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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