Blogging is a discipline, it seems, so the absence of entries for the last few days indicates a certain lack of that quality, or time. So, it is either a question of priority or personal weakness – I prefer the former but suspect the latter also has a part to play.
These words take shape in the buffet car (the last refuge of the unreserved traveller) of a rather grubby train standing at platform 1, King’s Cross. Who knows where we’ll be when they are finished.
The last few days seem to have been busy but not desperately fulfilling, but I guess that is a function of measure rather than reality. One exception to this was my meeting on Thursday last week with Glyn Watkins, a fellow boarder on IM.com, who had said he would be in Bar Tat (still no punctuation) from six, if anyone fancied dropping in for a drink. Never having met Glyn before (but having exchanged posts on I-M.com) it seemed a good excuse to socialise, particularly as Phill and Sophie were at the stables and I had half-an-hour to spare.
As it turned out, Glyn was just leaving as I arrived: he looked suitably puzzled at being hailed by a complete stranger but, following my introduction, was happy to go back inside. We had a beer and a chat, during which we discovered that we share a wholly irreverent disrespect for radish-up-the-bum, self-serving authority.
The weekend was predictably busy: Sophie’s friend was coming to stay on Saturday night, so the morning’s cleaning regime was particularly diligent and involved me having the single mattress from it’s hiding place in the spare bedroom and threading it into Sophie’s room. Once all that was done I disappeared up to White Wells for a cup of tea while Phill went down to the stables.
Mark, the chap who runs WW, had the birthday flag out and he mentioned that it was because someone who was celebrating a ‘special’ birthday was coming up to take the plunge in the spa bath next to his café. He explained that the water is at a constant 7 deg (celcius) all year round, which cheered me up somewhat because I have resolved to start 2010 with a plunge of my own, but more of that in Jan. The plungee arrived and her shrieks, plus the cheers of her followers, confirmed that the deed was done. One of the party poked their head round the door to say that Mark would have eight cold people coming round for a cup of tea to warm up.
I went home with a book of dos and don’ts for horse transport, kindly sourced by Fraser. See further down for more on this subject. Once home I got on the net to book Phill’s flight tickets for her visit to St Louis later this year. I’ve been putting this off for a while because the itineraries, which seemed so simple before Christmas, have become more involved. Another complication is that the pricing offered by the available carriers varies wildly: some include taxes up-front while others don’t, so it was a matter of drilling down to find the true cost and combine the best prices with the most convenient schedule. Just when everything seemed settled I noticed that the return flight involved an unreasonably long layover in the US (Phill will have to change ‘planes both ways), but finally it was settled: American Airlines will have the pleasure of her company via Chicago on the way out and Dallas coming back. This means that she will pull further ahead of me in the “American States I Have Visited” competition. Rats.
We had a carpet picnic tea, mainly so everyone could watch the Eurovision song contest, but after a while I’d had enough and decided to go back on the computer. We were all late to bed, which didn’t bode well because we had an early start for Ilkley show the next day.
We were up at just turned five and I dropped Soph and her friend down to the stables at six. Phez had been plaited by Phill’s fair hand the day before, and just needed to be ridden in and given a final groom before being loaded into the trailer. As usual he went in without a murmur, but this time he was accompanied by my video camera, wedged against the front bulkhead: I wanted to see just what happened when we could feel him stamping about.
After what seemed a fairly steady ride down to the showground I looked at the tape while the others were sorting him out, and the evidence was terrifying! Hoof marks on the wall of the box indicated that he was scrabbling with both front and rear hooves, something that the pictures confirmed. He was leaning quite violently on the centre partition and it seemed several times that he was on the point of going down. We will have to get some expert advice on this one, because this just can’t go on. Quite apart from his welfare, which obviously comes first, my nerves won’t stand it.
The day’s competition wasn’t particularly successful. Soph and Phez achieved a 4th in the part-bred show, thanks to one of the worst pieces of judging we’ve ever seen. The winner’s show wasn’t as good as our two, second was good but wrong-legged it, and the third combination looked as though they’d only just been introduced. Soph, bless her, finished fourth on the strength of Pez’s slightly stiff hind quarter – that’s what the judge told her – which in our book was good enough for a second at least. It is not the done thing to question or complain, but when results are so obviously contrived the purpose of competition has to be questioned.
On the tube in London this morning I noticed that one of me fellow travellers was balancing a printed cardboard box on his knee. The print betrayed that the box once held chilled chips (freedom fries – ho ho ho) and that – get this – they were of a given size: 14mm, or 9/16ths of an inch. Is this a standard size in the world of the chip and WHY is it necessary to have both metric and imperial measurements? Do caterers employ quality control standards? Do they take random samples and test them with the callipers? I know a place that uses chilled part-cooked chips (The Craven Arms at Appletreewick) so will be having a close look the next time we go. Watch this space for a no-holds-barred expose.
The timelines in all of the above are hoplessly out of date, but who cares? There'll no doubt be a catch-up blog over the weekend to fill in the gaps - if I have time, that is.
Thursday, 28 May 2009
Thursday, 7 May 2009
So its a week since the last blog and 1,ooo miles have passed along the way (Stirling, London Rotherham & Milton Keynes, and I'm writing this on the train out of London after a two meeting day.
The trip to Scotland last week was the first this year where the sky was light enough (its always an early start) to see the scenery on the drive up: the M6 winds along the Lune Gorge and through the Southern Uplands, both of which are magnificent in any light, but in the flat early-morning spring light they look superb.
London no longer has the buzz it once did: going there once every few weeks has made normal the travelling on the tube and all the other things that we don't see at TEOIM, however it was nice to have a few minutes in hand before my appointment, which were spent Blackberrying from the Thames embankment at Temple.
The journey home that day was unexpectedly straightforward: emerging from the rabbit hole at King's Cross I saw that a Leeds train would leave in a couple of minutes, so a swift walk (I don't run in public if it can possibly be avoided) got me on board, where I easily found a seat. No vertically swaying tedium at the carriage-end.
Phill and I decided that we deserved a night in the pub on Friday, so we ate pizza with Soph and then drove down into town, parking the car on the Grove. Once in Bat Tat (where the walls have been painted and no longer bear lines from Yorkshire's unofficial anthem) we realised that we were both exhausted so, after only three-quarters of an hour, decided to head home where we hit the sack and watched TV until we fell asleep, which didn't take long.
On Saturday I started on the garden and managed to clear about three feet of border in a couple of hours, at one point using the land-rover to tow out a stubborn stump. We had another trip into town in the afternoon, where I bought some clothes for the holiday in August, briefly visited Bar Tat (again) and received a call from Soph asking that we pick her up from the stables (sooner than expected). Unusually, I was unable to sleep so spent a couple of hours on the internet once Phill had gone to bed. The usual diet of I-M.com and Facebook was enlivened with an unexpected and welcome exchange with Chantal from St Louis; an anglophile with roots in the English aristocracy.
C is highly intelligent, articulate and has a love (alright, obsession) with French and Saunders, all of which are evident from her Facebook homepage. Her love of all things British prompted the posting of a union flag on her page, to which I said that she really must scrape together the air-fare and come over to stay with us, if possible with her son, Ethan. A brief exchange of messages later and the intent was agreed, so hopefully next year we will have the pleasure of her extrovert, wonderful company. It will be interesting to see what a US Parole Officer makes of TEOIM!
We started Sunday with an indulgent breakfast at Booth's supermarket in Ilkley: their food is good but the atmos, although OK, is not what one usually associates with the full English. Phill's toast and marmalade looked good and, as always, the tea was of peerless quality. Once done, we took Phez out for a confidence-building ride in the trailer, which succeeded in shredding his nerves, mine, Sophie's and those of the other drivers forced to follow our snail's pace - at least they remained patient, unlike the loon that overtook us in the face of oncoming traffic and almost precipitated a horrendous accident last time out. I think a line in the letters page of the local rag might be in order.
Sophie, bless her, spent most of the afternoon revising for a science test and I kicked back and watched the Spanish GP (Button, Barrichello, Webber). Phill drew the short straw: practising plaiting his lordship's mane is not my idea of an afternoon's relaxation. The tables were turned, however, when she was able to do nowt while I cooked Sunday dinner - a piece of beef from Booths which was spot-on: we'll be going back there for sure.
It was the usual early start for today's trip to London: drive into Leeds and park near the station to avoid the mind-sapping train ride from Ilkley. I'd commute like that if there was no reasonable alternative, but being trapped among the silent masses listening to the one talkative bloke regaling has pals with tales of last night's squash game just sucks the life out of you.
Having got the tickets for today's odyssey I stopped for a coffee (£2.39) and attempted to pay by card, only to be told that there was a £5 minimum for card transactions. No change. Long queue at the cash point. Imminent departure time. Need caffeine!!! Rats. Creativity to the rescue: the Italian lady serving said, after consulting her colleague in that beautiful language, that she would put the transaction through at £5 and give me change. I hope that my smile and quite genuine thanks were sufficient - good old customer service: it can't be beat.
The trip to Scotland last week was the first this year where the sky was light enough (its always an early start) to see the scenery on the drive up: the M6 winds along the Lune Gorge and through the Southern Uplands, both of which are magnificent in any light, but in the flat early-morning spring light they look superb.
London no longer has the buzz it once did: going there once every few weeks has made normal the travelling on the tube and all the other things that we don't see at TEOIM, however it was nice to have a few minutes in hand before my appointment, which were spent Blackberrying from the Thames embankment at Temple.
The journey home that day was unexpectedly straightforward: emerging from the rabbit hole at King's Cross I saw that a Leeds train would leave in a couple of minutes, so a swift walk (I don't run in public if it can possibly be avoided) got me on board, where I easily found a seat. No vertically swaying tedium at the carriage-end.
Phill and I decided that we deserved a night in the pub on Friday, so we ate pizza with Soph and then drove down into town, parking the car on the Grove. Once in Bat Tat (where the walls have been painted and no longer bear lines from Yorkshire's unofficial anthem) we realised that we were both exhausted so, after only three-quarters of an hour, decided to head home where we hit the sack and watched TV until we fell asleep, which didn't take long.
On Saturday I started on the garden and managed to clear about three feet of border in a couple of hours, at one point using the land-rover to tow out a stubborn stump. We had another trip into town in the afternoon, where I bought some clothes for the holiday in August, briefly visited Bar Tat (again) and received a call from Soph asking that we pick her up from the stables (sooner than expected). Unusually, I was unable to sleep so spent a couple of hours on the internet once Phill had gone to bed. The usual diet of I-M.com and Facebook was enlivened with an unexpected and welcome exchange with Chantal from St Louis; an anglophile with roots in the English aristocracy.
C is highly intelligent, articulate and has a love (alright, obsession) with French and Saunders, all of which are evident from her Facebook homepage. Her love of all things British prompted the posting of a union flag on her page, to which I said that she really must scrape together the air-fare and come over to stay with us, if possible with her son, Ethan. A brief exchange of messages later and the intent was agreed, so hopefully next year we will have the pleasure of her extrovert, wonderful company. It will be interesting to see what a US Parole Officer makes of TEOIM!
We started Sunday with an indulgent breakfast at Booth's supermarket in Ilkley: their food is good but the atmos, although OK, is not what one usually associates with the full English. Phill's toast and marmalade looked good and, as always, the tea was of peerless quality. Once done, we took Phez out for a confidence-building ride in the trailer, which succeeded in shredding his nerves, mine, Sophie's and those of the other drivers forced to follow our snail's pace - at least they remained patient, unlike the loon that overtook us in the face of oncoming traffic and almost precipitated a horrendous accident last time out. I think a line in the letters page of the local rag might be in order.
Sophie, bless her, spent most of the afternoon revising for a science test and I kicked back and watched the Spanish GP (Button, Barrichello, Webber). Phill drew the short straw: practising plaiting his lordship's mane is not my idea of an afternoon's relaxation. The tables were turned, however, when she was able to do nowt while I cooked Sunday dinner - a piece of beef from Booths which was spot-on: we'll be going back there for sure.
It was the usual early start for today's trip to London: drive into Leeds and park near the station to avoid the mind-sapping train ride from Ilkley. I'd commute like that if there was no reasonable alternative, but being trapped among the silent masses listening to the one talkative bloke regaling has pals with tales of last night's squash game just sucks the life out of you.
Having got the tickets for today's odyssey I stopped for a coffee (£2.39) and attempted to pay by card, only to be told that there was a £5 minimum for card transactions. No change. Long queue at the cash point. Imminent departure time. Need caffeine!!! Rats. Creativity to the rescue: the Italian lady serving said, after consulting her colleague in that beautiful language, that she would put the transaction through at £5 and give me change. I hope that my smile and quite genuine thanks were sufficient - good old customer service: it can't be beat.
Saturday, 2 May 2009
The May bank holiday weekend
Since the last post we've done the 200+ mile drive from home to Marshfield, Gloucestershire, to visit our friends Bill and Jean for the long bank-holiday weekend. Sophie is nursing the holes left by two missing teeth, removed on Friday morning, plus a bad case of equine cold turkey, but is otherwise quite OK. Phill and I are just very happy to have a long weekend and the opportunity to do a little more with B&J than is normal: our visits are usually confined to one full day followed by a Sunday morning dash back up the motorway.
The car was as full as it usually is (a large soft case, assorted (mysterious) plastic carriers, camera gear and, this time, a cool box full of lasagne ingredients), with the addition of a small blue cabin-crew case containing my gear. A few days ago, a 'travel expert' did a piece on Radio 4 in which he gave advice on how not to lose one's luggage. Apart from not cluttering the handles with tags and making sure that your name and address is on the inside of the case, his best advice was simply not to check any bags at all and to carry all you need onto the plane. Obviously this needs a very small case and as we are flying to Spain later this year, where shorts and Ts will be worn, I thought it worth trying. Suffice to say that it worked, but my warm outer layer ended up smelling strongly of barbecue for most of the weekend.
We arrived to the usual warm welcome and, while Phill & Jean were assembling the lasagne, Bill and I slipped off to the pub for half an hour.
The Catherine Wheel (on the left) in Marshfield is a magnificent building, much of which goes back to the 15th century, with high ceilings and some good beer. It was deserted when we walked in; so much so that the land-lady had to leave her paperwork, which was spread out on one of the tables in the bar, to serve us.
Bill and I chatted - the usual welcome catch-up - and then headed back for dinner, which was delicious and accompanied by a pile of garlic bread. Soph, who is not a lasagne person, made do with soup in deference to her raw gums. After eating, we chatted over wine and TV and then toddled off to bed: Soph in a room of her own and Phill and I out to B&J's caravan, which is parked on the drive outside their ground floor flat. This might not be everyone's idea of weekend accommodation, but it is fine by us because it is spacious, quiet and, above all, comfortable and private.
B&J have turned over part of their garden to a clutch of chickens to which, since our last visit, they have introduced George, a randy white cockerel. First thing the following morning heard him crowing (from his perch inside the coop) and this, combined with the curch bell tolling on the hour, ensured we had an early start (which was good because it meant we wrung the most from the day).
After breakfast (bacon, eggs from the garden and teriffic local sausages) we piled into the car and drove to Clarke's at Shepton Mallet, to buy clothes for the holiday. Apart from picking up a nice shirt, the trip didn't go well for me because 1) I am still too fat to fit even into XL sizes and 2) refuse to pander too much to high-street fashion, most of which is revolting. This limits the options somewhat, but Phill did well and looked stunning in the black patterned silk dress she found. Her new super-slim figure means she can now get into things she hasn't worn for years and makes her feel so much better.
On the way back to B&J's, we stopped off at Glastonbury Tor. Parking was scarce, but we found a spot in front of a farmer's gate (which didn't appear to be well-used), which we reasoned was OK because the ladies were staying with the car while Bill and I climbed up to the tower. My suede Merrells, which have no backs, aren't ideal for climbing, but the walk was mercifully short and the views from the top, which was well-populated by a good mix of folk, were superb. One of the people, a middle-aged chap with greying hair and a pony tail, stepped into the hollow tower and began to throat-sing: a unique sound that can't be described, so go here and listen for yourself...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TVyyhHFKI8E
We walked back down the slope, rejoined the others and drove home, where Bill and I eventually lit the barbecue and then cremated most of the food, much to Jean's displeasure. Luckily Phill wasn't hungry and Soph spent most of her time tumbling round the garden with NAME , Jean's grandson. Afterwards, we went inside and watched an ITV talent showand were amazed by a very nervous Welshman, who obviously struggled in his life, who produced a truly remarkable singing performance which surprised everyone. Good luck to him.
Next day, after another good night's sleep, another early start and another cracking breakfast, Bill and I set off in his truck to see the speed hill climb at Shelsley Walsh, an hour or so away up the M5. Once parked, we walked to the course in time to see the first cars rocket away from the start, one at a time. This was a practise (the meeting proper was the following day) so there weren't too many spectators, meaning that we could walk where we pleased and be sure of getting a good view. I can reccommend the bacon rolls from the van up by the esses: together with a cup of tea they managed to keep the cold at bay. There was a real mixture of vehicles, some ex-formula 2 & 3 cars, some modern and some vintage cars. One tiny Sprite broke the speed trap at 40mph; a Pilbeam F3 car managed 125mph, leaving a shower of sparks as it's titanium under-tray rode over a bump on the course.
For me, our walk round the pits was the highlight of the day and we had the opportunity to look very closely at all the mechanical twiddly bits.
There was a good collection of Lotuses, which were in their heyday when I first learned about Formula 1 (I was named after Mike Hawthorn, the reigning world chamion when I was born) and the likes of Jim Clarke and Graham Hill were my early heroes. Some of the drivers were quite relaxed and were there just for fun, while others were deadly serious; poring over laptops and data-loggers - thousandths of a second making the difference between winning and losing.
We drove back to Marshfield and, after dinner, failed to watch a Clint Eastwood film. Bill and I were all about it, but Phill and Jean weren't and sloped off for a walk. Unsurprisingly, we got a call half an hour later, summoning us to the Catherine Wheel, where we reunited for the last drink of the weekend in the bar that was now lively with conversation. On the walk back, I found out that it is not possible to make giant shadow animals using the floodlights that illuminate Marshfield church tower.
The following day took the usual form: breakfast, then everything in a rush as we packed the car, hugged farewells and then headed north, pausing only for coffee and the obligatory supermarket stop. Once home, the washing machine went into over-drive and we lost Sophie, who always likes to touch base with her room (and has done ever since being small). We were tired from the journey, but it was a very good weekend.
The car was as full as it usually is (a large soft case, assorted (mysterious) plastic carriers, camera gear and, this time, a cool box full of lasagne ingredients), with the addition of a small blue cabin-crew case containing my gear. A few days ago, a 'travel expert' did a piece on Radio 4 in which he gave advice on how not to lose one's luggage. Apart from not cluttering the handles with tags and making sure that your name and address is on the inside of the case, his best advice was simply not to check any bags at all and to carry all you need onto the plane. Obviously this needs a very small case and as we are flying to Spain later this year, where shorts and Ts will be worn, I thought it worth trying. Suffice to say that it worked, but my warm outer layer ended up smelling strongly of barbecue for most of the weekend.
We arrived to the usual warm welcome and, while Phill & Jean were assembling the lasagne, Bill and I slipped off to the pub for half an hour.
The Catherine Wheel (on the left) in Marshfield is a magnificent building, much of which goes back to the 15th century, with high ceilings and some good beer. It was deserted when we walked in; so much so that the land-lady had to leave her paperwork, which was spread out on one of the tables in the bar, to serve us.Bill and I chatted - the usual welcome catch-up - and then headed back for dinner, which was delicious and accompanied by a pile of garlic bread. Soph, who is not a lasagne person, made do with soup in deference to her raw gums. After eating, we chatted over wine and TV and then toddled off to bed: Soph in a room of her own and Phill and I out to B&J's caravan, which is parked on the drive outside their ground floor flat. This might not be everyone's idea of weekend accommodation, but it is fine by us because it is spacious, quiet and, above all, comfortable and private.
B&J have turned over part of their garden to a clutch of chickens to which, since our last visit, they have introduced George, a randy white cockerel. First thing the following morning heard him crowing (from his perch inside the coop) and this, combined with the curch bell tolling on the hour, ensured we had an early start (which was good because it meant we wrung the most from the day).
After breakfast (bacon, eggs from the garden and teriffic local sausages) we piled into the car and drove to Clarke's at Shepton Mallet, to buy clothes for the holiday. Apart from picking up a nice shirt, the trip didn't go well for me because 1) I am still too fat to fit even into XL sizes and 2) refuse to pander too much to high-street fashion, most of which is revolting. This limits the options somewhat, but Phill did well and looked stunning in the black patterned silk dress she found. Her new super-slim figure means she can now get into things she hasn't worn for years and makes her feel so much better.
On the way back to B&J's, we stopped off at Glastonbury Tor. Parking was scarce, but we found a spot in front of a farmer's gate (which didn't appear to be well-used), which we reasoned was OK because the ladies were staying with the car while Bill and I climbed up to the tower. My suede Merrells, which have no backs, aren't ideal for climbing, but the walk was mercifully short and the views from the top, which was well-populated by a good mix of folk, were superb. One of the people, a middle-aged chap with greying hair and a pony tail, stepped into the hollow tower and began to throat-sing: a unique sound that can't be described, so go here and listen for yourself...http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TVyyhHFKI8E
We walked back down the slope, rejoined the others and drove home, where Bill and I eventually lit the barbecue and then cremated most of the food, much to Jean's displeasure. Luckily Phill wasn't hungry and Soph spent most of her time tumbling round the garden with NAME , Jean's grandson. Afterwards, we went inside and watched an ITV talent showand were amazed by a very nervous Welshman, who obviously struggled in his life, who produced a truly remarkable singing performance which surprised everyone. Good luck to him.
Next day, after another good night's sleep, another early start and another cracking breakfast, Bill and I set off in his truck to see the speed hill climb at Shelsley Walsh, an hour or so away up the M5. Once parked, we walked to the course in time to see the first cars rocket away from the start, one at a time. This was a practise (the meeting proper was the following day) so there weren't too many spectators, meaning that we could walk where we pleased and be sure of getting a good view. I can reccommend the bacon rolls from the van up by the esses: together with a cup of tea they managed to keep the cold at bay. There was a real mixture of vehicles, some ex-formula 2 & 3 cars, some modern and some vintage cars. One tiny Sprite broke the speed trap at 40mph; a Pilbeam F3 car managed 125mph, leaving a shower of sparks as it's titanium under-tray rode over a bump on the course.
For me, our walk round the pits was the highlight of the day and we had the opportunity to look very closely at all the mechanical twiddly bits.
There was a good collection of Lotuses, which were in their heyday when I first learned about Formula 1 (I was named after Mike Hawthorn, the reigning world chamion when I was born) and the likes of Jim Clarke and Graham Hill were my early heroes. Some of the drivers were quite relaxed and were there just for fun, while others were deadly serious; poring over laptops and data-loggers - thousandths of a second making the difference between winning and losing.We drove back to Marshfield and, after dinner, failed to watch a Clint Eastwood film. Bill and I were all about it, but Phill and Jean weren't and sloped off for a walk. Unsurprisingly, we got a call half an hour later, summoning us to the Catherine Wheel, where we reunited for the last drink of the weekend in the bar that was now lively with conversation. On the walk back, I found out that it is not possible to make giant shadow animals using the floodlights that illuminate Marshfield church tower.
The following day took the usual form: breakfast, then everything in a rush as we packed the car, hugged farewells and then headed north, pausing only for coffee and the obligatory supermarket stop. Once home, the washing machine went into over-drive and we lost Sophie, who always likes to touch base with her room (and has done ever since being small). We were tired from the journey, but it was a very good weekend.
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