted to get back to our digs, park the car, and have a drink!

The Honest Lawyer

Last year, I interrupted my long-planned Olympic leave to travel to Durham at short notice for a work visit. The usual hotel in the city centre was unavailable. I suspect that that was due to football happening at St James's Park Newcastle at the time. Several teams involved, and their entourages and fans, demand more hotel accommodation than a normal run-of-the-mill League match. Instead I booked in a place called The Honest Lawyer, in a village called Croxdale just outside the city. One colleague was sniffy, pointing out that it was a motel. I had stayed in a Best Western in Bournemouth a few weeks earlier, which served exceptional food, so I thought I would try this. 

I arrived on a glorious summer's afternoon, which became a glorious summer's evening. In such conditions, a motel was a bonus; a conventional hotel would have felt claustrophobic. Instead, just outside my bedroom window was this view

The room was ideal for a short stay. I lost count of the number of power sockets in the room. So many hotel rooms have too few. It especially annoys me when I can't put my phone on charge and keep it on the bedside table. The hotel had free Wi-fi, a sine qua non for me these days. 

And dinner was very good. It wasn't as fine as the dining in Bournemouth but that would be difficult to match. But I would certainly go back again - although the city centre hotel is more convenient for the office. 

I started with an Arnold Bennett omelette. I had never previously eaten one, and had only vaguely heard of them via a TV programme where some model pretended to cook, to universal derision. It is named after Arnold Bennett, an author who hailed from the Potteries. 

While he was staying at the Savoy Hotel in London, writing Imperial Palace, the chefs perfected an omelette incorporating smoked haddock, Parmesan cheese and cream. He insisted on it being served wherever he travelled and the Savoy serve it daily to this day.

Recipe from Delia and Recipe from Nigel. Delia describes it as a flat but fluffy open-faced omelette made with smoked finnan haddock.

My main course was  Oven-roasted stone bass with girelles, sweet potato & radishes. I hadn't previously heard of stone bass, and am not sure whether it's actually related to sea bass. apparently it's also known as Atlantic wreck fish, and there seem to be plenty enough recipes on line featuring it. It was tasty, and I'd certainly eat there again, although it wasn't outstanding.

Having had such a pleasant evening meal, I was disappointed in the breakfast. I've had worse, but I wouldn't recommend this one. That having been said, when I realised it was going to be a long wait to get my small cup refilled from the wandering jug of coffee, one of the staff did sneak me a latte from behind the bar rather than the weak tasteless probably instant 'filter' coffee that was on general offer.

And, I'm afraid, having stayed at the Best Western in Sheffield, which produced a long list of trivial faults, which added to up to quite substantial dissatisfaction, I'll be giving Best Western a miss for a long time.

Lyham Road

An awfully long time ago, last summer, I took a walk to see the Olympic Torch go by. As it was a topical event I tried to post about it fairly soon afterwards.

When the torch had gone by and the crowd dispersed, it was time to walk home. I often photograph other people's neighbourhoods. Perhaps it was time to shoot my own.

Back up Lyham Road, which runs broadly parallel with Brixton Hill, and was once known as Back Lane. It also runs parallel with Kings Avenue, which is as much Clapham as Brixton. Someone told me that the rich people lived on Kings Avenue, which has no pubs, and their servants lived on Lyham Road. When I arrived in the area there were five pubs: the Royal Oak, the Duke of Cornwall, the Red Lion, the Prince of Wales and the Waggon and Horses. Now only the Prince remains, and its future is in some doubt. 

Incidentally, they're all terribly common English pub names, replicated in numerous places across the country. More interesting names elsewhere in the area. The Sultan and the Hand-in-Hand on New Park Road. The (former) Telegraph at the top of Brixton Hill, connected with the introduction of telegraph transmission. Slightly further afield, the (former) King of Sardinia and the Hero of Switzerland.

I was prompted to do this post by Slip House being mentioned on Twitter:

Its overall form consists of three slipped orthogonal box shapes, arranged to take full advantage of available natural light, and afford the best possible views.

I think the house next door to it is also attractive

The Wesleyan Mission Hall is now King's Acre Methodist church

Below is a photo of what is now a block of flats

Up until 1997 it was a Primary School called Ashby Mill, named after the nearby Windmill, often known as Ashby's Windmill. It was closed due to the number of surplus Primary School places in the area. Along with other campaigners, I said at the time that the population trend is upwards. And so this has come to pass, with pressure for more Primary places being very much in the news.

Many of these Victorian triple deckers remain and often contain good or very good schools. I suppose they make good use of small spaces in densely populated areas, but I'm not convinced they are any longer ideal for modern education. They are certainly a far cry from the modern well-designed schools that sprung up under Labour's Building Schools for the Future programme.

This sign comes from the former pub, the Duke of Cornwall. I knew it had been called the Duke of Cornwall, because I always thought it a step too far having that and the Prince of Wales on the same road. I've even checked with Jimmy. Yes, this is a sign from where the Duke of Cornwall used to be. Perhaps he shot a lot of white deer.

 

 

 

 

Modern flats and those from an earlier generation

I've labelled this Prague Place but I think it might be Ramillies Close. I no longer need to know the difference! Next to it, a pre-school which was being redecorated as I passed

Moving along we reach the Mural. It's been there for years. Just weeks before I took these photos it was revamped and formally re-opened.

The mural depicts wheat being ground at the local windmill ready to be baked into bread, and also reflects modern Brixton (in the winter there's a good view of the Windmill from Lyham Road, not so much in summer)

Modern cottages some with well tended gardens

Lyham Road's only remaining pub is about halfway along. I think they were still getting over the long-finished Euro 2012 football and not yet geared up for the Olympics, due to start the next day. A pub that's suffered, like so many, from being Tied to the brewery, who then charge a premium on the wholesale price of the drinks the licensee is obliged to purchase.

Many of the clientele, at least traditionally, of the Prince are Prison Officers. Rumour has it that the Red Lion was more popular with the inmates who would slip out the back gate. Probably no truth in that rumour!

The prison was built in 1820, as the Surrey House of Correction. In 1853 it became a women's prison for those that preferred that to penal transportation to Australia; a military prison between 1882 to 1898; and until recently a 'trial and remand' prison. According to Wikipedia, 

the communal areas are overrun with mice and rats. The footings for the treadmill remain and are visible and the former 'hanging i.e. execution suite' is now an enlarged cell with six beds.

Before reading this I hadn't realised that, last year, it stopped being a local prison and is now a Category C training centre. I believe there has been another report recently recommendin it be closed and sold off. If it's no longer being used as a 'local' prison I imagine there's little rationale for maintaining this highly inappropriate building. I imagine the sale of the land would be handy receipt for the Exchequer. I wonder if the building would be convertible into Yuppy Flats, or whether simpler to raze it, and create a new development. It would be nice if there was social housing, or a mixture of social housing and 'affordable' private housing. Although the current definition of affordable is a bit of a joke; requires an annual income of up to £70k. Easier to pre-sell to buy to let landlords and overseas investors and create a transient set of people with no motivation to invest in building a community.

And Mr Woodley, a local institution supplying newspapers to the prison and local residents. He's never open when I go past. Perhaps he's permanently closed. Like an Aladdin's cave out of Dickens.

The Waggon still looks like a pub but I had to search on the internet to find out that it's now used as a private school - a slightly bizarre alternative use, at least to my mind, and one that questions the extent that they provide a broad enough curriculum in what was never a big pub. Probably not accessible for disabled children or staff, either.

The top of Lyham Road is pretty much the highest point for some considerable distance and often affords great views of London. The best view of all is from high up in Courtney House on New Park Road or the roof of an erstwhile friend's former flat on Felsburg. With binoculars you can read the time on 'Big Ben' or see Wembley Stadium and the hills to the North of London. So this is a pretty rubbish picture of the view. I didn't realise quite how tired I was from walking there and back, and standing and waiting, in blazing sun.

All Saints, a modern Anglican church is near the corner

Through the sheltered housing we can peek at Richard Atkins Primary School, a listed buiding

These houses are also listed, although since I took the photo they have been let out as sub-divided rooms and 'sheds' for migrant workers and are now undergoing renovations, including some deep excavation, which I'm not convinced is consistent with their listed status

I'm rather fond of the "Tulse Hill" Telephone Exchange, as it officially is, despite being nowhere near Tulse Hill. Makes my broadband faster than average.

And on Streatham Place, a brand new block of flats, which was marketed if I remember as the somewhat optimistic Park View Apartments

 As it turned out, this was not the best day to take photos, being that it turned out surprisingly bright and sunny. I suppose I should re-do the walk, but, life's too short.

Bourton-on-the-Water

The first full day of our Cotswolds Mini-Break. Decent breakfast at the country inn, although I've had better. A promise of sunshine later in the day, and the forecast set to be decent all weekend. 

I had bought a book called Short Walks in the Cotswolds, one of a series. I decided that we would do the walk nearest to where we were staying, a stroll round the outskirts of Bourton-on-the-Water. I suggested that maybe we could find a coffee shop to start the day off. 'Somehow', we found ourselves in a field, with all-day parking available for a fiver, just a short stroll from the town centre. One thing led to another and we spent the next three and a half hours in Bourton. 

A lovely town, delightful to visit. I would hate to live there. It was quiet when we arrived, not many people around. When we left at 2 pm, the pavements were crammed with visitors, and cars were queuing along the main A road to turn into the village. 

They call it the Venice of the Cotswolds, a lazy description, because it looks nothing like Venice. Venice is sited on 118 small islands separated by canals and linked by bridges. Bourton has a small stream running through its centre, which goes by the name of the River Windrush, and has five bridges across that river, that would prevent boats passing along, if the river was navigable, which it isn't. 

I was briefly struck by the name 'Windrush'. We use it in Brixton. Our town square is Windrush Square, named after the MV Empire Windrush, the ship that brought the first group of immigrant workers invited over from the Caribbean to assist in rebuilding Britain's post-war economy. The Windrush was one of a series of, often secondhand, ships named after minor English rivers - Windrush had previously been a German cruise ship and then troop ship, and was captured and taken as a prize of war.

After coffee we wandered along the river and found ourselves at the Model Railway Exhibition. Photography forbidden - fair enough - so no photos. Basically, it consisted of three rooms, each with complex and intricate model railways. By this, I mean glorified train sets, but not disparagingly. Fascinating, wonderful amount of detail. I'm sure if I returned I would spot many things I didn't notice on this visit. You get the opportunity to control some signals and points, allowing the trains to move along their various tracks. Particularly good fun if you get to elbow small children out of the way*.

All around the village were signs that indicated that dwellings were holiday lets. Such a high proportion must rip the heart out of a community, even it does, I suppose, provide some low-paid local employment.

We spent quite a time strolling around, watching people in and around the river, basking in the sun that grew warmer.

We didn't go in the Motor Museum but enjoyed its exterior.

Jimmy bought an ice cream

The local hardware shop played up to the quaint olde-worlde image (1950s-ish) I think the village would like to project.

These girls walked fearlessly through the water. Small boys yearned to join them but were held back by over-anxious parents.

We finished our stroll along the river.

We finished off our half-day trip by visiting a Model Village, for which Bourton is famous. I have this idea in my head that I've been to loads of model villages, but I'm not sure I have. I do recall one near Bexhill in 1972, which I guess is Hastings, which reportedly closed in 1988, and Tucktonia, visited in 1980, which closed in 1986. Bekonscot is supposedly on my list of Days Out, but it's a long way to go for the day, and Bourton Model Village, delightful as it is, has probably fulfilled any residual need for half an hour in a model village.

 

 

     

 

Seeing how the town was filling up with coach parties, locals, and weekend visitors, we knew it was time to leave town. 

We returned to the car park where I was briefly amused by this sign

The next day we passed the entrance to Longborough Opera House, so the sign's origins were (probably) explained. On the other side it said "Parking all day £5".

I was entertained slightly longer in the car park by these beauties

A striking feature of our long weekend was the high number of well-preserved old cars we saw. Many older then these, and many from the early 70s (the days when I could name most makes and models) in seemingly pristine condition. At first I assumed there was some sort of Old Car convention but concluded that it's all the rage in those parts to own and drive old cars.

We drove away from Bourton-on-the-Water for a late lunch. But that is another blogpost!

* joke

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Corfe Castle and Swanage

I have a little book called Short Walks in Dorset, and thought it would be a splendid idea to walk these modest strolls whilst in Dorset in March.

I selected the Corfe Castle walk, because we had seen Corfe Castle on our visit two years ago. I wanted to travel on the steam train, but, realistically that was not going to happen on a March Monday.

It's a bit of a drive from Bridport to Purbeck but not unpleasant when the roads are not too busy. We thought to stop for coffee en route, and I thought that Prince Charles's model village, Poundland, would be an excellent place. We drove around it but could not find anything that resembled a café, tea room or anywhere else for refreshment. Now, if I were designing a new village, I would make damn sure that I created a village centre with a decent café, village shop, Post Office and pub. Not just shops selling beads and artisan furniture. But it seems that Poundland is just another dormitory town designed for people to drive away from, and into historic Dorchester.

We didn't explore Dorchester to any great extent, so it would be unfair to comment in detail. It didn't seem that inspiring, but we did find somewhere open for morning coffees and preparing for lunch. Nappers Mite is a strange name and has a fairly interesting history. My coffee was perfectly satisfactory and I'm sure if we'd been hungry we could have found something to meet our needs.

Onwards to Corfe Castle. The National Trust car park is some distance from the castle. The pay-and-display machine was broken, and the Visitors' Centre was uninviting, so we set off on our walk which originated across the road from the car park (take care crossing).

 The walk took us along the Corfe River. There were some helpful signs of what wildlife to look out for. Aimed primarily at children but interesting, too, for adults who lack any particular knowledge.

 

The path crosses the river and I made the mistake of following the signs to the castle and village rather than referring to the walk instructions. Having looked at the book again for the purpose of this blog post, I have just realised that as we didn't even park in the 'correct' car park, our chances of following the route were virtually zero. And reflects as much on the poor quality of the instructions as my incompetence in reading them. Hmm.

The path took us along the bottom of a cliff, with the ruined castle looming above us

 

A pleasant enough walk until some ghastly woman and her companion galumphed past, sneering loudly at people who stop to take photos of sheep. Very rude. I can only pity her if she must rush everywhere and miss seeing anything. But, mainly, rude.

The village is twee and very consciously a tourist destination. A shop dedicated to Enid Blyton, who visited Purbeck and  - possibly - based Kirrin Castle on Corfe Castle. Quite interesting to look at; startling that someone can make a living from selling all sorts of Enid Blyton tat, including lots of golliwogs. 

There was a museum which held our attention for nearly five minutes, and a model village which didn't appeal (too many children, apart form anything else) and a selection of pubs.

We chose the Fox Inn, worth a visit to have a look in. There was a roaring fire, in what's claimed as a 14th century firepalce, and some people were eating what looked like well made meals. The beer wasn't great, clearly wasn't getting the turnover at that time of year. Reviews are mixed, to put it mildly.

We strolled up up to the castle entrance but were staggered at what they were charging just to walk round a few old ruins with no really significant history (despite what the marketing people claim). So, instead we walked round the village before heading off to Swanage.

     

Swanage seemed pleasant enough as out-of-season holiday towns go. Nice walk along the beach and stroll around the shops. The highlight was a bowl of mussels. I forget the name of the restaurant, but it had a front room with a counter, and a back room for dining, with lots of teapots on display and jams and chutneys for sale in the connecting passage. The mussels were excellent. We also witnessed an incident which turned 'very annoying parent of toddler' into something quite amusing. The toddler was called Oscar.

The father of the child seemed desperate to show off to us and a couple of old ladies what a marvellous father he was. He spoke to Oscar in the way that one might speak to the child of an acquaintance - stiltedly, and bombarding them with questions and statements, rather than in that desultory way of half-finished sentences that people use when close.

Mother seemed uninterested, her body-language hostile and uninterested. She said nothing. Until, suddenly, loud show-off Dad announced "I'm Oscar's favourite Daddy". Hurriedly, Mum said "Oscar's only Daddy". Too hurriedly, too desperate to emphasise the point. I sniggered. He looked daggers at me. I'm so bored with these absentee fathers who spend so little time with their kids - often for good reason, sometimes for not - and then feel the need to show other people what good dads they are (they imagine) rather than actually be a good dad!

We had another annoying parent-of-toddler incident in the Red Lion at Wareham. We were the only people sitting in what is a large bar of a hotel, and this couple arrived with their toddler, and sat at the next table to us. The mother - who was about 6 or 7 months pregnant - demanded the man went to get her 'another' large glass of wine but he was too busy playing with the toddler's noisy toy. We decided it was time to go. Inconsiderate and anti-social. 

On the way home we saw what I assumed was an albino peacock, as did this photographer (a year earlier), but it seems from the internet that white peafowl are actually bred as such!

Who's My Bottom? - Christopher Gillett

I put this onto my Kindle because I follow Christopher on Twitter; this stemmed from when he appeared in Il Postino at Los Angeles Opera.I continued following him because of his intelligent insight into the life of an opera singer.

Like any branch of entertainment (and sport) we tend to think of the Big Star Names and the Glamorous Lifestyles that we imagine that they lead. But the Big Names would be nothing without the legion of supporting performers travelling and alternating between big roles in small houses and smaller roles in big houses. 

The title is derived from his frequent performances as Flute in Britten's Midsummer Night's Dream - one of the acting troupe, The Mechanicals, who perform the play within the play. And as the peripatetic singers move from opera house to opera house, they often find themselves working closely with people they've never met - or, let's be honest, even heard of - before.

In some ways, I think this is an "insider's" book. I have read reviews and praise from singers and other opera professionals who identify strongly with the situations depicted. As an opera fan with no experience of working in the theatre it lifts the veil of the mysterious arts required to put on an opera. There's a risk in knowing what happens behind the scenes, the possibility of destroying the magic. But I am by nature curious, and I think that knowing a little more about the creative process can lend a greater appreciation to what happens on stage.

A well written book, in that I moved swiftly through it. There was some disconnection in that different chapters, referring to different occasions, were not in strict chronological order, but it was well signed and never confusing. It is published via Lulu, self-publishing, as an increasing number of writers do nowadays. I can absolutely set your mind at rest. This is a quality book, and I didn't notice any sub-editing howlers, which can often occur, even in books supposedly professionally edited and published by established book companies. 

I can't claim to have laughed out loud, but it was an interesting insight into the (often) drudgery of working in opera, the difficulties in being away from home, the problems in cancelling for personal reasons when there's no replacement, and the difficulties in financing travel and accommodation for several weeks' rehearsal, when payment is strictly for performance - and contingent on not falling ill on the night. To be honest, I think you have to be interested in opera, or theatre-craft to appreciate this book, but I would definitely recommend it to anybody who wants to understand more about the practicalities of putting on a show. And if you have illusions that all opera singers live the lives of pampered pop stars, prepare for them to be shattered!

Christopher also blogs engagingly and informatively at Saddo abroad and elsewhere eg Grimes on the Beach

 

 

 

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Wandle Wanderings Part 2

Subtitle: The day we never saw The Wandle

I purchased Cycling Traffic Free London - other areas also exist. This includes the Wandle Way, in two parts. Part 2 is, sensibly, Mitcham Common to Wandsworth. Part 1 is Coulsdon to Hackbridge. So, we followed the book, cycling from Coulsdon South to Carshalton Beeches, with not a glimpse of the Wandle. We changed at Norwood Junction for Coulsdon South. We immediately got lost and decided to sit in a nearby park, Coulsdon Memorial Ground opened in 1921, and dedicated to the memory of the men who fell in WWI. The play areas were refurbished in 2009, funded by the National Lottery. The café and toilet block was closed - the internet suggests this is long-term. By this block lay much broken glass and abandoned cans of lager, and some evidence that someone was sleeping rough there.

We found a nice little coffee shop/art gallery, Art Rebellion, definitely worth a visit if you're in the area. But, to be honest, if you want to enjoy this ride, you might as well start at Woodmansterne Station, which we passed not having really seen anything of interest.

We paused for a sip of water and found ourselves looking at a clearly historic railway bridge. Nevertheless, we didn't think anything more of it until a chance reference on a TV programme a couple of weeks later, when we realised that this was an integral part of the Surrey Iron Railway (picture copied from Wikipedia under Creative Commons).

This was the world's first railway to be publicly subscribed by Act of Parliament as a railway throughout.

It was horse drawn. More information here. The original railway went through the heavily industrialised Wandle Valley from Croydon to Wandsworth; this extension is in what one might think of the notional Wandle Valley.

It's complicated. There's a long explanation in River Wandle Companion that shows it's not nonsensical to ride out in Coulsdon in search of the Wandle. Book review here. Basically, it's about streams that only rise in wet weather.

As instructed we took a right and came upon a surprisingly pretty village green, that of the village of Woodmansterne. Quiet and peaceful, although with little more than a church to justify it as a village. I don't know why I didn't get my camera out. It was a warm day and perhaps I was more concerned with drinking water.

At this point, the instructions offer two alternative routes. We took the less strenuous, but, nevertheless had to get off and push up Chipstead Way, much to the amusement of local residents tending their gardens. No doubt, they see this sight often enough.

The great thing about climbing, especially when you believe that you are heading for a valley, is that you get the chance to whizzzzzzzzzzzzzz down Carshalton Road at considerable speed, a journey not made less hairy by the cars also doing the same. That scary feeling when you're rounding a bend and wondering what will stop cars coming up from behind and sending you into the hedgerow. I'm not saying I'm a nervous cyclist but I do prefer off-roading.

At the bottom of the hill are Mayfield Lavender fields, which were in full bloom. 

     

There were hordes of people in attendance. A surprisingly large proportion were of Japanese or Korean appearance. The tea tent was heaving - and was over-charging for weak tea in polystyrene cups - we passed. It was also possible to buy lavender and lavender-related products in the gift tent. Again, no. We passed. Still, it was nice to spend a few minutes strolling in the sweet-scented lavender fields. 

I was quite astounded at the poor level of driving in the car park and the sheer desperation on the faces of the 4x4 drivers, desperate for a parking space. One hassling a middle aged man who was trying to manoeuvre his infirm mother into the car. Another blindly driving at me even though I tried to get out of the way.

We crossed over into Oaks Park, where we did get a decent cup of tea. Although not without me being assaulted by a dog, whose owner didn't seem to realise that not everybody enjoys being slobbered over by a dirty animal, especially not when eating. I say eating, but all I could get was a packet of crisps. This park cafe had resolutely stopped serving food by 4pm on a sunny July Saturday. And Jimmy's coffee was woeful.

Still, The Oaks Park is rather splendid. Sutton Council carries a page turgidly describing its history, and showing how it connects with various local and sub-regional walks. The history is largely about the famous Oaks race 

The original Oaks Race ran from Barrow Hedges, north of The Oaks and through Oaks Park before heading west to approximately the site of the current Epsom Downs Racecourse

We will revisit it one day, when we have more time - and energy - to explore. I thoguht the view across the road was rather nice and not what you'd normally expect within the Greater London boundary.

We found a gloriously muddy track through the woods that took us back to Woodmansterne Road. For a few minutes I felt like a proper off-road cyclist. It was fun. At this point we called it a day and caught a direct train from Carshalton Beeches to Streatham Hill, our home station. But we were only a few hundred yards from the (minor) source of the Wandle!

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Wandle Wanderings Part 1

Lunch at the Riverside

Two years ago, a delightful trio of puddings at The Riverside in West Bay sort of got me back into photographing my food. More importantly, we had good memories of a tasty lunch, in a restaurant where the relatively few children present were under control. We decided to repeat the experience.

When we visited in June 2011 the weather was pretty awful - windy and rainy and not very warm. This time it was sunny enough to take phots, and not especially chill.

Again, we had a very good meal. I started with a seafood souffle

I followed with grilled fish - which variety I forget now, in a leek and mushroom sauce, which was delicious, but, unfortunately, didn't come out well in a photo. I so wanted a pudding, my desire made even more so by seeing the eye-watering temptation of, this time, a quartet of puddings. But I had eaten so well I - uncharacteristically - had no room for any more.

Lovely restaurant, long established, with fresh clean paintwork lending it a nautical feel. We sat with views over the estuary of the River Brit. Pleasant staff, friendly enough but not intrusive. For a second time, we enjoyed Sunday lunch without the perennial South London risk of screaming toddlers running around. It's how it should be (if you want your kids to run around and be generally anti-social and disruptive, take them to McD's, away from civilised people. Or get them to sit at table, leave only with permission, and only with a specific destination, such as the loos. And teach them to walk, not run).

Afterwards we felt we needed a brisk post-prandial stroll. This seemed a fine idea in principle but I felt heavy and lazy. A few droplets of rain fell, and we agreed it was best to return to our holiday cottage and vegetate.

Another short ride

I was right to take that short spin to Tooting Common last week. I went out for another ride today, same destination but a greater distance. That approach is correct in the context of Graded Exercise Therapy/pacing for someone with mild fibromyalgia. Tuesday's ride was no more - but no less- than a light warm up and stretch. Today's the equivalent of a pre-prandial stroll. With the extra twist of the obligatory final leg up the hill. It was only at that point that I broke sweat and was breathing with any effort.

I dressed pretty much as I did on Tuesday - t-shirt, jogging bottoms, and canvas sandals. Just fine for a short spin like that, but if I had been going any further, I would have gone out differently. Better shoes. And more equipment. It's all nice and fluffy to go with a little handbag slung across your body,  but it's not that efficient. You need a rucksack for the water, the toolkit//pump, cardigan, map, camera, sandwiches, Swiss Army knife, ginger beer, crampons, distress flare. I exaggerate!

So, no photos.

I was going to put in a mention of a book I bought recently, called The Girl's Guide to Life on Two Wheels.

But I'm in two minds about it. It's well thought out, well written book, with some very useful tips, and some rather nive photography. But I should have taken the 'Girl' in the title as a red flag. I'm not quite sure when posh people stop being a 'girl', but other than specific usage such as 'Girls night out' most normal people stop using it by about the time they have a 'grown up' job and 'grown up' responsibilities, like bills.

Like so much of the media, it seems to assume that women are aged 35 or under, because, obviously, past the age of 35 women are, in fact, invisible, and have nothing else to do in life but curl up and wait to die.

I couldn't reasonably expect a journalist to have any insights into specific challenges of cycling with a chronic health condition, and it would be churlish to criticise someone for not catering specifically for my niche. So, if you're young, thin and girlish, this is a good book. There might be a market for a book written about cycling (and/or general fitness) for older women with health challenges, but to write it would take quite specific research and input from someone medically qualified. But of course, if anyone has any ideas, why not leave a comment, or email me!

Review from Total Women's Cycling

First day in the Cotswolds

Is it bad to say I'm bored of going abroad? Abroad has some lovely places, most of which I've never seen. But getting there and back is destined to ruin a holiday. Even when there is no delay and no problems, it takes so long, with so much hassle, and so much hanging around. For the Late May Bank Holiday weekend, we arrived at our destination on the Gloucestershire-Oxforshire borders in the time it would have taken us  to travel to and get as far as boarding at Gatwick airport. And that was even though it took hours - or seemed to - to drive from home to where we passed the Westside shopping centre at Shepherds Bush, at which point we reached the open road. and this was even though we stopped at Beaconsfield Services, like most Motorway Services, infinitely worse than Gatwick Airport.

Jimmy loves the seaside. so do I. But I wanted to show him there is more to England than 'coast'. So I chose a place that - except for the Bristol channel - couldn't really be further from the sea. The Cotswolds. Years ago we stayed  in a wonderful inn in Harwich, The Pier. They are part of an association, the Great Inns of Britain and via this website we chose the King's Head at Bledington. It was only after we booked that I realised that, despite being in Gloucestershire, the Postal town is Chipping Norton, home of the Chipping Norton Set. I subsequently read that the inn is popular with the 'Young Royals'. 

We arrived in miserable rain but I immediately loved the setting of the Inn. Our bedroom, above the bar, was interesting. Not least that we - yes, even I - had to stoop to avoid the low beams to reach it. The room was spacious enough, scrupulously clean and with a capacious and comfortable bed. I don't think either of us went for the Shabby Chic decor, having experienced too much Shabby-for-Real in life. Jimmy was also concerned that the lack of a shower curtain for the in-the-bath shower, and a floor that had lino, not proper tiling, would, in the long term, mean a lot of water seeping into the 16th Century beams. 

 

The Inn contained a decent bar, and, on the whole, the staff were warm and welcoming. Outside the pub was a sign 'Dogs on leads, Bantams running free' -  and we saw that they kept a couple of bantams. It was gratifying that people did obey the sign about dogs on leads, but, nevertheless, I did witness an act of unbelievable sadism or sociopathy.

There was a man, I don't think he was staying at the Inn or even just drinking. He had a dog, on a lead, a long lead, and somehow he got the dog to worry and chase one of the bantams. It ran around like the proverbial headless chicken and made the most heart-rendering sound of panic, while he stood there giggling away. He invited us to join in his laughter, but soon read our expressions of disgust and contempt. His face fell, and he reined in the dog, before walking over to talk to the children on the swings. He didn't seem to be connected to any of them, and that made my stomach churn, too. In retrospect, I wish I'd reported him to pub staff, but when you're not a regular it's difficult to know what to do.

In the evening we ate in the Inn restaurant and had a very tasty meal. I started with Baked Cornish Scallops, with garlic, cheddar and parsley crust

My main course was a Fillet of Line Court Sea Trout, sautéed samphire and tomatoes, and hollandaise sauce with Atlantic prawn and lemon beignets

There were some good flavours and I really couldn't fault the dishes. I finished with a delicious Eton Mess, though, for some reason, I forgot to photograph it.

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Back on the bike, slowly

This is a diary/progress post.

Last year, when it was quite hot, I went for a bike ride along the Wandle. At the end of the day I was moderately tired and aching, but attributed partly to my stupidity in wandering around trying to find Haydons Road station. 

The next day we took the train to the South Coast, and cycled from Shoreham to Worthing. Not far, but, in the heat, concentrating on hydration, I ignored food. Very stupid. On the Monday I had a hair appointment, only in Streatham, but because of a fatal car accident (or rather, a driver crashed his car into a bus whilst having a heart attack), the road was shut, and I had to walk. In truth, it's not a long walk, but I was anxious not to be too late - even though the hairdresser knew what had happened and reassured me to get there in my own time.

However, after returning home I was spent. Just needed to lay down. And take the next day off work. And, in total, was signed off for three weeks. This conveniently coincided with the Paralympics, which, just as much as - if not more than - the Olympics should have inspired me to bike riding. 

Meanwhile, I had a referral to a fibro clinic at Guy's hospital, which was helpful, and included some advice - and a referral to physiotherapy - for Graded Exercise Therapy. The principle of GET is to build up a level of stamina. It goes well with 'pacing' - knowing what you're physically capable of, and not exceeding that.  I suppose I could have gone out cycling in the autumn, but I wanted to get into GET properly. My physio sessions were during the winter. Cold wet windy weather, and snow, are demotivating for bike riding, but so are short days and dark evenings. I joined the gym at work and followed my physio instructions to gradually build up my time on the exercise bike and cross-trainer.

Exercise bikes are a poor substitute for the real thing. It's fundamentally boring being in a gym. We have BBC News Channel, with the sound down and subtitles scrolling. I could plug myself into my mp3 player. But it's boring. It lacks the pleasure of scenery whizzing back. There is no real sensual stimulation - smell, breeze, the bake of the sun. No opportunities for free-wheeling down slopes, and no visual goal to aim for when plodding up 'hills'. The exercise bike is performance, or at least, output driven. Leisure cycling doesn't care how fast you go, let alone how many RPMs and Watts and your heart-rate. Not that heart rate is measured correctly - mine hit 231, albeit after having spotted the Secretary of State (not in the gym). but then, Dr LittleBrother hit 247 on his Garmin.

Also, exercise bikes in low-rent gyms are not designed for women. Or, at least not for women of my height. I have a 'female fit geometry' bike at home - oddly, it's the equivalent of Himself's bike, which doesn't proclaim that it's male fit geometry. Being a woman is seen as bit 'other' 'different' 'odd'. In practice, I have to choose between struggling to reach the handlebars on the upright, or struggling to reach the pedals on the recumbent. The seat on the upright is designed for a male physiology. Women's saddles are very different. Granted, design matters most when you're doing long rides. On the other hand, if a short spin on a fixed bike leads to disproportionate discomfort and pain in the seating area, it's probably not doing much good. 

Useful tips in Female Anatomy and Saddle Discomfort

I had my bike serviced before Easter. then the weather wasn't good. and then I got a cold and cough, and, oh, excuses, and anxiety-induced inertia -which probably warrants a blogpost in itself.

I have bought a gorgeous book called Lost Lanes. The photography alone makes it a must for any discerning coffee table. I was leafing through the words one night recently and began to feel very frustrated. I want to be that person who goes on long all day bike rides. Why shouldn't I? Well, in order to ride long miles you should be reasonably fit. So frustrating to be caught between graded exercise/pacing, and a need and desire for stamina and strength. No point in planning 68 miles around the Isle of Wight without practice!

And so, on Tuesday evening, I left work slightly earlier than normal, and spent half an hour pedalling down to Tooting Common and back. A useful mixture of roads with stupid drivers - amazing how two drivers drove straight at me, (both in 4x4s), one out of sheer aggression, and one too stupid to know you're supposed to look to your right before propelling your car out of a side road. Easy riding along the tarmac, freewheel down the resurfaced path next to the Streatham Hill branch railway, and some moderately challenging riding across hardened mud and up a slight incline alongside the mainline railway. 

That was the easy bit. The hard bit is always  going home. Uphill all the way, and tedious. When I first got the bike, I had to get off and push, so it was a relief not to do so this time. I just felt that I perspired more than I needed to, given the ambient temperature. And, later, my feet were aching too much.

 At least I have now identified I have a footwear problem. In warm weather, I have  - stupidly, it turns out - been wearing light canvas shoes. I did previously wear trainers, but they packed up, and, frankly, who needs trainers? In sterner weather I wear sturdy shoes. But having done a light spin, and yet suffering sore feet for all the next day, I have realised that I need to buy a pair of shoes, either specifically designed for leisure cycling or similar mid-price non-fashion trainers.

On cupcakes

When I was little, one of the first things any good Brownie - or, indeed, a bad Brownie like me - learnt to cook were Fairy Cakes. Bake some buns, dollop some icing on (icing sugar and water, mix to the right consistency) and sprinkle with sugar strands. This recipe says hundreds and thousands but the illustration is of sugar strands. In my opinion, hundreds and thousands are smething different - tiny metallic balls.

Paul Simon sings 

Hide it in a hiding place
Where no one ever goes.
Put it in you pantry with your cupcakes.
It's a little secret,
Just the Robinsons' affair.

Cupcakes are the American for Fairy cakes

I don't know why but, just a few years back, Cupcakes exploded in the UK. People wrote tracts about why Cupcakes are anti-feminist. Or why it's okay to be a feminist and bake cupcakes. Every you went, cafés were selling 'cup cakes'. I can see an attraction. When done well, the decorations can be a work of art. Have enough cupcakes, with sufficient variation in decorations, and you have an eye-catching mouth-watering display, tempting to the customer who only came in for a coffee. Coffee and cupcakes, living the dream.

It might just be me, but the tide seems to have turned. On the last three occasions I have been up for a sweet snack while out I have drunk good quality strong tea, and eaten on two occasions a slice of good old-fashioned cake - Victoria Sandwich at Lullingstone and Seville Orange Marmalade cake at Sezincote, and an old fashioned toasted tea cake in Chipping Campden. And what can match a scone with clotted cream and proper jam, with tea?

I have to confess that I have tried cupcakes from several places on several occasions and have been disappointed. The visual treat is matched by a let down in the taste. Often the sponge is stale, or tastes of cheap margarine. The topping is over-sweet, sickly, and verging on the unpleasant. The topping helps to keep the bun fresher, but only up to a point.

There is one noble exception to the Cupcake disappointment - Ms Cupcake in Brixton. Vegan and gluten free, but nevertheless packed full of flavour. Jimmy got into a habit of buying me cupcakes from there, and I got into the habit of taking photos of them - with my phone. These are not good photos, so on a few occasions I actually took photos with my real camera.

Eventually, I came to the conclusion that these cupcakes, tasty though they are, were giving me such a sugar rush, followed by a sugar low, that I should indulge only on occasion. I have since rediscovered the delights of the slice of traditional English cakes, but I would still recommend Ms Cupcake as outstanding. And she has a cookbook recently published.

We even pretend that cakes aren't for us, but we buy them just for my Ladies' Maid

 

There again, she just likes cake! (from La Parisienne on Streatham Hill)

Wandle Wanderings Part 1

It's - frighteningly - over four years since we discovered the Wandle Trail. We rode along part of it one gorgeous autumn day back in 2008. Looking at my photo album we didn't visit again until August 2011. We have been on several different parts of the Wandle Trail since.

On those earlier bike trips I took very few photos. Cycling's that. It's nice to stop from time to time, to sip some water, and if you're clever, to take some interesting photos. But, unlike walking, you can't keep stopping and still sensibly call it a bike ride. Major downside of cycling - you miss a lot of the detail.

You may recall that last summer was pretty hideous weather-wise, except for a few days in May, right up until the Olympics, which, like the Paralympics, were endowed with nearly perfect weather. It's because of that that I don't moan about the summer of 2012, although I realise that the weather wasn't helpful - to put it mildly - for people dependent on a fair amount of reasonable weather to earn a living.

But one Sunday in July, the nation rejoiced, as the weather looked bright and dry, and not too hot. So we set out for the Wandle. Oh, what a fun day that was! We started with a row on Wandsworth Common, when Jimmy decided without consulting me that the best way from A-B is the most direct way, irrespective of the volume and stupidity of vehicles and their drivers.We had another row in Earlsfield, and I nearly went home, only slightly pacified by coffee. We never did find St George's Park, the sensible way to start the Wandle Trail if you're not a total completist (a shopping centre lies between there and the Tideway). 

It's impossible to explain the charm of the Wandle. The Northern reaches are unsurprisingly urban and still to some extent industrial. It also challenges my awareness of South London - before long, you're passing Plough Lane and the Wimbledon (greyhound) Stadium, yet 'Wimbledon', eg Wimbledon Park, tennis, and common seem so far from home. And, suddenly you feel that you're in the country! Or, at least Wandle Meadow Nature Park, through the more urban Wandle Park (Colliers Wood), and then you have to deal with the chaos that is Merton High Street.  It was the first decent weekend day for weeks, since before the Diamond Jubilee, by then a long-fading memory. There were few people out along the river, but streams of people flowing to Marks and Spencer and Sainsburys, still known to many South London as 'Savacentre'.

Merton Priory was founded in 1114 by Gilbert Norman, Sheriff of Surrey under Henry I. Former pupils include Nicholas Breakspeare (later, Pope) and Thomas Becket. According to Wikipedia 

In 1236 Henry III held a Parliament at the Priory at which the Statute of Merton was agreed allowing amongst other matters Lords of the Manor to enclose common land...As this was the first recorded statute of the first recorded parliament its real significance is as the starting point for parliamentary democracy

A sad statute. The Wikipedia author may celebrate the birth of Parliamentary Democracy, but all over England, and beyond, we see the destructive effects of the arbitrary enclosure of common land for the use of the rich and privileged - remember, back in 1236, the ordinary working man - let alone women - had no say in the land being stolen from us. This New Statesman article is illuminating about land-ownership, albeith in rather impenetrable prose. I'm sure I have read somewhere that over 70% of land in England is owned by fewere than 100,000 people, many of them inter-related. 

Merton Priory was demolished when Henry VIII dissolved the Monasteries. He used much of the masonry at Nonsuch Palace. 

We cycled on through Morden Hall Park, a rare National Trust property in Greater London. I have mixed feelings. I have an increasing dislike for the National Trust, and, to be honest, Morden Hall is a place of no great interest or historical relevance. But the grounds are expansive and calming. The Rose Garden is a bit underwhelming, and, on balance, the greatest attraction of the park is the River.

Even nicer than Morden Hall Park is Ravensbury Park, a tranquil place with the river as a feature, and plenty of places to sit and think. (Or just think). If we weren't with bikes we could have caught a bus home, or a tram from Mitcham. Slightly tedious to trawl down to Mitcham Junction, but the cricket green is rather pleasant. I've just noticed on the map that there is a Wandle Industrial Museum nearby. This is due to move into Ravensbury Mill this year.

Starting to expand the photo collection at Wandle Way; I promise there will be further - and better illustrated - posts on the Wandle!

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Where Hope Flows

The Mystery of Mercy Close - Marian Keyes

I became a Marian Keyes fan by accident. In the mid-90s I was, in many ways, the poster girl for reading so-called Chick Lit books. I rang my mother at work, her boss answered, and called her to the phone with "It's Bridget Jones".I loved the Bridget Jones books. I love watching the Bridget Jones films, even when they're on ITV with advert breaks inserted every 12 minutes irrespective of dramatic tension and continuity.

Searching round a bookshop for more Chick Lit, I landed on Marian's most recent, her second Lucy Sullivan is Getting Married. I was struck by the serious nature of this book, dealing with Real Life problems that extended far beyond 'how to catch a man' and 'does my bum look big in this?' - themes that Helen Fielding does superbly, but not all of her imitators.

As she published more books, I bought and read them. I had bought, read and enjoyed several before it dawned on me that I was a fan. I have grown older, and 'Chick Lit' has lost its appeal. If I was in any doubt, three years ago on a beach holiday in Spain I was 'forced' to read the books in the holiday let, and ended up reading some Sophie Kinsella. Shallow, pointless, unlikeable narcissistic characters.

For the beach holiday last year, I loaded up the Kindle I'd bought largely for this eventuality. And, of course, the latest Marian was on it. The Mystery of Mercy Close. That was several months ago, and the details are fading, but what remains is the knowledge that this is seriously good writing. Strong dramatic narrative with an element of suspense. Believable characters. Flawed characters. Characters that don't easily divide into 'good' and 'bad'. The main protagonist, Helen Walsh says 

"...a shovel list. It’s more of a conceptual thing. It’s a list of all the people and things I hate so much I want to hit them in the face with a shovel.”

She's quite likable, actually, but she's no saint. Some of her behaviour is just nasty. Some of it has more complex motivations. Her parents - what can you say of them. Again, not especially likeable, but believable, and with endearing faults. 

Although I'm sure she's seriously rich, and appears to have a good marriage, Marian's own life hasn't been easy. The previous book I bought of hers is Saved by Cake, how baking helped her to recover from a bleak episode of mental ill health. Her other books have covered subjects such as alcoholism, cocaine addiction, sexual and domestic violence, bereavement, and I believe she has sharp insights which have taught me enormous amounts about these problems.

Running through is a covert existential theme - her characters are generally very involved in aspects of popular culture, but there is never any suggestion that fluff and frippery is more important than the hard reality of life as people live it. And yet, although the subjects are usually dark, there is light in the novels, and a vivid sense of hope - that this, too, will pass.

Don't make the mistake of dismissing Marian Keyes as 'chick lit'. She has one of the most authentic voices I've ever read in fiction. I know she is hugely popular with real thinking people, even though she doesn't feature in the luvvie lists of fashionable writers on the cocktail party circuit. And her commentary on modern middle-class, largely suburban life has some of the qualities for which Dickens is revered.

I've often referenced Marian in discussions about 'celebrity'. In many ways she is extremely famous, and, yet, if I sat opposite her on a train I'm not sure I'd recognise her. That strikes me as being an appealing type of fame. Famous enough to sell shedloads of books, but able to go about her life privately.

Related articles

Marian Keyes: 'I thought I'd never be able to write again'

A drizzly afternoon in Dorset

(Sorry that I have still not got back into the habit of regular blog posting. Life has this tiresome habit of getting in the way).

We visited Dorset in March. Previous blog posts on the subject are A winter break in Dorset and A rainy day in Dorset

We stayed in the village of Symondsbury on the outskirts of Bridport. An attractive village, with some of the advantages of rural life - peace and quiet,and long views. We ventured to the village pub, The Ilchester Arms, one evening and found the Locals to be friendly. They must have guessed that we were in a holiday rental, and thus could have been justified in showing some resentment or suspicion - many rural communities are being decimated by holiday cottages. We were involved in a conversation and generally welcomed. I'm not sure how sustainable small pubs in small villages really are. Even on the Friday night it wasn't exactly heaving. They serve food, and the menu looked good, but unless a pub employs a chef ans markets themselves as food specialists, they're not going to get rich on it.

On the Saturday afternoon, after we had stocked up in Bridport, we went for a stroll round the village. If you look carefully in just about any setting, you can always find things of interest. But you do have to get out of your car and walk. Also, it would have been better if I had better light. But it had been raining on and off all day, and time was marching on towards sunset.

I was mildly fascinated by the semi-culverting of the River Simene, allowing it to run under the road. I have a passing interest in Lost Rivers - so many minor rivers in London have been lost to sight (near me the Falconbrook and slightly further, the Effra). I have subsequently visited many places where the river flows down or across Main Street forming an important feature of the village or town.

Most English villages have an Anglican church. This village also has a local Primary School which is an Anglican school. it puzzles me how the churches can be sustainable, as for a religiously selective Primary School at the heart of a village, it seems at best anachronistic and possibly anti-choice, as if imposing Religion, a specific Religion, and a very specific branch of that Religion from the top down - if you are an atheist living in such a village your choice is to send your child to the local school to be taught stuff you don't accept, or to find a properly secular school outside walking distance. But given that the Church is there, and, in this case, appears to have a history dating back to 1325, I totally accept that these are a permanent feature of the rural built environment. The Church didn't look open, and didn't seem to have sufficient interest to warrant a return. 

We often look at graveyards. I hope that Jimmy finds it interesting, because I'm rapidly losing my interest in them. It always strikes me that there are few if any recent graves. I'm not sure what that means. Perhaps the Churchyard is closed to new applicants. Perhaps people are generally opting for cremations. Even so, there are also a few graves that have clearly been visited recently. It's not something I do, and I don't really understand why other people do. I emphasise I'm not being judgemental, it's obviously a popular habit, and, except in extremis, does no one any harm. 

The most interesting feature to me was this construction. It took me a while to figure out what it was, until I saw a sign explaining. I thought perhaps it was some rudimentary but complex flood defence scheme, but it turns out that it's a bath for sheep, for use prior to shearing. I don't think that I had ever seen one before, but, as often happens, just a few weeks later, I saw a similar construction on Countryfile.

In the evening we ate at The George in Chideock. I think it has changed hands since we visited two years ago and remains a high standard. Homely food, well-prepared with fresh ingredients. Not necessarily presented in the most arty way, but I had very decent Butternut Squash soup, grilled fish with a variety of vegetables and chips, and a gorgeous treacle tart. I did take photos, but the ambient lighting was great for eating but not for photography, and I don't like flash in such settings.

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Tyneham - a Ghost Village

Thames Barrier Park

Last July, in that seemingly endless rainy season stretching from the Diamond Jubilee to the Olympics, we went on an excursion in East London. The first part, a ride on the cable car and walk along the Royal Docks is blogged at A pre-Olympic trip on The Dangleway. The second part required us to cross the intimidating A1020 North Woolwich Road, a frightening pedestrian (and cyclist) unfriendly urban freeway.

I was surprised to see a fleet of English National Opera lorries parked under the high level viaduct that carries the Docklands Light Railway to Pontoon Dock station.

 

Presumably, these are to transport scenery between workshop and theatre, theatre and storage. I guess they must do this frequently to justify a large fleet of lorries (rather than spot rental). It certainly isn't for touring, despite their inaccurate use of the name 'National'.

From the entrance to the park, I spotted this curious building. I can no longer remember its purpose or significance. Suggestions welcome in the blog comments!

According to Wikipedia Thames Barrier Park exists  to aid the regeneration of the area by creating an attractive public space alongside residential and commercial developments.  A key characteristic is that it has a sunken garden you can walk through, or you can walk at ground level, looking down into the sunken garden. Garden Visit says The green trench running through the park was intended as a reminder of the site's dockland heritage. It provides a sheltered microclimate for a 'rainbow garden' - strips of coloured plants.

I like it as a park, and suspect that if I lived nearby I would go more often. I don't think there's enough there for it to count as a visitor attraction for people from other parts. However, I would recommend it as a suitable follow-up to a ride on the cable car and a walk down the dock.

I have recently become aware of how lovely lavender looks in a mass-planting scheme. There was lavender growing in the garden when I was a child, but a typical suburban garden is limited in how expansive one can plant. I didn't like how the lavender attracted bees - we were all brought up that bees were 'nasties', to be avoided, rather than our friends, to be respected and nurtured. Much like spiders. We used to gather up the lavender, dry it, sew it into scraps of material and place them in drawers to give clothes a faint perfume. I don't suppose anyone does that nowadays!

I must also have liked the hydrangeas, given that I took photos at two different stages in our walk. The Pavilion in the background acts as a memorial to local people who died in World War II.

 Next to the river are sculptures that remind you that you are next to the river, which has waves.

The Park fronts onto the River Thames, with views of Woolwich

With the tide low, it was interesting to see just how much rubbish ends up in our urban rivers.

Also, you notice the tiny little streams, tributaries without a name, that flow into the great river.

I can never resist a picture of a redundant and probably rotting jetty.

Oddly, the main reason I wanted to visit Thames Barrier Park was to see the Thames Barrier. It's amazing Civil engineering, and being so unusual in its design, you would think it presents superb photography opportunities. But actually, because it's so wide and relatively squat, it doesn't lend itself to the ratio, 4:3, that I use for photos, and I wasn't close enough to take interesting photos of detail.

Looking back over the park affords a magnificent view of Millennium Mills

So close to City Airport, you are frequently aware of small jets flying over.

Next to the river and next to the park is a residential development. As far as I can gather, this is a Barratt Homes development, and therefore probably dating from no earlier than the 1980s. But it has an air about of it the 1930s, reminding me of Pullman Court in Streatham, or the De La Warr Pavilion in Bexhill-on-Sea, constructed in the International Modernist style (more commonly known as Art Deco).

We walked back out through the park, and I took photos of the hedges sculpted to look like waves.

 

It was a nice diversion in the park, and we were lucky with the weather  - when we got back to Brixton the skies opened and we nearly got soaked just going to the market. It was also nice to see a class of Primary School children who had been taken to the park simply to enjoy it. I would imagine - albeit with no supporting evidence - that many of the kids don't get out much with their parents. My eyes were opened and my horizons broadened by seeing the river and the Thames Barrier, and the planted gardens; imagine the effect on children from cramped housing and impoverished homes. Just weeks after this, public discourse was about 'Olympic Legacy' and the need for more sport in schools with idiot ex-Etonian politicians banging on about organised chasing balls round fields. I believe fervently that everyone and especially children, should have more activity, and it is this sort of outing that is far more important, and more active,  than standing around on a hockey pitch hoping that someone might pass you a ball and you might get the chance to trot or waddle with it for a few seconds, until a bully nags at you to pass the ball to someone else.

We caught the DLR. I so wanted to sit at the front and pretend to be the driver but some awful studenty type had got to the right spot on the platform first, and he got to pretend to be driver. It was a bit of a downer on an otherwise enjoyable day. 

 

links 04/21/2013

• https://shareweb.kent.gov.uk/Documents/leisure-and-culture/countryside-and-coast/country-parks/Lullingstone%20Country%20Park%20site%20leaflet.pdf

  tags: days-out

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links 04/12/2013

• Drinks orders now please! | Uborka

  • Bloody Mary foam with salsa

Posted from Diigo. The rest of my favorite links are here.

A rainy day in Dorset

When you book a week away in March, you don't plan on the assumption of good weather. I see a forecast of 'showers' as also being a forecast of extended dry spells. With a hire car, fold up waterproofs, and sturdy shoes, no excuse for not getting out.

Jimmy has an obsession with the sea. He says it gives him energy. I love the sea as well, although I think his obsession means that we don't spend enough time in the inland countryside. We headed to Hive Beach at Burton Bradstock for a morning coffee. However, although it was 'morning' to us, it was lunchtime to everyone else. We went into the cafe, and saw that there were two free tables each for two people alongside each other. I had this weird exchange with a rather odd young man, accompanied by his aged father. His words were that we could have a table each, but his demeanour, facial expression, body language and aggressive behaviour made it clear he wanted both tables. We decided to leave. This is absolutely no reflection on the management of the cafe, who were busy elsewhere and whose attention we didn't attract. Sometimes you just get a feeling it's not worth the hassle.

We walked down to the beach. We were there 21 months ago, and had walked in a North-Westerly direction both on the beach and along the cliffs. Last summer, horrifically, a young woman was killed by a rock-fall; the beach and cliffs now have 'Beach closed' signs up. This page shows that there have been further rockfalls. On the very day we visited there was a headline on the BBC News website 'Large crack' opens on Dorset coastline, albeit further along in Weymouth. Since our visit, the Dorset Echo has run Coastal path affected by new landslips near Lulworth Cove. Since we visited it seems that the clifftop path - coastal walk - has reopened, but the beach remains closed.

Instead, we went to the South East. Just us on the beach. Until we were joined by dog people. When I say 'joined by', I mean that, despite there being quite an expanse of beach to choose from, this man insisted on having his dogs run right up to me, repeatedly. If they had come any closer, they would have been touching me. Apparently, this is acceptable behaviour? He tried to make conversation with us about the weather. Of course, it's difficult when you're visiting an area - the locals tend to think of a beach as being their property, and, as a visitor, you don't say anything. Clearly the man was lonely, or disturbed. Probably one of those who think that people who use the social internet as being 'sad', needing to get a life. His life - harassing strangers with his dogs and not clearing up the dog's faeces. NB, not the people pictured below. I only noticed them when I focused the camera directly at them.

I don't let these people get to me. Instead I stood and watched the waves, and took photos of the beach. If you want one tip on photography, let it be this: do not assume that a sunny day is the best to take photographs. Yes, there is something magical about blue skies, but dark or threatening skies can be good, too!

We left Hive Beach and drove along the spectacular coast road to Cogden. 

Nobody in their right mind would install a pay and display meter in the middle of nowhere.  Unless, of course, lots of people want to park there. That pretty much sums up Cogden.

Well, yes, but...About three years ago we visited Milford on Sea in Hampshire on the Hampshire coast near the New Forest. Every where we went, pay-and-display was operated from the beginning of April until the end of September (or somesuch). However, we didn't even see the pay and display machine until we had decided not to descend the cliff to the beach.

Driving further along, I spotted a place called the Egg Cup Tea rooms. Interesting psychology, but if they had called it the Egg Cup cafe, would I have visited? If, in some parallel universe, I ran a tea shop, the Egg Cup would be exactly how I would run it. Pity I didn't think of photoing the bright and clean interior. A good mix of standard English breakfast menu - veggie option, Glamorgan sausage; daily specials; and tantalising cakes and scones. A really nice place - I particularly liked the collection of pottery decorative eggcups. And I welcomed the absence of children and dogs running around!

The weather changed dramatically after we left the tearoom. The views from the Coastal Road were dramatic and looming. I did try and take photos but they weren't successful. This is probably the best of a bad bunch, showing the chapel at Abbotsbury and the view of the Fleet Lagoon - look at these pictures from two years ago for context St Catherine's Chapel and Fleet Lagoon and Chesil Beach. We drove onto Abbotsbury. As, by now, it was chucking it down, we thought we would park up to wait for the storm to blow over. However, we discovered that the minimum parking fee was £4, so, thank you, National Trust, that's pretty exorbitant for twenty minutes on a rainy Saturday in winter. We didn't stay. Instead we returned to Bridport to stock up on supplies before embarking upon the second part of our sight-seeing day.

A pre-Olympic trip on The Dangleway

It seems so very long ago, but I had such a good day out, and took so many photos, it seems wrong not to blog about this trip. And, let's be honest, everything else that happened since! 

The 'Dangleway', or more properly, the uh, thingy, cable car from, er, like, near the Dome, opened at the end of June. We had seen test rides from afar A pre-Olympic trip to Greenwich Park, and I wanted to take a ride before it became popular. It hadn't exactly proved to be so up until that point, and certainly hasn't over the winter. The day before we visited, free tickets were distributed to residents of nearby Boroughs. We didn't qualify. I don't think it will ever become popular as a means of transport. TfL season ticket and Freedom pass holders have to pay a cash (or Oyster) fare, so unless your journey is basically North Greenwich Peninsular to the Royal Docks (or vice versa), with no onward travel, you might as well get the Jubilympics Line. Unless you're carrying a bike! But as a tourist attraction it's amazingly cheap.

We shared a cabin with a family - small baby and Dad, and Dad's parents. Grandma was a nervous flyer, but once the cable car took off, she was fine. I liked that it gave me a different view of an area of London I don't know very well. Also, it proved to be a gateway to further explore this area.

We caught the Jubilee Line to North Greenwich Station and strolled to and past the construction known variously as Millennium Dome, O2 Arena, and North Greenwich Arena.

Above the car-park hung the Dangleway

I became unnecessarily excited that the cogwheel that drives the cable car was clearly on display. We queued up

 and soon were able to launch ourselves into an actual cable car capsule. (Do they call them capsules? Or is that exclusively London Eye nomenclature?).

From the deepest reaches of South London, we embarked on our epic trip to the undiscovered East.

In life, it's best not to look back. But on a cable car, anything goes.

So many different means of transport. I assume this is a Thames Clipper, or something similar

Perhaps surprisingly, this was my first glimpse of Olympic Park, with the iconic stadium and Anish Kapoor's controversial Orbit.

Our next London 2012 venue was the Excel Arena

and we also had a good view of the residential area lying south of the Royal Docks, and Silvertown Way.

The ride does not take very long, although you can buy a return ticket and return to North Greenwich Peninsular immediately, or later. We decided to walk along the dockside and head towards the River Thames.

The Royal Docks are no longer working docks but their industrial heritage is referenced by the use of cranes as a decorative feature.

It's difficult to imagine the size of the docks until you see them. The buoys mark out the area which isn't safe for small boats. I know that, because I saw some people in kayaks. But I didn't photograph them and I don't know why.

Once you have walked past the Excel there is a footbridge across the Dock. A quaint little thing. You take a lift to reach the deck. It is 15 metres above the water, to allow tall yachts to pass under. If you stand in the middle and look East, you have some great views of London City Airport.

and if you look back, you see the towers of Canary Wharf rising behind the Dangleway.

The area to the south of the Royal Docks is still in need of attention, or regeneration. This surprised me because I had rather assumed the entire Docklands area had been transformed into Yuppie Flats. This warehouse looked semi-derelict:

It seemed to be part of the site for the what turned out to be ill-fated London Pleasure Gardens project. We went past after the Bloc 2012 weekend, but before administration. It seemed very desolate and strangely out of place. I think this strange Golf Ball-like construction was part of the 'offer' from LPG.

There's clearly potential in the area - I guess this is why the nearby Docklands Light Railway station is known as Pontoon Dock

It's more residential away from the excitement of London ExCel and associated hotels. The decorative cranes still dominate. From the residential streets, a clear view of the Emirates Airline and the Dome.

A sense of post-industrial bleakness lingered.

Depending on which way we looked there was Canary Wharf or an industrial chimney.

I had to photograph Pankhurst Avenue. The Silvertown page of Hidden Histories says:

 People sought to improve their working and living conditions through Trade Union and political activities and sought office on West Ham Council and in Parliament. Canning Town had become the focus of a number of new movements and a leading voice for working class people, Will Thorne and James Keir Hardy became leading figures in the Labour Party. Women played a significant part in the struggles Eleanor Marx, Sister Edith Kerrison, Daisy Parsons and Sylvia Pankhurst all worked to improve the plight of working class people and helped to shape the new services provided by the council, they were especially concerned with housing, health and welfare.

 I took a picture of Millennium Mills

I think there's a lot of fascinating industrial history to research, or simply to read about in that area. But if you want to do it seriously, it's likely to take up a great deal of time. To be honest, I prefer to be more local, because you can just absorb hyperlocal information almost by osmosis, having a greater sense of place and context!

We crossed over Silvertown Way, but that will be another blogpost.

 

How I Won the Yellow Jumper

Dispatches from the Tour de France - Ned Boulting

I read this book a while ago now and would strongly recommend it to anyone who has an interest in cycling but isn't especially a fanatic. I don't think Ned is aiming at the self-appointed expert. He has been called cycling's equivalent of gardening's Monty Don - attractive to those, like me, who know next to nothing but too superficial for the obsessed. But what do I know - I am a very passive gardener, and more of a leisure cyclist than an aficionado of road races on the TV. It avoids endless lists of statistics and results,, which is definitely a good thing!

The title refers to one of his opening salvos in becoming a cycling reporter on the TV - actually referring to the the iconic legendary maillot jaune, or yellow jersey, as yellow jumper. He also refers to disgraced former icon Lance Armstrong as Larry. I read this after 'Larry' had declared he would not contest allegations of drug cheating, but Ned wrote this long before. His scepticism, and refusal to hero worship the Doping cheat is admirable.

Ned tells a great story about life on tour as a reporter on the Tour de France. It's not really the life of glamour that I would imagine - I think a lowly auditor such as myself travels and hotels in more luxury than a cycling reporter. Indeed he mentions in passing how one day ,as a football reporter, he's sharing a studio with Michael Owen, flown in by private jet from Madrid to comment on a Liverpool European match, and a few days later, he and Olympic Champion Chris Boardman are stowing equipment dressed in dubious cagoules in pouring rain.

The book opens with Ned being taken into A&E at Lewisham hospital. My already decent opinion of him climbed further when he tweeted about, and joined, the demonstration to try and save Lewisham hospital.

It's readable and certainly informed me about the Tour de France, if not particularly profound.

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Review: On The Road Bike by Ned Boulting | Helen Pidd

A winter break in Dorset

It wasn't planned as a 'winter' break. Spring was in my step when I booked this in the Autumn. Middle of March, I said, bound to be sunny with mild temperatures. I hadn't bargained for the coldest March since 1975. But I knew back in November that we would need a 'quiet' break as respite from our ongoing building-related noise nuisance.

We were extremely fortunate on our journey. You think of all the possibilities for delays, and consider the stories of people stranded for hours in stationary traffic, so it was brilliant to do the journey in less than 4 hours, including one motorway stop. We were able to 'cross' London (from South West to South West) in barely an hour, and with only one minor hold up due to local road works. It's the third time we've done at least part of this journey now; if you have to motorway across country, there are worse routes than the M3 through Surrey and Hampshire. The motorway runs out at the New Forest, and from there it's trunk roads. Sometimes multi-lane dual carriageways and sometimes relatively narrow single carriageway. Sometimes the road passes through pleasant suburbs and towns of Middle England, or passed the green and pleasant arable land. At other times, the road crosses moors rich in bracken, even in this delayed Spring, displaying some splendid colours.

We arrived at our rental cottage. Isn't it always the way that you plan your holiday, pay for it, pack and travel, and you arrive at your destination. What's it actually going to be like? Fortunately, we were very impressed by the cottage we had rented, and I almost immediately ran around to take some snaps, before we unpacked and messed the place up!

  

 

 

It's a small detail, but it's pleasant to arrive at a place and have a 'welcome hamper' of basic provisions, all, as far as possible locally sourced. indeed the book of instructions and guidance that come with the house try to encourage guests to shop for products that are locally sourced, from local independent shops. The company that owns and operates this and other local properties even have a Guest Environmental Charter

We stayed in a village that is outside Bridport although barely distinguishable. Unbelievably quiet at night. Actually, pretty quiet at all times. There's basically one road that forms a crescent round the village, with a dead end leading off it. Just a pub, church and Primary school, although they're planning to open a shop and café in due course. We did go in the pub, which was nice enough - friendly local people, which is always a bonus. 

On our first evening we went into Bridport for our main meal, at the highly recommended Long's. We had previously been to their West Street branch; the King Street is more restaurant than fish and chip shops. 

I have slightly mixed feelings. For example,when we arrived some officious person asked us whether we had made a reservation. We said we hadn't. This was clearly an annoyance to us, and she more or less said "Oh I suppose we might be able to fit you in". The place didn't get full throughout out entire stay. the waiting staff were very good - friendly enough, without being intrusive or overbearing.

As a starter I ordered a seafood chowder. I was perturbed to find that it contained chopped up pieces of cheap ham. I realise that, in culinary terms, there are arguments for and against including smokey bacon. I just feel that in this day and age, there is an onus on restaurants to be a bit more transparent about their ingredients. If I'd wanted a ham soup, surely I would have ordered a ham soup. It was a big surprise to find that pigs are counted as seafoood in Bridport. I have actually heard of pigs flying but swimming is taking it a bit far. And if they had made it 'properly', with smokey bacon lardons, surely that would have smothered the seafood taste, somewhat defeating its purpose.

On the other hand, the fish and chips, and garden peas were beyond comparison. I had the small fillet; there was also a large!

After a quick trip to Spar, to stock up on booze to be consumed indoors, we retired back to our holiday cottage.

July Garden

One day I was working at home and in need of a break. It had been raining but the sun had come out.

I thought I would document how the garden was looking

 

 

But then, I thought, I could take endless dull photos, or I could have a play with the camera. I think actually I went a bit over the top, but I enjoyed the results, I enjoyed editing the photos, and I even enjoyed trying to work out what the actual flowers are! Guess work, in most cases, so do please correct me if I'm wrong.

I hope you enjoy.

 

Dear Zari by Zarghuna Kargar

Hidden Stories from Women of Afghanistan

This is not a book to read on a lazy beach holiday. It is quite possibly one of the most harrowing books I have ever read, and even though a tremendous amount of hope shines out from the despair, I felt reluctant to follow on with any of the books I had lined up. To read something light-hearted would have seemed an insult to the women in this book; I wasn't sure if I was emotionally strong enough to read another serious book.

Zari is an Afghan woman living in London and was a presenter of Afghan's Woman Hour on BBC World Service. This book is a compilation of some of the stories she was sent by women living in utter oppression in Afghanistan. There are as many different stories as there are women but there are common themes linking them: ignorance and superstition,  a miserable combination of ancient tribal customs and unenlightened repressive religion. Women are sold and forced into marriage, often before they become women, ignorant of sex, punished for not bleeding on their wedding night, held responsible if their husband dies fighting, beaten by husbands and in-laws, denied access to their children, and treated as slaves. In this century, in a country where some Western nations have been involved for too long for no clear purpose.

I read story after story, and I defy anyone to read it and not be depressed. Although, towards the end, the mood lightens and one senses that there is hope. Especially as long as people speak out.

The book is well-written, and easy to read, at least in terms of following the prose. The contents are uncomfortable, and one can only feel sorry for the victims. And, in most cases, for their perpetrators too. Those that beat and bully these women are the product of the same society, trapped in horrific marriages themselves. What struck me repeatedly was how often a woman - widowed or abandoned - was insulted by other women as being a sex-mad whore, desperate for a man. And how can one blame a husband for being cruel when this is the only behaviour he knows, when society tells him to be like this, or when his homosexuality is so taboo. 

I know one is supposed to be tolerantly multi-cultural, and, repeatedly, Zari tells us that these tribal societies confuse ancient tribal customs with Islam, in an attempt to defend Islam. But I cannot accept this. Whoever seeks to impose Islam on these people is equally happy to impose the 'tribal traditions'. I can see no justification whatsoever for the violence and abuse these women endure. It perpetuates the power of certain men, and of 'tribal elders', and it is pure evil. No amount of hand-wringing or weasel words form the religious apologists can persuade me that there is some societal benefit in treating women - and girls -  like slaves and worse than animals, and of institutionalising and normalising rape. It is barbaric and intolerable. And this oppression can't stop unless people stop defending the religions that encourage it.

I do realise that me reading the book and writing this blog post does nothing to address the problem; all I'm doing is wringing my hands and wailing "Something must be done". But do please read the book.

More on Zarghuna Kargar in the Guardian My arranged marriage disaster

Polesden Lacey in June

Polesden Lacey is one of the National Trust's most visited properties. It is one of the closest to London. We set out late morning one day in June. At the time I tweeted Spent way too long trapped in almost-stationary traffic in Tooting & Putney.

It seemed to take an interminable time to reach our destination We stopped off en route at Palmer's Deli Café in Ashtead. I would highly recommend the food offering at this place - I had a ploughman's platter, a sumptuous plate of cheese, biscuits and a lot of accompaniments, and was able to choose my cheese from across the range (they also sell the cheese to take home). Jimmy had a similar platter but based upon choose your own paté. If you're ever driving down the A24 I would strongly suggest stopping here. However, although the staff were friendly and welcoming, I was a bit taken aback by their laid-back approach to service. When we arrived every unoccupied table inside and out was laden with dirty dishes whilst seemingly countless staff stood around chatting. When we left, the staff were just bothering to clear away the outside tables which had lain dirty since before we arrived. And while we were there, an elderly gentleman, insisting on his usual corner table in the window, was clearly annoyed that he had to ask specifically for them to clear away the dishes of the long gone previous occupant. A shame that the owners had such a good idea for what constitutes a good product offer but were let down by staff with little work ethic.

Onwards to Polesden Lacey, and what a dire afternoon that turned out to be. They charged to park the car, and again to enter the grounds. If we had wanted to see inside the house that would have been a further charge. Seemed petty: there could be no other reason for using the car park than to visit their poxy grounds and house. And I ended up having a contretemps with the patronising cow on admissions, all because I asked if Senior discounts were available (for Jimmy, not me, obviously), and she wanted me to fill in a customer questionnaire before I'd even got through the admission turnstile. She was condescending to me because I'm not a National Trust member. Frankly, I'd never join an organisation with someone like that as their public face.

 Even today, their website declares Enjoy the stunning formal gardens, including the famous Rose Garden; when we visited at the end of June, they declared it was National Rose Week, and you could pay £4 for a guided tour of their Rose Garden. I'm glad we didn't do that: it was a disgrace. In summary beds and beds of diseased and neglected roses, planted with little thought about colour blocking and with no imagination, in formal beds:

 

In need of dead-heading/ Blackspot

 

Brown spot /showing off the Rose Garden

 

Lots of flowers...and dead heads / advertised as a rose spectacular

 

They were selling a guided tour of this Rose Garden / Probably under-nourished  

There's some potential in the grounds and it wasn't an entirely unpleasant experience, especially when we escaped from the most crowded areas. Again, I felt frustration that the overwhelming majority of people there were either quiet adults of various ages, like ourselves, or people who had brought their well-behaved pre-teen kids for a relaxing day out. But there were several parties who considered this the ideal location to let their toddlers run around, ride their scooters round formal gardens, or for them to show off that, despite not seeing their own children from one week or month to another, they were nevertheless excellent fathers who almost supervised football on the sweeping lawns to which other people gravitated for sunbathing or 'chilling'. 

Places like this seem to bring out the worst in people.

The woman who owned the house buried her pets in a special pet cemetery close to the house. As we walked close by, some chap asked if we knew where it was, and, trying to be helpful, we pointed it out. And he poured forth about how the woman who owned the house was a 'Bitch', seemingly based entirely on that the pets included dogs, and female dogs are known as bitches, and it's absol hilair to describe a seemingly harmless and long dead woman as a 'Bitch'.

Even as we walked up to the house, I climbed a small flight of steps in order to take a photo. A passing Japanese couple saw me there, and panicked that they might be missing out on that photo, and came to stand far too close to me. I found that annoying, it was a lack of respect for my space. I wouldn't expect anyone to thank me for finding a good vantage point, but I also don't wish to be crowded out, especially when they are too stupid to look and think for themselves.

I had another set-to in the tea room. It wasn't so much the content of the conversation, which was commonplace enough - but the tone: me asking whether I could I have my tea in crockery not cardboard (no); me asking if I could have a larger cardboard cup, for holding a greater voume of liquid (we've run out); and could I have a teaspoon for my tea (it's over there - halfway down the long hall, thank goodness there were no small children running around unsupervised). And I was closely supervised in milking my tea - presumably in case I stole more than my fair share of mass-produced UHT milk-substitute.

Even before I was served, the woman in front of me was saying in loud tones "It's so busy today, it's so quiet when I usually come every day, obviously people just visiting because it's sunny" (Oh, p*** off, I thought). She then ordered a muffin and turned to me to explain it was for her daughter who she was going to pick up from 'riding'. I was supposed to be impressed. I missed a trick in not asking what sort of bike she had. Later, the woman and, presumably, her husband sat near us in the courtyard. She brayed at him, and he stared past her, unable to keep the despair and loathing from his face.

On the drive back, we passed Chessington World of Adventures. If you think there are no class divides in Britain, there really are. I couldn't help think that they live in different worlds. I think I would have preferred a trip to Chessington. But Jimmy doesn't like things that go round and round. Or up and down.

The highlihgt of the day, other than Palmer's in Ashtead was driving on what was already signposted as the Olympic Cycling Road Races route.

Photos also in my Surrey photo album

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A Happy House: the spell woven by a brewer's daughter

A blogging hiatus

I'm afraid all my nervous and writing energy in the past few weeks has gone into my endess pauseless battle with a building firm who are building on a site immediately adjoining my house. They are members of an industry self-regulation scheme called the Considerate Constructors Scheme. My numerous complaints sent to the CCS have shown to me that they are nothing more than a ineffectual, self-congratulatory PR Fluff scheme with less impact as a regulator than the discredited and derided Press Complaints Commission (PCC).

My house has been smashed up; our water was cut off for several hours one Saturday night/Sunday morning/Sunday afternoon a couple of weeks ago. Our electricity was cut off from 11pm on Friday night to 3pm yesterday, Saturday. Everything that has happened is dismissed by The Builders as 'minor issues' as they remind us of their generosity in repairing their burst water pipes and being obliged by law to put right the damage to my house and my neighbour's, which looks to be even worse.

I am assured that this firm are 'Considerate Constructors' and have worked hard to maintain good relations with their neighbours. To me, it feels like bullying and harrassment. But if you try reporting to that to the police, or reporting obstructions that prevent access by emergency vehicles - or electric generators  -  it's a 'civil matter'. Apparently, if I get my car scratched, that's a criminal matter, but my life and my neighbour's life being endangered - a civil matter.

It's been a struggle to survive from day-to-day, coping with this on top of the usual everyday stresses that come from work, travel, personal admin, health and so on. Bloggings's a great escape. But sometimes, the emotional energy has to be directed elsewhere.

Here's some pictures I took in the garden just about six months ago.

The Battersea Park Road to Paradise

The Battersea Park Road to Paradise I bought this book simply because it was vaguely local - I had seen it advertised on a poster on the London Underground, at Vauxhall or Pimlico station. 

For some reason I thought it was fiction, and assumed that it was in the style of the chick-lit writers who have aged beyond Bridget Jones, but aren't necessarily Yummy Mummy novelists. I hate these labels, by the way. Imagine if we decided to label Dan Brown or Andy McNab in similar ways. There'd be an outcry.

The writer of this book claims it is a factual account of her own life, her search for an answer to what was hinted at as 'man trouble'. It was slightly puzzling, because there is no doubt she is thoughtful, intelligent and educated. And yet, this book describes five different experiences in self-enlightenment where she tried to deal with the emotional loss. She never seemed to be floundering emotionally, but recognised that she needed treatment, perhaps in the way that one seeks out treatment for a persistent dodgy knee. 

She attached a fairly healthy level of scepticism and doubt to the therapies she tried - Feng shui; self-help guru Anthony Robbins; Silent Retreat; Advaita Vedanta; and Shamanism, but yet she never seemed to question their basic premise.

I found this thought provoking, because I tend to ask the question 'What is the evidence'?' and believe in very little. On the other hand, I have experienced and read sufficient to persuade me that there are benefits to be gained from many psychological boosters. The strict 'it must be tested double-blind and peer reviewed or else it's nonsense' brigade appear to have little insight into psychology and human behaviour. For example, I don't care if there is no scientific evidence to prove that aromatherapy works - if I sink back into a smelly bath with smelly candles, it relaxes me and makes me feel better - but I wouldn't suggets it's a suitable treatment for severe depression.

But my main concern about both mainstream and alternative therapies is the monetary aspect. I imagine Isabel Losada has made more money from sales of her books & associated talks and media appearances than she spent on researching the experiences, and therefore, for her, they were good investments. I'm not sure how other people can guard against being ripped off. I tend to be cautious at anything that's 'on-trend' and pricey;  the person behind is usually, foremost, an astute business operator.

I read this partly on holiday on a Greek island, where I had taster sessions for Yoga and Tai Chi, and visited tourist sites that were lasting tributes to the belief in Ancient Greek gods, so I had a heightened awareness of 'belief systems' and their seeming randomness.

I don't think she did find The Answers in the five therapies she tried, but I do think that they gave her an opportunity for reflection and self-examination, which I think is the goal of mainstream and alternative pseudo-psychological treatments. I can't see a problem for 'normal' well-balanced people with a particular problem or sadness, but I do fear that these offbeat experiences could be quite destructive to mental wellbeing of people who need informed and professional support.

On the whole, I enjoyed the book, although I found the section on Advaita a big turn off. I've just looked at her site, and realise that I recognise Mooji. It seems like one big personality cult. Also, she was very dismissive of Brixton, as being about drugs and the Ritzy, and men who were shaggable because of their exotic dark skins. It's mostly pretty readable, but I didn't feel any great identification with or warmth towards any of the characters - real people - including the author. If I was a more voracious reader, perhaps I would read more of her books, but not in preference to dozens of others I 'ought' to read.