tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28544177853966115562024-03-14T00:50:21.502+00:00Slack Jawed BabblingDavoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.comBlogger322125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2854417785396611556.post-20596015988576685082024-01-26T00:10:00.003+00:002024-01-26T00:16:43.752+00:00Seaside Special - NC500 part 2: north and north-west Highland<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-rLj7ygy5Oq362A4Y3KbQi1nlk6RlqWvBG4siplvA9-apudlOL3bqMMUXbYhBDZ3AfUyG-3GuMJRTAKjPJ0xsMoCeQU_5MiEScUmtWsndSF-mHLvwhWxKhMOK7aElQ1tU5HkA-sCIxThMMnwLvc-q4QyEmXVSVrUKb6V7FkY07ld9l2O8G70yZlD_N2p3/s3654/20230602_123830.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1827" data-original-width="3654" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-rLj7ygy5Oq362A4Y3KbQi1nlk6RlqWvBG4siplvA9-apudlOL3bqMMUXbYhBDZ3AfUyG-3GuMJRTAKjPJ0xsMoCeQU_5MiEScUmtWsndSF-mHLvwhWxKhMOK7aElQ1tU5HkA-sCIxThMMnwLvc-q4QyEmXVSVrUKb6V7FkY07ld9l2O8G70yZlD_N2p3/w640-h320/20230602_123830.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />Day four was a dog-leg day: north from Staxigoe to Duncansby
Head in the far top right of mainland Scotland before swinging west along the
top of the world as far as Bettyhill. We passed close to Castle Sinclair
Girnigoe again before skirting the bay beyond with its pristine yellow-white beach
which we had glimpsed from the castle’s ramparts yesterday. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">First stop was Duncansby Lighthouse, where we were lucky to
find a park. For the first time, we had hit a populist bit of the NC500 tourist
trail. Camper vans of all shapes, sizes and nationalities packed onto the verge
parking. The lighthouse held a prominent view (as you would hope, to be fair) towards
the Orkneys, Dunnet Head – Scotland’s most northerly point - and in the near
distance John O’Groats where the sunshine glinted back from rows of yet more camper
vans docked by the famous sign post. Their number was a shock at first, but we
soon got used to the idea and it was really only at the most popular stops where
they grouped in such a menacing mass. And their bark was much worse than their
bite. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCZz-LU77Oi_xXRhr2TqaDTgwZyIH_E_JTly0mXE42R26dbn6RJzVMaLAx7RB538hc-CwkY-L6jeqzaTf_8SPBx0h70jjKhDTdB38do_edea7TXxWifzdMxInBoCB7BaSbaHrWr9VVQhrw7xIj6bKXVvR2U83OnkKFkFL7qRPNorU8I5d9RA8gHPQ7gQ7b/s4032/NC500%20Duncansby6.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCZz-LU77Oi_xXRhr2TqaDTgwZyIH_E_JTly0mXE42R26dbn6RJzVMaLAx7RB538hc-CwkY-L6jeqzaTf_8SPBx0h70jjKhDTdB38do_edea7TXxWifzdMxInBoCB7BaSbaHrWr9VVQhrw7xIj6bKXVvR2U83OnkKFkFL7qRPNorU8I5d9RA8gHPQ7gQ7b/w300-h400/NC500%20Duncansby6.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">Mrs A had bought a walking guide book that proved to be one
of our best purchases. The morning stroll out to Duncansby Stacks was a belter:
over the crest of the ridge behind the lighthouse and along the cliff edge. Across
ravines, around blow holes and avoiding steep drops. The terrain was mostly wind-blown
grass either side of decent paths, but quite dry underfoot. And noisy: feathered
cliff-dwelling inhabitants were in full squawk. And smelly: gulls and gannets eat
a lot of fish.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The rock formations were an impressive sight, and over the
years had been given names. The first we met was a sea arch called Thirle Door,
followed by a group of large, jagged stacks variously called the Witch’s Hat, the
Great Stack and the Knee. Is that the best that our forebears could do? The sun
played shadows across their Devonian Sandstone surfaces to accentuate fissures,
rents and wave-cut ledges. Those underwhelming monickers did not quite capture the
majesty of the structures. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI4OElIcs5saV5hFOTSuVLqvrXA2g7Tv9RIUVq2eCeErkPl71eoh1y90hC-Y5AgkA7HhLdgs1tWHj9b7-Ydv11V9Baxt2c9BhcvnbZ1SEvAsjvKbmCbhIUm4Do_Y8_7kQjCMUrDzorLeqhpba-DvamXIIs2St7pwc9MfDydc6Wbhm7to1-KUUVzSlrpt6c/s6240/DSCF2357.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI4OElIcs5saV5hFOTSuVLqvrXA2g7Tv9RIUVq2eCeErkPl71eoh1y90hC-Y5AgkA7HhLdgs1tWHj9b7-Ydv11V9Baxt2c9BhcvnbZ1SEvAsjvKbmCbhIUm4Do_Y8_7kQjCMUrDzorLeqhpba-DvamXIIs2St7pwc9MfDydc6Wbhm7to1-KUUVzSlrpt6c/w400-h266/DSCF2357.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">Back across the heathland, we joined an American lady well
in to her 70’s who was on a solo holiday through the Highlands. She’d taken the
trip firmly by the horns, and having already climbed several Munros, was currently
lining up a puffin-spotting boat trip for the afternoon. There’s hope for us
all.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We felt obliged to visit John O’Groats. A decision
vindicated by the decent pot of tea and crumbly fruit scones in a café wedged
between The First and Last Gift Shop and the Turning Tides craft outlet. The
place was like a theme park. Not that we were claiming any traveller high ground.
No, we queued up politely for our photo at the famous signpost like everyone
else, taking our turn between the coach parties of wrinklies and proud bikers
who wheeled up their beloved Harley Davidsons to star in their snaps.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigtJs1i0uVWAS5Vr2abdy7uncjLlLKhmL6Cx2w8DzibCdbA2HXULWgq9KlRc9MH-S9kQ-RoYK-WCuiQQMf1-lqL7Z0vEb76T6ITGNA_Utn-K5Pa3VC3w6pyKoBY9qvXNJA9V-Snxo8cjQegdFqCkctswDZ5xlDTsJVz0RDYEBKvX6k1MrKHiPor9wGEtEi/s4032/NC500%20Johnogroats.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigtJs1i0uVWAS5Vr2abdy7uncjLlLKhmL6Cx2w8DzibCdbA2HXULWgq9KlRc9MH-S9kQ-RoYK-WCuiQQMf1-lqL7Z0vEb76T6ITGNA_Utn-K5Pa3VC3w6pyKoBY9qvXNJA9V-Snxo8cjQegdFqCkctswDZ5xlDTsJVz0RDYEBKvX6k1MrKHiPor9wGEtEi/w300-h400/NC500%20Johnogroats.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">Thurso was another port and gateway town, but so different
to <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2023/12/seaside-special-nc500-part-1-north.html" target="_blank">Wick</a> in character, atmosphere and vitality. Thurso is the main jumping off
point from its port at Scrabster for the Orkneys. This helped the place feel
busy. We spent time in the excellent little museum on the main square, part of
the North Coast Visitor Centre, which included eclectic exhibits of Pictish
artefacts, Caithness botany and the nearby Dounreay Nuclear Power Station.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The drive to Bettyhill from Thurso was an even 44 miles (73
in the day), and took us from undulating cliff top vistas to dramatic, steep-sided
Highland valleys in a relatively short distance. Along the way, we stopped at one
of the many walled, out-of-town cemeteries we had seen all over the route since
just north of Inverness. This one was beyond the small settlement of Reay. We
gained entry through creaking eight-foot high iron gates that opened onto neat
rows of tightly packed, well-kept graves under the protection of high stone
walls. The same family names repeated across many headstones; and the pattern repeated
across the Highlands. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirpTqPBTZ_x2VTUGPOqP8Z9s9tl1hBl1qywzuBLBe3KEEJVRQ15wODmls_0u0AP2Ur6t5GjPothLJ2O0I7iUF3j4KaFilrpusvoBHABiEC-vwxE6BYGWsuUKmCr8jEiV8de0pnluEOMBHCXw18ARQ7Th-mAlRvfZtXxQ-_s85AxYr5fSmA4wth7A5R1MzB/s4032/NC500%20Road%20to%20Scourie%202%20(2).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirpTqPBTZ_x2VTUGPOqP8Z9s9tl1hBl1qywzuBLBe3KEEJVRQ15wODmls_0u0AP2Ur6t5GjPothLJ2O0I7iUF3j4KaFilrpusvoBHABiEC-vwxE6BYGWsuUKmCr8jEiV8de0pnluEOMBHCXw18ARQ7Th-mAlRvfZtXxQ-_s85AxYr5fSmA4wth7A5R1MzB/w400-h300/NC500%20Road%20to%20Scourie%202%20(2).jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">I can hardly express how perfectly beautiful was Bettyhill. Our
hotel on the summit of a hill on the edge of the village overlooked the long,
shallow, sandy inlet of Torrisdale Bay. Arriving there after an exhilarating
ride along a single-track road through bare or gorse-clad uplands, across busy burns
and through twisting valleys simply heightened the experience. We had shelled
out not inconsiderably for a sea view room. Agreeably smart, though the vista
suffered a little as our stay coincided with the only day of thick, dark cloud
on the whole trip. It didn’t matter a scintilla. We walked down through the attractive village to the bay and then back through the woods to the other side of the headland where Farr Bay, gloomed under a glowering sky. We barely saw a soul.</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyMUHDYD6bt78UADQNZnrnUHfsHtb19S79-39WzLDpyCfVwv6D0j31kA__bQ7IOJRrIetjDGamkro9i4n8kdHEF12FKA3tROG9KbKWmDW9JMtAIXU5qg4wufjsK1O9oKobv0lKfiPnl-WSzOaaiMwBYpNXbOVYhVRnqXC8cIWi8LkAz1WbEgcg254n_DfZ/s6188/DSCF2368_2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4125" data-original-width="6188" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyMUHDYD6bt78UADQNZnrnUHfsHtb19S79-39WzLDpyCfVwv6D0j31kA__bQ7IOJRrIetjDGamkro9i4n8kdHEF12FKA3tROG9KbKWmDW9JMtAIXU5qg4wufjsK1O9oKobv0lKfiPnl-WSzOaaiMwBYpNXbOVYhVRnqXC8cIWi8LkAz1WbEgcg254n_DfZ/w400-h266/DSCF2368_2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">The hotel was top-notch. I particularly liked the manager
who went outside to berate a lemon-sweater/golf-slack clad knob-head who had
parked his convertible Porsche right outside the front door. She made him drive
it round the back. We met some of his party later over dinner, although they were
more amenable than this bloke. They were travelling round the NC500 as part of
a car club. Alongside the Porsche, the car park was studded with Alfa Romeos, sporty
Mercs and assorted soft tops. It struck me that the NC500 was being tackled in
many different styles and timeframes. This lot were all about slinging stylish motors
into curves, staying in swanky hotels, and completing the trip in three days. Nothing
wrong with that. The camper-vanners were taking a longer, cheaper approach and
those hardy cyclists and bikers were off the scale. There was something here
for everyone.</p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As it happened, the sports-car owning couple we fell into
conversation with had made their money in the camper van business. We learned enough
about the differences between those and motor homes, RVs and Winnebagos to last
me a healthy lifetime. Then they disappeared off to the TV room to watch the
Isle of Man TT. Proper petrol heads. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dinner, for the record, was exactly of the fine quality we
expected in a joint like this. We sampled scallops and chorizo with spring
onions, followed by smoked mackerel, black pudding, beetroot, sundried tomatoes
and rocket. In the bar, I was delighted to see the hotel was catering for all human
life. We sat by the pool table underneath the dart board with a poster showing
all possible three-dart check-outs from 170 down. Absolute class. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO7Fac21IkdJHtfST26BBN3CWIsnid5yt6O5eWAQs94pm0JuNXWcutqH-0NZ3xgL70hZ4C3z3btafr2tdCSQXfEsQPsD20ZHbCnnxCBF34WylTbhF49DNI11klegJQT9GvQnZDOxe3gRhATIO0gawJJwx5cIDDF3p4ZA2JTDiav7hd6kdVBI0LBGpg2Juu/s4032/NC%20500%20Bettyhill%204.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO7Fac21IkdJHtfST26BBN3CWIsnid5yt6O5eWAQs94pm0JuNXWcutqH-0NZ3xgL70hZ4C3z3btafr2tdCSQXfEsQPsD20ZHbCnnxCBF34WylTbhF49DNI11klegJQT9GvQnZDOxe3gRhATIO0gawJJwx5cIDDF3p4ZA2JTDiav7hd6kdVBI0LBGpg2Juu/w300-h400/NC%20500%20Bettyhill%204.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">The next morning dawned overcast. At breakfast, one of the
waiters told us that the changeable and often extreme weather on this exposed spot
was the hotel’s main challenge. Between January and March, he swapped his penguin
outfit for overalls and earned his keep repairing gutters, repainting
windowsills and fixing roof tiles. At least he did when the Winter elements
relented. Those few months of downtime seemed to be crucial in keeping the show
on the road. Because bookings were obviously not the problem. He said that every
room was booked up until October - we were only at the end of May.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The best bit of advice I’d had in planning this trip was
from my school friend Elizabeth who had been round the circuit the previous
year. She suggested I book up places early around the most remote sections.
They filled up fast. So I had secured this place in January. To hear that they
were full through to Autumn proved the wisdom of this advice. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We lapped up more dramatic, swooping road-work as we
travelled under the lumbering Naver Rock range, through a pass into Strath
Borgie and alongside/over the silver-sanded Kyle of Tongue. Single track going
all the way. The key rule for navigating these roads was to pull over often in
to the many passing places and let through any drivers who were up your
backside. Not everyone wants to rubber-neck the views all day. Workers must
hate the NC500. Most vehicles seemed to obey the One Golden Rule, but we did
get stuck behind motor homes on a few occasions, fixating on German number
plates instead of goggling at scree slopes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9QyfhCU4jLOotSY-KYPQRYWCOXKz28RpG8iYgXfW96Dj5Xgr7peIyvrXHqMHbAm-llCbJ7p8R_2g6Ei_p1dqN0YNtubz1SsKqQE7DgcWIqNo8JrbsQyWbXlbI_Yg2ul_XzApOtdTBAuG93EwHatMOOPb7OfXvr1mcgX4fXG06AmEucTS528YV9Pg1GUiF/s3646/20230601_103504.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2431" data-original-width="3646" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9QyfhCU4jLOotSY-KYPQRYWCOXKz28RpG8iYgXfW96Dj5Xgr7peIyvrXHqMHbAm-llCbJ7p8R_2g6Ei_p1dqN0YNtubz1SsKqQE7DgcWIqNo8JrbsQyWbXlbI_Yg2ul_XzApOtdTBAuG93EwHatMOOPb7OfXvr1mcgX4fXG06AmEucTS528YV9Pg1GUiF/w400-h266/20230601_103504.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">Our route took us around three sides of Loch Eriboll beneath
steep sided peaks whose angle plunged the rock deep beneath the surface of the
water. Eriboll is the only sea loch on the north coast and has long provided
safe deep-water anchorage from the violent storms blowing in from Cape Wrath.
We also passed a promontory from the eastern shore faced with curious buildings
which we later learned were lime kilns dating from the 19<sup>th</sup> century.
Pulling up and away from the loch on the western shore, the most recent
industry hosted in the vicinity revealed itself: aquaculture – vast beds and hatcheries
for shellfish, salmon and freshwater fish farming.</p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The traffic got quite heavy – relatively speaking – as we struck
the coast again and we couldn’t work out why. Then the answer appeared around
the next bend. A zip-wire had been built across the full width of Traigh Alt
Chailgeag bay and was proving ridiculously popular. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It looked spectacular. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Our first stop was for the highly-touted Cave of Smoo. This sea
cavern might have been a bit more exciting had the waterfall been falling or
the pools pooling. A dry spring had rendered the feature fairly undramatic; and
maybe we resented just a little having fallen for such an obvious tourist trap.
Still, we did not linger long and soon we were drawing in to Balnakiel, a few
miles off the main NC500 route, for a walk across the bay of the same name and
up to Faraid Head. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <br /></span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7DfvPPuKCicB2Y6iQxE8nOUbJv-Ab32qGk5AuH0ADXGRTc8QxeexxW4y3bwPNROqse8WwvkP8gvfjx41_mdkhoYEdg4l7pawCuYCwxlRXtTpjFALmDXshOZt15jYfVuvyLareq2RxOP06SKNeT793PETfBvmpbrNsVz0Cy9EbOuDviapSIuaLLUKGp2qs/s1641/NC500%20faraid%20head.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1641" data-original-width="1641" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7DfvPPuKCicB2Y6iQxE8nOUbJv-Ab32qGk5AuH0ADXGRTc8QxeexxW4y3bwPNROqse8WwvkP8gvfjx41_mdkhoYEdg4l7pawCuYCwxlRXtTpjFALmDXshOZt15jYfVuvyLareq2RxOP06SKNeT793PETfBvmpbrNsVz0Cy9EbOuDviapSIuaLLUKGp2qs/w400-h400/NC500%20faraid%20head.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">We almost had the sweeping bay to ourselves. Ours were the
only footsteps on the beach until we neared the northern lip where a couple
were playing with their dog in the gentle surf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A family close to the lee of the cliff was also larking in the water. Our
path took us up the slope and through the Alpine-like sand dunes of Faraid
Head. The weather was lifting gradually the sun hitting the bright, yellow-sanded,
wind sculpted walls and ridges was almost blinding. Walking through canyons of dunes
was quite surreal. They gave way to heath and bog as we followed sketchy tracks
up to the headland itself. Off to the west was the even wilder and perfectly
named Cape Wrath; and to our east an MOD base on the ridge that surely must
score highly on the most-remote-posting index for civil servants. Even more
isolated than the Nationality Directorate in Croydon on a wet Wednesday. </p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHkueGUfJtZQ1GdCBeOmC5B8EK_s0k6KD0N6hc1NajsUTWcUdSRFECmFtPy9J4FKeUbjOJDM1Tf-F41ORivSEVTYbvCpznzgQ7EPpCc7LEqjjG2v4t4SepDritrx9fzafq0u3ksh-uwZF41SHQBsKL4UrkU4b-f-iykuZ2oOd1t4vzg7OkKOJSmkbFtfud/s3883/20230601_123811.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1942" data-original-width="3883" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHkueGUfJtZQ1GdCBeOmC5B8EK_s0k6KD0N6hc1NajsUTWcUdSRFECmFtPy9J4FKeUbjOJDM1Tf-F41ORivSEVTYbvCpznzgQ7EPpCc7LEqjjG2v4t4SepDritrx9fzafq0u3ksh-uwZF41SHQBsKL4UrkU4b-f-iykuZ2oOd1t4vzg7OkKOJSmkbFtfud/w400-h200/20230601_123811.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">That said, improving weather seemed to have brought out more
people, and on our circuitous return we found both the dune paths and beach busier.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Not only had we received good advice that informed our accommodation
strategy, but Mrs A had also been given a red hot tip from Sam, a Scottish-based
friend, for the best hot chocolate on the NC500. A café in a craft centre a
couple of miles up the road proved to be a bang-on recommendation and a perfect
pit-stop. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This just left the drive over to Scourie for our berth for
the night. Just. Yep. Just another heart-stopping, pulse-racing, eye-popping career
on tiny roads through wild moorland, under intimidating mountains and across
rivers reflecting back the clear blue sky that had broken out everywhere. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghR6JQMhR1G72IVLqPsbQnG2z8eOYORDUPI7Icw-kplBX3ZK1e9E5arbKqcj-_bB63xwcXVW0iO981m1M2RhyouD8AALFzA4Hn0Bttnsdd1VvU2jl4mEstOYmMjQ2SamtIPLpL4djHzMlGfj0Sihr6ZkaZp-eoUuQ_4oviK92W_LjRCy-N6JP6jTR12i9Q/s1292/NC500%20Road%20to%20Scourie.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="969" data-original-width="1292" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghR6JQMhR1G72IVLqPsbQnG2z8eOYORDUPI7Icw-kplBX3ZK1e9E5arbKqcj-_bB63xwcXVW0iO981m1M2RhyouD8AALFzA4Hn0Bttnsdd1VvU2jl4mEstOYmMjQ2SamtIPLpL4djHzMlGfj0Sihr6ZkaZp-eoUuQ_4oviK92W_LjRCy-N6JP6jTR12i9Q/w400-h300/NC500%20Road%20to%20Scourie.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">The best drive yet? Probably. Our instinctive plan to traverse
the route anti-clockwise, saving the best topographies for later, was working
out well so far. Every day seemed better than the last. Laxford Bridge produced
a sublime moment that encapsulated that feeling. It is a road junction in the
valley bottom where our route headed north-west and the road to Larg struck out
south-east. We crossed the Laxford and I looked back over my shoulder to see the
twin mountains of Foinaven and Arkle framing the wide, slow moving river in the
foreground. A fly-fisherman was casting his line into the cobalt waters, the
sun catching the line as it zipped through the air. Just to add a dollop of
symbolism into this glimpse of perfection, the names of those mountains were
given to two famous racehorses in the 1960’s: Arkle, still regarded as the
greatest steeplechaser who ever lived; and Foinaven who has a fence named after
him in the Grand National. What more could a landscape-loving lifelong fan of
the turf possibly ask for?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Our accommodation choices were diversifying. After a couple
of pubs, a residential semi-detached and an up-market hotel, that night would
be a touch of glamping. Provisions were collected from the village store in
Scourie and we headed up the hill to find our ‘pod’ located at the end of the owners’
Good Life-inspired garden, behind their substantial house. Our pod was one of a
pair, a little reminiscent of a pig-sty in shape... but well equipped with anything
the modern glamper could want tucked ingeniously in to its sturdy structure: double
bed, power shower and (ahem) air fryer. We WhatsApp-ed our mates Dave & Sue
who like a bit of camping. ‘Very jealous’, said Dave. ‘Although I’m not sure it
counts, even as glamping, if you’ve got double-glazed doors on your “tent”.’</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijjlffhpN8BSI1aOdquhH8cALkbp1jt_yZLcyh1C47fRaMPDhCKvQiffkaqa4bLMQeASS524ealTsuoPDJjG8ke2WmCVkfWdI7TW-YKMIKBV7YO8GTAsbSxLua3yU9jgvUipdGfdgITEeXXdYtCL72_kiAIlXauYrCT_EQshytHSVw9p_a4-ggm0BqHtWh/s4032/NC500%20Scourie%205%20(2).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijjlffhpN8BSI1aOdquhH8cALkbp1jt_yZLcyh1C47fRaMPDhCKvQiffkaqa4bLMQeASS524ealTsuoPDJjG8ke2WmCVkfWdI7TW-YKMIKBV7YO8GTAsbSxLua3yU9jgvUipdGfdgITEeXXdYtCL72_kiAIlXauYrCT_EQshytHSVw9p_a4-ggm0BqHtWh/w300-h400/NC500%20Scourie%205%20(2).jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">We lapped up that late evening sunshine, sat on the picnic
table at the front of the pod. Mrs A with a<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>a dash of red wine, me with a local brew, scoffing cheese and savouries
from the village shop. Nick, the house/pod proprietor, popped over to say hello
after his shift at work. He was accompanied by his inquisitive two-year-old was
happy to pass the time of day for a few minutes. We told him how much we liked
the accommodation. He had plans for a couple more, but he didn’t want to site
the pods too close together. We agreed. Our neighbours hadn’t yet showed up,
but retaining a sense of privacy sounded good. Nick said his 9-5 job was over
at the fish farm we had passed earlier in the day at Loch Eriboll (really only
that morning?) and that most people had two or more jobs to make ends meet. The
pods were in their second season and the NC500 had made a big difference to the
local economy. Even if took him twice as long to commute to work.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Some time later, we strolled out through the village and
around Scourie Bay as far as the enclosed cemetery and headland, before back
via the bird hide on the shore. Very peaceful as the fading light cast a sheen
on the water. We diverted to the Anchorage pub on the edge of the camper van
site (every village on the route seems to have one) and there was still a glow in
the sky for a few sunset shots when we returned to our pod. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next door was now occupied, judging by the
light from the window, but we didn’t see them before we turned in.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv32XreKnm0U1XW1O8yKs3lhz_rIbZfs-iKq03Yax15gZL-rAOFS9n9hKuIsY-N12x6PkcNMr7sE1Bd8k8LciInkjm0Eg4RciIi6BI89qqj_j1yrb13MhLZwhWqBOFyiGnakMjfiQjBP3G8XdbtZ_EyAZcVZrd5LL8z3NTV0R3wQKmy8yAmDHbqDWYWorL/s4158/DSCF2392.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2772" data-original-width="4158" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv32XreKnm0U1XW1O8yKs3lhz_rIbZfs-iKq03Yax15gZL-rAOFS9n9hKuIsY-N12x6PkcNMr7sE1Bd8k8LciInkjm0Eg4RciIi6BI89qqj_j1yrb13MhLZwhWqBOFyiGnakMjfiQjBP3G8XdbtZ_EyAZcVZrd5LL8z3NTV0R3wQKmy8yAmDHbqDWYWorL/w400-h266/DSCF2392.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">We awoke to another beautiful day. Is this getting boring? Breakfast
was lightly boiled free-range eggs courtesy of the chickens running around the
small-holding and croissants from the welcome pack. Our neighbours were up and
about too. Sat around the tables outside the pods, we fell in to easy
conversation. This couple were spinning round the NC500 clockwise, but taking
bigger chunks out of the route each day than us. I was tucking into the eggs
when Mrs Neighbour came over with a frying pan and said she’d done too many
sausages, could we help her out. Could we? Not only that, but without any
prompting she also popped a bottle of brown sauce on the table. Northerners,
you see. Proper.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As if the roads hadn’t been challenging enough so far, this
day presented the most hair-raising set of hairpins, gradients and blind bends
yet encountered. Luckily, I’d remembered to download the Spotify NC500
playlist, so we could rattle along on death-trap, pot-holed roads with sheer
drops on alternate sides, listening to AC/DC ‘Highway To Hell’, Talking Heads ‘Road
To Nowhere’, Travelling Wilburys ‘The End of the Line’, Chris Rea ‘The Road To
Hell Part II’ and many, many others. I like my playlists to be literal. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The stretch from Scourie to Kylescu was sound enough on
decent roads, tracking the west coast. Kylescu bridge was a thing of modern
beauty, curving serenely high over the Caolas Cumhann strait with the attractive
Kylescu hotel dominating the headland, and framed by mountains looking wispy on
the other side of the water. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every twist
in the road brought a new highlight.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The fun really began when we swung north-west beyond Unapool,
rising all the while on the Assynt coastal road, with a precipitous drop on our
right down to the loch. Onward, cautiously through Glennan na Caorach and tentatively
over the uplands between various crags and through narrow glens. We paused at Drumbeg,
breathless and wide-eyed. And that was just me navigating. Mrs A needed
sponging down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The car park was mostly
occupied by cars. As oppose to camper vans. Although some had attempted the
crossing, piloted presumably by drivers with ice in their veins, mercifully there
were not many bigger vehicles on this stretch. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg725kZf0eLget9CR22Zw0vScyjNO_p7VzPnSJI-Du1pXGVH6wgOyHdLkDOtlqDFv2bezra3EfxU3yib1OTtO-m6wTzY2J4oWLQN95eJaKWEumdC6WLqTCskIVk7LYm95pm_ZQsksHjBDQMrt8oUmPnJo4SrEhQ2NY7d1Sz0IS59ceCxa65ab1BgrMWOXdW/s4032/NC500%20Drumbeg%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg725kZf0eLget9CR22Zw0vScyjNO_p7VzPnSJI-Du1pXGVH6wgOyHdLkDOtlqDFv2bezra3EfxU3yib1OTtO-m6wTzY2J4oWLQN95eJaKWEumdC6WLqTCskIVk7LYm95pm_ZQsksHjBDQMrt8oUmPnJo4SrEhQ2NY7d1Sz0IS59ceCxa65ab1BgrMWOXdW/w400-h300/NC500%20Drumbeg%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">Drumbeg, a crofting village, qualified as a metropolis
measured against other settlements, boasting a hotel, post office and shop. We
had stopped on a ridge at the edge of the village and had fabulous views north-west
over Eddrachillis Bay over to Handa Island and mainland Sutherland where we
could just about pick out the route we had taken that morning. A monumental perspective
in real-life Panavision.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ascending the ridges again, the land opened out into a ‘lochan’
landscape – the name given the western Assynt’s mass of small freshwater lochs
hemmed in by hummocks and hillocks of very old Lewisian gneiss. Obviously I had
to look up that geological reference. My old geography teacher Mr Douglas would
have been so proud. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We dropped into the next crofting village, Clashnessie at
the head of a beautiful beach on its eponymously-named bay. We would have
stopped to explore and maybe wander up to the nearby waterfall spilling out of
the lochans, but the car park, hard up against an escarpment, was full of surfer
types unloading boards and wetsuit paraphernalia ready to enjoy the sea. There
was nowhere else to park on the single track in the village (and everywhere
else, for that matter), so we carried on through more crofting settlements at
Stoer and Clachtoll. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Assynt played an important role in Scotland’s land
reform history. Thirty years ago crofters united to buy the estate on which
their farms stood from the landowner. They clubbed together and campaigned for public
sector support, eventually paying £300,000 for the estate. It marked “a
historic date in the struggle to change the laws of land tenure in Scotland, to
enable the ordinary people who live and work on the land to have some control
over their own economic future”. The move lead the way for other areas across
the Highlands and Islands to become their own landlords. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Heading south towards Lochinver, the horizon became
dominated by the higher, steep-sided peaks of Quinag, Canisp, Suilven and Ben
More Assynt. Mrs A had found a good walk from here into their hinterlands which
afforded great views of the range from the relative lowland safety on the banks
of the River Inver and then across moorland through the Glencanisp Estate.
Hunting-shooting-fishing land. I felt out of place without a stitch of tweed on
me. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOSnMxVc5jOU30SmI0d1SRnPKdnuCqsq7lCi07yQ4495E1QCSl4tF-R7qB9ACzP8ja1k4LLTAe5LNJmTv14E4HIq0Ei4iHOWpbE5Wdja7O_0viwUpY6GEckwkt8MOeJp8PyUB8iu0QDGYr9ACKPj3U9lWJmUqEO2B15jTCDbvQjG8rQs3PwNvd9zPYanR3/s3648/NC500%20Lochinver%206.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOSnMxVc5jOU30SmI0d1SRnPKdnuCqsq7lCi07yQ4495E1QCSl4tF-R7qB9ACzP8ja1k4LLTAe5LNJmTv14E4HIq0Ei4iHOWpbE5Wdja7O_0viwUpY6GEckwkt8MOeJp8PyUB8iu0QDGYr9ACKPj3U9lWJmUqEO2B15jTCDbvQjG8rQs3PwNvd9zPYanR3/w400-h300/NC500%20Lochinver%206.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">After a good seven or eight mile stretch, we had earned some
late lunch. Lochinver was a pretty-enough extended village on the loch-side,
elevated to the Premier League by the presence on the main road of the
Lochinver Larder. Pies! And in abundance too: savoury lamb, smoked haddock,
spiced butternut & goats cheese (Mrs A), steak & ale, venison &
cranberry (me). The punters were also in abundance. There was a queue, which
was a bit of a culture shock, but we took our place politely and scoffed a
feast in the sun-drenched garden. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The final leg of that day’s trip was away from the coast and
through the glens and straths between those giant, grey, striated mountain-sides
we had seen coming in to Lochinver. This time we were on an A-road and there
was a little more time to admire their hefty girths. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Just one more jaw-dropping moment to be had on this 72-mile
day. We rounded the corpulent Meall Mor, ascended up to Morefield and then shimmied
south-east where from behind the trees, the full elongated extent of Loch Broom
played out before us, flanked on either side by the An Teallach and Beinn Dearg
ranges. Resting by the shores at the bottom of the mountains was the serene
looking Ullapool. Our home for the next two nights. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDanGkswvv92SmwT2kcoGONdn4wHFu_alwuJqscwNLIJGZ_6NpYYWcDwDbBjuLxSO4vNBUH4AULMkTPlU6OFpEiyidiQYlkid9i7HcdQ3B7EMD-McTSCyExKx509Wlad78CI78QphV9WRB0QftTK-TvNPZezw-0qwMgLZZOGeyMt-XEehXlyPUZ5sIFyM7/s1358/20230602_160022.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="905" data-original-width="1358" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDanGkswvv92SmwT2kcoGONdn4wHFu_alwuJqscwNLIJGZ_6NpYYWcDwDbBjuLxSO4vNBUH4AULMkTPlU6OFpEiyidiQYlkid9i7HcdQ3B7EMD-McTSCyExKx509Wlad78CI78QphV9WRB0QftTK-TvNPZezw-0qwMgLZZOGeyMt-XEehXlyPUZ5sIFyM7/w400-h266/20230602_160022.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Series navigation: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/04/seaside-special-excursions-to-coast.html">Intro and chapter guide</a></span></i></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px;"></p><p class="BodyB" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; mso-outline-level: 1;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Previous episode: </span></i><i><a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2023/12/seaside-special-nc500-part-1-north.html">NC500 part 1</a></i></p><p class="BodyB" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; mso-outline-level: 1;"><i>Next episode: NC500 part 3</i></p>Davoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2854417785396611556.post-75077096489800193222023-12-22T17:00:00.007+00:002024-01-26T00:18:40.347+00:00Seaside Special - NC500 part 1: North Lanarkshire, Falkirk, Stirling, Perth & Kinross, east Highland<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgglzYsEHb45_oazPp6oY-fekh6IVeJKRTaP2ldPiBvu7r3QW9O-4wU0DFLi9jGChdxmF_ySLvmUHK5r1i2vXjYmBF5xndJJRnNAeY__DEe5nrSx5xwSHbNuCfrhqKRbfg2v0W6-ttXDUZxinu5FW6tyeXFzZWvkQdx-Iilv43wn7YTDUPeX4-0z_QPz8SL/s3931/NC500%20Dornoch%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2949" data-original-width="3931" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgglzYsEHb45_oazPp6oY-fekh6IVeJKRTaP2ldPiBvu7r3QW9O-4wU0DFLi9jGChdxmF_ySLvmUHK5r1i2vXjYmBF5xndJJRnNAeY__DEe5nrSx5xwSHbNuCfrhqKRbfg2v0W6-ttXDUZxinu5FW6tyeXFzZWvkQdx-Iilv43wn7YTDUPeX4-0z_QPz8SL/w640-h480/NC500%20Dornoch%202.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Bucket lists. Do you love ‘em or hate ‘em? I’m firmly in the
first camp. But then I love lists full-stop. I’ve got a gig list going back to
my first concert at Hammersmith Odeon in 1984. I’ve got a list of all my
Cheltenham Festival winners since 2000 (that’s a micro-list to be fair). Maybe
I should have a list of lists? And yes, I have a travel bucket list. The NC500
is on it. Tick.</div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A circular tour around the top of Scotland, beginning and
ending at Inverness, the NC500 was only officially launched and hawked as a
tourist route in 2010. It had existed long before that of course, as a loose,
undefined journey along deserted, barely serviced coastal highways and byways
known best by crusty camper-vanners and belligerent bikers. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The success of the marketing has changed all that. The journey
is now venerated as an ‘epic road trip’ up there with Route 66, South Africa’s
Garden Route and the Iceland Ring Road. Rightly so. Jumping on trends is
something I rarely do, but when it came to the isolated, inaccessible outer
reaches of mainland Britain, I had the urge to follow the crowd to
remoteness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This was not a solitary trip. Though I had half-begun
planning for it as such, Mrs A was keen to go. I was not necessarily expecting
this. I am a committed non-driver (in the sense that people threaten to get me
committed if I ever sit behind a steering wheel again) and reasoned that
expecting her to chauffeur me round the fiddly bits of north-west Scotland was
an unfair request. Not at all. Mrs A was absolutely up for the challenge and
even suggested driving up from Berko, rather than flying to Inverness and
picking up a hire car, which was my compromise solution. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This made much more practical sense because we could pack up
the car with all sorts of weather and walking related paraphernalia - and wine
boxes - without having to skimp. But not the dog. Nuca, never a keen
car-passenger, was packed off to the pet-minder’s instead. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To compensate for my absence of driving, I promised witty
repartee, sparkling conversation and a comprehensive NC500 Spotify playlist. This
didn’t meet with the enthusiasm I was expecting. Nevertheless, we hit the road
full of expectation and made for Auchinstarry, outside Falkirk, for our first
stop. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Any trip that involves the M6 or the M6 toll is a pain in
the arse, and sure enough… but spirits rose exponentially as soon as we shot out
of the north-west’s cluttered, conurbated roads like a plastic plug out of
Prosecco. Cumbria welcomed us with hills and valleys and sunshine like a big
landscape hug. Even the service stations were better. Tebay regularly wins
awards for the best one in England. It is independent of the more common
pre-fabricated pit stops variety boasting local produce, organic coffee and
views down the dale from picnic benches in the car park.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG5_8Pwn2dDRkWszwOZRMxn1EjuxNE7AllcDSfsGNAbVaENW_28lgj5_VWpCesutYDuLOh-7JFbt51XNvbQX3TclWgDfMcQq5GwmxJTvII0hXatuLY010xOB1ExVjPodA60Fy9AukIExMFa4mIU4CCWtbqQXGog7iA5KCXNMivzrNb9IzgEwRxuAqyQg9h/s2323/Tebay.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1742" data-original-width="2323" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG5_8Pwn2dDRkWszwOZRMxn1EjuxNE7AllcDSfsGNAbVaENW_28lgj5_VWpCesutYDuLOh-7JFbt51XNvbQX3TclWgDfMcQq5GwmxJTvII0hXatuLY010xOB1ExVjPodA60Fy9AukIExMFa4mIU4CCWtbqQXGog7iA5KCXNMivzrNb9IzgEwRxuAqyQg9h/w400-h300/Tebay.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">From Tebay, we made a non-stop leap to our overnight staging
post. A mere 395 miles since leaving Berkhamsted and we were sitting in the late
afternoon sunshine with beers, overlooking a small marina on the Forth and
Clyde Canal, and feeling pretty smug. There was time to stroll the pathway
along the course of the Antonine Wall, where we learned plenty about this 1<sup>st</sup>
Century Roman border construction stretching from coast-to-coast. Our brief
route took us across ramparts, through fortlets and past modern installations
explaining the history of this once-formidable barrier. Then after a slightly
unplanned detour down a Roman ditch, we found the canal again and were back at
the hotel in time for dinner. And still feeling mighty smug.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVMbnqgyOEETz7x625C47z7aB-fdQShsrXjojhMlcW5_hbp3WzJEukAoHrEDNU4wxLCeclHUWU54HM8wyqQqp98XTxEGCad-7tOIruzy7KWeDQmpRHGXtKsYbtwnizIHkmdY6kZ66PCSiBcdYCgaRqlX6n2ZztXTLUFOzpcBv7Q9Q_sj78vJjbQu7kCE6h/s3639/Auchinstarry%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3639" data-original-width="2500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVMbnqgyOEETz7x625C47z7aB-fdQShsrXjojhMlcW5_hbp3WzJEukAoHrEDNU4wxLCeclHUWU54HM8wyqQqp98XTxEGCad-7tOIruzy7KWeDQmpRHGXtKsYbtwnizIHkmdY6kZ66PCSiBcdYCgaRqlX6n2ZztXTLUFOzpcBv7Q9Q_sj78vJjbQu7kCE6h/w275-h400/Auchinstarry%203.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">Next morning, the Kelpies – about 20 minutes eastwards - provided
an early highlight on our adventure. These two massive (no other word will do) aluminium
sculptures of Clydesdale horses heads stand 100ft tall in a reclaimed park, and
were created by artist Andy Scott. They are, it says here, an homage to the
lineage of the industrial heavy horse that shaped the geography of Falkirk. That’s
all well and good, but the visual presence trumps the history, I reckon. These
beasts are quite magnificent.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4nlCyIwW4oCamGPQ34cLEDrSfLjaELXzltGqajyYz8K-vQ55jot_ph-9h1Um6aNx5JkFqZNDhqOL7WxJAtrCrmwNS6YPzN2qkeFc1xLzSMYqA4W_2ZM__S7Dy32y6WU6yDErlHKMOSN0VNh1yHBQZgJbEHHugwkI7JRW2s0gvZqhka6IKp9OjMdvueatv/s6240/Falkirk%202.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4nlCyIwW4oCamGPQ34cLEDrSfLjaELXzltGqajyYz8K-vQ55jot_ph-9h1Um6aNx5JkFqZNDhqOL7WxJAtrCrmwNS6YPzN2qkeFc1xLzSMYqA4W_2ZM__S7Dy32y6WU6yDErlHKMOSN0VNh1yHBQZgJbEHHugwkI7JRW2s0gvZqhka6IKp9OjMdvueatv/w400-h266/Falkirk%202.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">Helix Park was quiet when we arrived and there was something
magical about walking over its landscaped contours to see the thick-necked, powerful
animals reveal themselves by degrees against the cobalt blue, cloudless sky;
one with head thrown back defiantly; and the other snorting at the ground. We
almost had the place to ourselves - even the coffee shop wasn’t yet open – and
the sense of privilege at this free public art spectacle almost made us giddy.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLkWBeRHGmh3YxA7O-aPWg8zZmTLMRKNXBBO55FBo0KQ9ORyVw8_bh02ntfCCHiMKzx7BLciuGJeSumSouAmabUWFyzGm9wJk6a0ZYCHuaHUHkSEGXSOH8whE8PTXTTQiXusXClAoq8ZmWee1B4hxzO8boMfCc0jFND6Do_MyQN_ss4hHgoLR5lsclzNPZ/s5187/Falkirk%2012.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5187" data-original-width="3457" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLkWBeRHGmh3YxA7O-aPWg8zZmTLMRKNXBBO55FBo0KQ9ORyVw8_bh02ntfCCHiMKzx7BLciuGJeSumSouAmabUWFyzGm9wJk6a0ZYCHuaHUHkSEGXSOH8whE8PTXTTQiXusXClAoq8ZmWee1B4hxzO8boMfCc0jFND6Do_MyQN_ss4hHgoLR5lsclzNPZ/w266-h400/Falkirk%2012.JPG" width="266" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">Information panels dotted around the sculpture told us that The
Kelpies’ name reflects the mythological transforming beasts that in legend
appeared from Loch Coruisk in Skye. Interesting, because on the only occasion I
visited that place, the only transformational event was my mate Pat flipping from
bone dry to dripping wet when he fell in the said loch. I suspect he didn’t
have many mythological connections at
the front of his mind right then.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We headed north and had a last lingering look at the Kelpies
from the slow lane of the M9, reflected back from the River Carron. The world
opened out again beyond the Edinburgh hinterland, through Stirling (gateway to
the Highlands, natch) and Dunblane. Then onwards, picking up the A9, which
would be the spine of our route for the next day and a half. Beyond Perth, we
crossed and re-crossed the River Tay and were making for Pitlochry for a bite
to eat. We still faced a decent mileage count before hitting our first true
NC500 destination beyond Inverness that night. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Although nothing like the trek from Berko the previous day, we
banged in some extra clicks when Mrs A decided to go off-piste. I thought that
was my job! So it was the scenic route to Pitlochry via the handsome villages
of Crieff and Comrie. Pitlochry was a lovely town full of well-to-do visitors
on the fishing and castle trail (reflected in the price of our tuna baps, we
reckoned. And don’t get me started on the cost of a wee…) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then the Cairngorms beckoned on the horizon and soon we were
amongst age-old mountains with conifers around their stout girths and scrub
around their bald heads. My mates Bryn and Ben had been up this way the
previous month. I would have been with them if Mrs A and I hadn’t already
planned this trip. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Bryn had been in Aviemore for a hiking weekend, training for
his assault on Everest base camp later that year: an adventure that made our road
trip around Scotland feel like an errand to the garden centre. Ben had joined
him for a couple of days and I was keen to have a look around where they had
stayed. Neither of us were prepared for the Hoseasons-cum-CenterParcs feel of
the place. Resort hotels encircled the town like an impenetrable curtain wall
and the packed high street felt like Skegness had been sliced off the coast,
given a wash and brush up, and dumped here amongst the mountains. We didn’t
stop. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The last few miles seemed to take an age. So Inverness provided
a hasty pit-stop. But strangely, we were both a bit frazzled by the time we had
negotiated the one-way merry-go-round and found somewhere to park. The town was
busier and maybe less pretty than I remembered from my last visit a mere 24
years earlier. A drink and bit of cake by the bridge provided the much needed
chill pill. And honestly, this was the last time on the whole trip I remember
either of us feeling that kind of harassed annoyance at the unwelcome intrusion
of the world. We left Inverness and all that clutter behind as we crossed the
Kessock Bridge. For us, the official start of the NC500. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ballintore was a quiet village amongst a number of similar
small coastal settlements that made up the Seaboard villages on the Easter Ross
peninsula. We arrived mid-afternoon after 220 miles from Auchinstarry and were
mildly surprised that our inn for the night didn’t open week daytimes. This was
Whitsun Bank Holiday Monday after all. But only in England. This Sassenach
half-term doesn’t translate to Scotland, where schools break up earlier for
Summer, so it’s not needed. The extra bank holiday gets tacked on to New Year.
A wise move in these parts. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We parked up in the empty bays on the sand dunes and set off
to explore the coast. Public art already seemed to be a theme early in to our
trip. Whilst nothing in these villages was as dramatic as this morning’s
Kelpies, the slinky, copper Mermaid sitting atop a slab of granite on the shore
cut an eye-catching image. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ka7j_keGYVGOPczaQtQ2VMHx8JOzeo7822v_xXw03YSXUnB1s5byPT8DabdHnifqVoRXN0lU0g6CJls_51oEPBwogSUyKnDHbYEZIGt4ZofimJsr9zcRCR411QdBGFrAcw5fMr3e_uSEFUuqSLlKXBP4P49TPwp6-BKY-yMfOkOn7t315dAjkVwsVnXW/s4032/NC500%20balintore%206.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ka7j_keGYVGOPczaQtQ2VMHx8JOzeo7822v_xXw03YSXUnB1s5byPT8DabdHnifqVoRXN0lU0g6CJls_51oEPBwogSUyKnDHbYEZIGt4ZofimJsr9zcRCR411QdBGFrAcw5fMr3e_uSEFUuqSLlKXBP4P49TPwp6-BKY-yMfOkOn7t315dAjkVwsVnXW/w300-h400/NC500%20balintore%206.jpg" width="300" /></a></div></div><p class="MsoNormal">Further up the beach there was another modern
sculpture of three giant salmon; and then something with a little more weighty
provenance in field set back from the beach. The Hilton of Cadboll Stone is a magnificent
1200 year old Pictish carving, each of its faces filled with intricate abstract
patterns. The sort of design a death metal lead guitarist might have tattooed on
his (or her) forearms. All made more impressive and fascinating because the
Picts left no written records, only symbols carved in stone like these. Reading
about this later, it seems that there is also a lack of agreement amongst
experts about what became of the Picts and why they disappeared from history so
suddenly. Also true of death metal, really.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Single story houses on the shore became more like beach
shacks the further north we walked. Fitting as the going transitioned from
paved path to sand dune and fescue. The weather was glorious. I mean,
ridiculous. High sun, crystal ocean, t-shirts, comedy shades. We walked back
through the village, noting the multi-use village hall, regular bus service and
Costcutter supermarket, but all the while hoping that the main community
facility - <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the Balintore Inn - would be
open on our return. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was. Friendly welcome, dinner booking and room check were
completed swiftly and soon enough we were occupying a table overlooking the
beach, necking well-deserved pints. Even Mrs A was on the ale at that stage, supping
one of the new-breed west coast IPAs. This one was by Belhaven. Light, crisp
and a smidge fruity. A world away from the dark and stormy pints of traditional
Belhaven Best I used to drink in a back street Lambeth boozer too many years
ago. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I mean, bliss. Just that. Pinching ourselves, squinting into
the heat haze. Even though the previous night’s stopover had been a perfect way
to start the holiday, this felt like we had hit the trail in earnest. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A good few punters were in for dinner, which we had to order
early. The kitchen was shut by 7pm. Not all were residents and we watched as
people who were in before us ate and didn’t hang about, driving off to
wherever. Later, we strolled out into the long light night. Passing Balintore
harbour with its dubious looking boozer and then meandering out to find another
Pictish slab – the Shandish Stone. This one was bigger – and more original – than
that we saw this afternoon, which we learned was a reconstruction. The real
thing is in the Museum of Scotland.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhcB3EBtx0tiMjl8euMtd0ZFcfrAwe2WL3gXtCMgF9Ok9AUqUncgfolX7SpF99EE1cbWwph1biaUSD67ECSwlZVjsn52itJ3nmlzlfAZ1tbdHaD5tAAoztmKwmDxFr_6S8ELIb4N1cmSa5Kte8oZBLCi6mXpGhZIGZTkAfNM1i2Ah5aDDafecXu9Lc3VHm/s2310/NC500%20Balintore%205.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2310" data-original-width="1732" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhcB3EBtx0tiMjl8euMtd0ZFcfrAwe2WL3gXtCMgF9Ok9AUqUncgfolX7SpF99EE1cbWwph1biaUSD67ECSwlZVjsn52itJ3nmlzlfAZ1tbdHaD5tAAoztmKwmDxFr_6S8ELIb4N1cmSa5Kte8oZBLCi6mXpGhZIGZTkAfNM1i2Ah5aDDafecXu9Lc3VHm/w300-h400/NC500%20Balintore%205.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The pub was empty by the time we returned. Sheepishly we
looked behind the bar into the back room to see if there was any chance of a
quick drink. The hosts sprung back out front and were only too happy to serve.
We sat by the (unlit) fire chatting with them for a couple of rounds. These are
sometimes my favourite bits of these trips. The chance encounters and the random
conversations. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We were fascinated to hear how Raj, a German-English-Indian had
looked at many pubs and restaurants before settling there. Ballintore is off
the official NC500 route by a few miles, and we realised throughout the trip
that such a diversion can really dry up the tourist flow (often in a good way!)
But not here. Business in the Balintore Inn was year round. Hard to believe on
such a benign late May evening, but the storms could be ferocious off the North
Sea and this could often draw storm spotters and other nutters to stay here. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Tuesday dawned clear and fresh. Nothing ferocious here I
mused, packing up the bags and looking out at the ponies in the field next to
the pub, bathed in morning sunshine. We pointed the Vauxhall north-east and followed
the coast of Easter Ross up to Dornoch Bay, crossing over the firth just beyond
Tain. We called in at Dornoch for a coffee on the beach, driving though the
stoutly built, upmarket streets and past the imposing Royal Dornoch Hotel
overlooking the town square. Dornoch became the first entry on our new list of
‘places we need to come back to’. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We parked up by the championship golf course and I squeezed
a look at the billiard table greens and perfectly turned out players with the half-timbered
clubhouse in the background. A proper links course, the fairways merged with
the rough and then into massive dunes which tumbled down to the yellow beach.
From there we could just make out the tip of the Easter Ross peninsula, shimmering
in the clear light, where we had been just the previous evening. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg72PpB9g0UDLGEziN-twcTnjdMMe0A0i8S2WngS5FNe8gejNk6scCqH-0nip5GYYCtpEi7tlPNzIj676ulJr1Fb4CsD3rtV9Yjf15z-GEkJwrzLNPa4G5GxHea9_K7yavcnNiJ_z3ZUVUCnGZBzFC1AYF6MRRUBCz5DRf5XupUu2iv1orstxCmw3L3vdIC/s3514/NC500%20Dornoch.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2141" data-original-width="3514" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg72PpB9g0UDLGEziN-twcTnjdMMe0A0i8S2WngS5FNe8gejNk6scCqH-0nip5GYYCtpEi7tlPNzIj676ulJr1Fb4CsD3rtV9Yjf15z-GEkJwrzLNPa4G5GxHea9_K7yavcnNiJ_z3ZUVUCnGZBzFC1AYF6MRRUBCz5DRf5XupUu2iv1orstxCmw3L3vdIC/w400-h244/NC500%20Dornoch.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">Onwards, up the coast through Golspie - very smart - a
fleeting glimpse of the chateau-styled Dunrobin Castle over our right shoulder
and then past Brora, before a break at Helmsdale. The village hugs the slopes
of Strath Ullie through which the River Helmsdale pours through the harbour. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In Couper Park above the village, we stumbled
upon a heart-breaking monument to commemorate emigrants from this village and
other places along the coast who were evicted from their homes during the Highland
Clearances. Part of the inscription reads ‘The emigrants…. and their
descendants went forth and explored continents, built great countries and
cities and gave their enterprise and culture to the world. This is their
legacy. Their voices will echo forever through the empty straths and glens of
their homeland.’</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The monument comprises a family group with a kilted man
staring out to sea and woman with a baby looking back to where they have left.
The symbolism was clear and literal enough for even me to grasp. I like to take
things at face value. I read and enjoyed Life of Pi and - spoiler alert - was
staggered when someone later told me that the tiger wasn’t real. FFS! <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTdobOfqg9upSoWKyHg3HwBr0wYDtIoe-lZeJkli_WFg2cs9Vh8uJtj653LVLeludNfOuUrJD5l2V7aHFI3nQxKP5nuu4GxoHy0R_tvwkABzK-hp6Uwbpu7dNNRA_e9l1_NGU4rQVLPj8nGuxWmKBb0b7E3ZGnzS0S46D2JLdtyKUBCGCHYPas9iWNl5ME/s4032/NC500%20Helmsdale%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTdobOfqg9upSoWKyHg3HwBr0wYDtIoe-lZeJkli_WFg2cs9Vh8uJtj653LVLeludNfOuUrJD5l2V7aHFI3nQxKP5nuu4GxoHy0R_tvwkABzK-hp6Uwbpu7dNNRA_e9l1_NGU4rQVLPj8nGuxWmKBb0b7E3ZGnzS0S46D2JLdtyKUBCGCHYPas9iWNl5ME/w400-h300/NC500%20Helmsdale%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">Beyond Dunbeath we left the uplands behind and the earth
flattened out once more. We parted company with the A9 at Latheron. Our new
road was still an A-class, but progress was noticeably slower with a surface
more narrow, uneven and twisty than before. Merely a foretaste of the funtime
tarmac we would encounter deeper in to the journey.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Wick was pencilled in for a stop and a shop. We had been
warned about the absence of filling stations across the more remote northern stretches,
so we topped up here and then parked for a look around the town. I had Wick
pinned as a bustling town. A hub for this isolated stretch of north-eastern
Caithness. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The opposite was true though. This settlement, claiming provenance
from the Vikings and once the busiest herring port in Europe, was pretty much
closed. Walking through the town centre, signs of former affluence and prosperity
were present in the fine Victorian public buildings and commercial premises. But
they were all empty now, or repurposed many times. Some boarded up, others ‘To
Let’. The town was not necessarily filled with dereliction, more a sense of
prevailing abandonment. The latest census shows the population has declined by
about a third. The harbours here no longer hosted ferry crossings or
shipbuilding. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Pulteneytown, the world’s first modern industrial estate,
designed by Thomas Telford on the south side of Wick Estuary to handle the demands
of the burgeoning herring trade was worryingly quiet and pretty run down. Maybe
we needed longer to immerse ourselves in the detail of Pulteneytown – fish carvings
in the lintels above doorways abounded apparently, and the Wick Herring Mart was
allegedly worth a look. However, the museum was also closed and we were left to
imagine what the place might have been like in the mid 19<sup>th</sup> century.
There is a real story here, struggling to be heard. The former fish-processing
sheds and tight-packed workers housing were all ripe for the magic touch of
heritage investment to lift the gloom and claim their legacy. Even the Lidl on
the edge of town was deserted. I’ve never seen such a phenomenon.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Our berth for the night was a couple of miles up the coast
at an Airbnb in the small village of Staxigoe. This settlement also owed its
existence to herring fishing. This was the centre of the herring trade locally
before Pulteneytown was built. There were a few buildings by the tiny, pretty
harbour that bore testament to its history, including a barometer and weather
vane by the quayside that was used by fishermen to decide on the meteorological
perils or otherwise of setting out to sea. Hard to believe such a small harbour
had the capacity to land very much fish at all. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The driving was done for the day – 84 miles – and we struck
out along the coast towards Noss Head, skirting the cliffs and flagstone
outcrops of Caithness stone. This layered sedimentary rock is quarried for the slabs
which are used as walls, roofing and paving. It looked pretty good in situ to
be honest.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGNR9ug-zTGi79S2kw7gbhTHWU7PDXb446IejPaQTtU_TD8lUlSQTwr4jpoD9OTaPnBv_izc6SBmfJCmGvK-ucYgw1qY3A4f6awA8Bq4pQefiMMd7jim2Sj2tqCJbR5nvlFMd5ghRjgxlFlYbYLoub50yyCj5yfPsPSwKVoTy9bjYusNDXkLY6cCCEmC5l/s6077/DSCF2339.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4051" data-original-width="6077" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGNR9ug-zTGi79S2kw7gbhTHWU7PDXb446IejPaQTtU_TD8lUlSQTwr4jpoD9OTaPnBv_izc6SBmfJCmGvK-ucYgw1qY3A4f6awA8Bq4pQefiMMd7jim2Sj2tqCJbR5nvlFMd5ghRjgxlFlYbYLoub50yyCj5yfPsPSwKVoTy9bjYusNDXkLY6cCCEmC5l/w400-h266/DSCF2339.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There were magnificent views north and east from Noss Head
lighthouse and though the weather had been very benign until then, the breeze whipping
across this particular corner of the Highlands made me question my decision to
wear shorts.</div><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Turning west and out to Castle Sinclair Girnigoe, the wind
relented and streaks of blue sky emerged from behind rushing clouds. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The castle is really two structures. Castle
Girnigoe dating from the 16<sup>th</sup> century and the larger Castle Sinclair
bolted on top and along the rocky outcrop from the 17<sup>th</sup> century
onwards. Impressive during its opulent heyday as the seat of Clan Sinclair, it
is no less striking now in its ruinous state, looking like a wrecked galleon
moored off a crumbling pier. The wooden bridge over the ravine giving access to
the castle felt like the gangplank over to The Black Pearl. There has been
loads of restoration to the castle, but it takes some faith to believe that a
stiff north-easterly wouldn’t simply tip it off the crumbling promontory into
Sinclair Bay. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvX6Inxsa2aaWciEA11UKY1ZVJ4hrK7yLOWYpjWGgu9EsuBIirwWVlsPrxUzR6JPiVzeke_lL4EaRgHhDHd6r3xj961S1BtGi-PXvLVeFZ4hKXEBWc2gG3uIykdn0e6hvJ4tlMFz_-XBo5IoFWrgJ0ajPnywlV8K16h28riEk1f0gWib-fbt-52YlI0KAo/s4032/NC500%20Staxigoe%204%20(2).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvX6Inxsa2aaWciEA11UKY1ZVJ4hrK7yLOWYpjWGgu9EsuBIirwWVlsPrxUzR6JPiVzeke_lL4EaRgHhDHd6r3xj961S1BtGi-PXvLVeFZ4hKXEBWc2gG3uIykdn0e6hvJ4tlMFz_-XBo5IoFWrgJ0ajPnywlV8K16h28riEk1f0gWib-fbt-52YlI0KAo/w400-h300/NC500%20Staxigoe%204%20(2).jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We sat under the square tower on a sunny, grassy slope ending
at a shale beach, scoffing scotch eggs. Then Mrs A had a phone conversation (get
that reception!) with the dog sitter about a cough Nuca had suddenly developed.
Did she have kennel cough inoculations, she was asked. That’s all we needed – a
650 mile trip to rescue the dog. Mrs A suggested that our canny hound maybe
putting on the ailment in a small attention seeking ploy, but to let us know if
it didn’t go away. We heard nothing more. Nuca sometimes puts on limp, too. The
dog is an absolute prima donna.</div><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Our route back to Staxigoe skirted the tiny, seemingly
deserted John O’ Groats airport and then between fields to complete a circular
walk back to the house. No pub in town so it was a quiet night in with a brace
of ready meals, bottled ale and the trusty box of wine.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Series navigation: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/04/seaside-special-excursions-to-coast.html">Intro and chapter guide</a></span></i></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px;"></p><p class="BodyB" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; mso-outline-level: 1;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Previous episode: </span><a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2023/09/seaside-special-skye-is-limit-west.html" target="_blank">Skye is the limit: west Highland</a></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><i>Next episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2024/01/seaside-special-nc500-part-2-north-and.html" target="_blank">NC500 part 2</a></i></p>Davoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2854417785396611556.post-82630169295171347162023-09-12T18:02:00.013+01:002023-12-22T16:57:33.173+00:00Seaside Special - Skye is the limit: west Highland<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAzUBZA-dcYkdikKUrfb9taJKTGskkpITSUFwWuZBF7UPjwstl_18C88hhEPr9lAxJduCmH_QzWSsxQsomStqsDxLEUtYwAcLVrCnoPDAb3gISEtJafuVk8oP5jcUVjGWkSXxuLlLPW-hFC-CtoCU1ZtSu4o9P6hqjeio5f0n5llKFoZcGq7WPG4Jb_WJV/s3048/Scan%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2080" data-original-width="3048" height="435" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAzUBZA-dcYkdikKUrfb9taJKTGskkpITSUFwWuZBF7UPjwstl_18C88hhEPr9lAxJduCmH_QzWSsxQsomStqsDxLEUtYwAcLVrCnoPDAb3gISEtJafuVk8oP5jcUVjGWkSXxuLlLPW-hFC-CtoCU1ZtSu4o9P6hqjeio5f0n5llKFoZcGq7WPG4Jb_WJV/w640-h435/Scan%202.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">I’m surrounded by a jigsaw of blurry photo prints, OS maps and website
screen-shots spread out across the office desk. It looks like an evidence board
for a murder drama. I’m trying to piece together a youth hostel trip to
Scotland from the late 80's/early 90's. None of the prints are dated or annotated. I recognise the
faces of our group and some of the buildings. And even some of the landscapes.
But not all of them. They were chucked in an album with pics of the Peak District and the Norfolk Broads from 1991. So that’s the year. But wait. The photos were in the wrong album. After a bit of checking, it’s definitely 1989, the year after I graduated. </span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Geographically, the trip fits well in the blog series at this point as we go
clockwise round the UK, but the recollections are going to be as patchy as a
politicians autobiography. Picking out a few highlights and strong memories, whilst skating over the rest.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">The trip was a big deal at the time. Our most ambitious youth hostel adventure yet, since we’d got the bug back in college. The furthest north I’d been
until then, despite my Dad’s ambitious use of his BR employee family rail
passes, was Edinburgh. I remain grateful for the expedition which opened up a
whole new series of magical landscapes for me, which have served as motivation
and inspiration ever since. More prosaically it also tested the tolerance of
public transport, mechanical fixups and friable friendships.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Bizarrely, I remember the planning element quite well. Lee and I were
flatmates. After a couple of beers in a pub in Peckham and a few phone calls,
we were entrusted with making the logistical arrangements. The distance between
the youth hostels in Scotland and the demand for beds in the dorms was such
that we had to book up well in advance.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">We had a map spread out on the living room floor with pins
on hostel locations and bits of string to work out how far we could walk in a
day. The positioning of railway stations and the relative reliability of post-buses and community transport were also factors.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">How many more calls it took to finalise arrangements with the gang and
with hostel managers escapes me, but somehow in a world before the internet and
mobile phones, seven of us had planned to converge on Inverness from different
parts of England on the same day in early June.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">And then those assiduously plotted plans were blasted in to the air like
streamers from a party popper. A train strike was announced for the date of our
departure and beyond. Getting to Inverness by rail was not happening, nor was
the onward journey on the train via the Great Glen to the Isle of Skye.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Gareth had a car. He was happy to drive the whole monster route. And
Dave had a driving licence, he would hire a car and was equally happy to take
the wheel. The holiday had turned into a road convoy!</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">We would have to stick with the hostel itinerary. That element was so
much built on a house of cards that it was easier to leave the hard-won group
bookings be and let the small hatchbacks take the strain instead. Thus
Inverness remained the rallying point.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Lee and I took the train to Liverpool on the day before the rail strike to rendezvous with Gareth. Dave was in Stafford having just finished up his Finals. Jerry and Ollie were just up the road at the Stoke site of the Poly. Pat was a Stokey boy and still lived there. So Dave hired a Ford Sierra - after considerable negotiation - from a well dodgy outfit on an industrial estate in Stafford and the four of them hit the road from the Midlands. </span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">I can’t recall anything of that long haul. My next clear image is of the
seven of us miraculously arriving at Inverness youth hostel in two batches that
evening, separated by only minutes. We drank beers in the town centre pubs;
stuck into the greasiest, lard-laden fish and chips I've ever eaten – a
particularly cherished memory; and then finished off with a few cans
overlooking the River Ness from the grounds of the youth hostel high above the
town. We marvelled at the ever-lasting light of that high summer evening and
probably talked bollocks into the early hours. (Worth noting here that Scottish
youth hostels didn’t have the same archaic 10.30pm curfew that their English
counterparts upheld at that time.)</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">The hostel has gone now. As part of the research for this piece, I found
a website stating that the hostel, a distinguished building on corner of Old
Edinburgh Road and Culduthel Road called Viewhill House closed in 1998. It is
now derelict and fire damaged. Google street view indeed confirms the image of
a dejected building semi-clothed in scaffolding, overgrown with shrubs and
decaying grounds. </span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Next day, we headed out for the west coast. The original plan would have
been the railway that terminated at Kyle of Lochalsh and then swinging north
via public transport. But with cars we cut off the corner and wound our way
through Achanalt, Achnasheen and Anancaun. Fantastic scenery all the way which
we accompanied with some Bohemian Rhapsody air guitar moments synchronised
between the two cars in some kind of rock n roll semaphore. I can only assume
that Mike Myers was travelling in the opposite direction because a very similar
scene was played out in Wayne’s World when the movie came out the following
year. Copyright!</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Music was front and centre on the trip. We were all gig buddies and
alongside classic rock and metal sounds (I can remember an argument with Ollie
about whether ‘Speed King’ or ‘Black Night’ was the best Deep Purple track
ever), there was a lot of grunge and American new wave being played. Dave had a
bunch of cassettes which featured now classic material from bands like REM, The
Lemonheads, Pixies, Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Soundgarden, The Chilli Peppers all on
heavy rotation in his Sierra. Pat liked The Smiths but we tried not to dwell on
it.</span></p><p class="BodyB"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH86kB489K_uNgNoRruFJqL0w1n6a2ixzPDewpa0-4uOPakdsovJ1TAmWk8Noz7D6cYiPid4I9ZGEyU5TTgT6ITmI_DvRmC8mqRHJikvgpBHQmUSbbfx7_L-ECOV3ZT5gFNPWiOBhAapyOCQlkBHNWumIYy8dkej983jJqoLWLjNE3slJPZKfqv24m2nr0/s3103/Scan%207.jpg"><img border="0" data-original-height="2069" data-original-width="3103" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH86kB489K_uNgNoRruFJqL0w1n6a2ixzPDewpa0-4uOPakdsovJ1TAmWk8Noz7D6cYiPid4I9ZGEyU5TTgT6ITmI_DvRmC8mqRHJikvgpBHQmUSbbfx7_L-ECOV3ZT5gFNPWiOBhAapyOCQlkBHNWumIYy8dkej983jJqoLWLjNE3slJPZKfqv24m2nr0/w400-h266/Scan%207.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="BodyB">If I’ve assembled the bewildering array of photos in the right order,
our first west-coast stop was Carn Dearg youth hostel outside the lovely
village of Gairloch. The youth hostel sits above Loch Gairloch on the side of
the road and there are fantastic views in either direction. Allegedly, anyway.
It rained a lot. And Gareth’s Nissan Micra caught a cold. Coughing and
spluttering outside the youth hostel in the bad weather, but refusing to spring
in to life. Mechanics eventually arrived from Kyle of Lochalsh - ironically,
where we would be heading in a few days - and fiddled about a bit with the
electrics. Alternators and stuff.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">So Carn Dearg was a quiet introduction to the Highland coastline. Board
games, tea, pub. There’s a photo of a deserted village that we visited and
another of us playing crazy golf somewhere. Another pic is of me outside the
hostel that I tried to recreate on the North Coast 500 trip that Mrs A and I
completed in June this year (more of that later). <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="BodyB"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihdU2ap06H2E3fCefacYrXGIxarbLOP3q3FZrR4bltiJwkPOSDBZjbM1-Wy7Mm8vNDuTI74rlXEZEYmEhjGSvMcXBx3rYkYf-ElVEDAbyrizta36IK3Z4XpKAh3o6ni943fynFjvNtf59iCx2pxAv7VCv5KzUde63pZ4EB6ZGn1JHhaIVziWsL36UX37xR/s2919/scan%2012.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2060" data-original-width="2919" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihdU2ap06H2E3fCefacYrXGIxarbLOP3q3FZrR4bltiJwkPOSDBZjbM1-Wy7Mm8vNDuTI74rlXEZEYmEhjGSvMcXBx3rYkYf-ElVEDAbyrizta36IK3Z4XpKAh3o6ni943fynFjvNtf59iCx2pxAv7VCv5KzUde63pZ4EB6ZGn1JHhaIVziWsL36UX37xR/w400-h283/scan%2012.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="BodyB">We then drove south through the magnificent Torridon range to stay a
couple of nights in the new-build concrete bunker of a youth hostel on the
banks of the loch. Again, I want to cover this landscape in more detail when I
come to write up this year’s NC500 adventure. Such a dramatic area. I will say
here that we took on some challenging walks from Torridon. Though the weather
remained pretty grim, we plothered through wet and boggy foothills and up
across bald and austere passes. I can’t now remember which of those mountains
we tackled, though Dave has subsequently reminded me that one was right behind the youth hostel, so I assume it was Meall Dearg. Not sure. I do know that I didn’t see any of them again for another 34 years.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">The drive from Torridon south was stunning. Crossing the bridge onto
Skye was memorable. But as we swung left into Kyleakin, the youth hostel was
disappointing. So many hostels are in great buildings or superb locations. This
one felt like a 70’s utilitarian office block thrown up by a car park on the
edge of the village. In fact it<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>closed
in 2007, according to my youth hostel website, and looks like it might be
turned into social housing. Tourism in Kyleakin is in decline, apparently, as
visitors cross over from the mainland and keep going.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">The harbour was pretty enough, Caisteal Maol castle presented a fine
backdrop and we found a bar to chill after the long journey.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">We had a couple of nights here and used it as a base to get out to the
Black Cuillins. I didn’t know much about these magnificent peaks at the time
and I’m sure it was Lee who wanted to explore them. We headed out in
convoy to Elgol, a tiny fishing village on the windswept shores of Loch Scavaig
and hung about a bit in the rain. Apparently, we could get a boat out to Loch
Coruisk from there, gateway to the Cuillins. It didn’t look promising. The
detail escapes me, but I know we didn’t book or pre-arrange any of this, and
miraculously a fisherman turned up on the slipway and agreed to take the seven
of us in his red inshore creel boat to the loch, hang around for a bit and then
ship us back.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">The cloud was down to our eyebrows and the air damp and heavy, but the
crossing was still invigorating. Waterfalls spewed and frothed out of gullies
in the looming mountains. Fat grey seals lay about on dark rocks at the water’s
edge. Our captain didn’t say much as we moored on the tiniest of landing
stages. He lived with this landscape on his doorstep, but the seven of us were
a little awestruck.</span></p><p class="BodyB"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0QAqC_VwTMo974kCGtZ8WllnhfdFc138G0G8h30OCd2bS2f06Ybu39yo0lhAXIgeuGw1v34wumPCB1M9wY2kfoyJjmcDW_6AzAwAMTvAXE9X3BBTo-gRRJV4zcUdBlqMeDPAYWuwrBJ_BRg1W5Z5VjyptWLkSCAC1GjZgvhs2yZ1WMQxx4110EngiWi2U/s2811/Scan%208.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2811" data-original-width="2140" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0QAqC_VwTMo974kCGtZ8WllnhfdFc138G0G8h30OCd2bS2f06Ybu39yo0lhAXIgeuGw1v34wumPCB1M9wY2kfoyJjmcDW_6AzAwAMTvAXE9X3BBTo-gRRJV4zcUdBlqMeDPAYWuwrBJ_BRg1W5Z5VjyptWLkSCAC1GjZgvhs2yZ1WMQxx4110EngiWi2U/w305-h400/Scan%208.jpg" width="305" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="BodyB">Clambering up the small incline revealed the narrow, freshwater Loch
Coruisk, separated from the sea by only that small rise of land, but completely
hidden from view on the boat crossing. The black and green mountains, swathed
in battleship cloud, closed in around the loch at extreme angles. Precipitation
dripped from the skies and from our coats. The loch was dark, reflecting
perfectly the environment. The sea behind us already seemed closed off and
remote. It needed only a spark of imagination and maybe a conical mountain
gushing smoke and sulphur to believe that this was actually the entrance to
Mordor.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">I’ve been to very few places quite so affecting as Loch Coruisk. The
silence was enveloping. Our breath seemed to hang in the air. And then Pat fell
in the loch. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">I didn’t see it happen. Clearly adrift in the moment and absorbing my
surroundings, all I heard was a yelp and a sploosh. He went properly right in,
having lost his footing completely, and emerged with water spouting out of
pockets and clothing recesses. Remarkably he had a grin on his face. Talk
about puncturing the atmosphere, though...<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="BodyB"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwNrVN7N6Z0z8RGBLfWtXVzSzVv3MTMEbcIfgvMWciJeZEmI8_uCCfWJfGGS6e1YaQc7e5Zd76IKxF19HC6apd3YylbVdxkAGdUE6T-F_ve5XedGA-19bXsiGh9JwLun31mS2FalEnhistJ8h1V3CL1TWcFpwzhy23HYgPm7yaUm7gXIylwQJONn4ssM50/s3284/Scan%206.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3284" data-original-width="2221" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwNrVN7N6Z0z8RGBLfWtXVzSzVv3MTMEbcIfgvMWciJeZEmI8_uCCfWJfGGS6e1YaQc7e5Zd76IKxF19HC6apd3YylbVdxkAGdUE6T-F_ve5XedGA-19bXsiGh9JwLun31mS2FalEnhistJ8h1V3CL1TWcFpwzhy23HYgPm7yaUm7gXIylwQJONn4ssM50/w270-h400/Scan%206.jpg" width="270" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="BodyB">Even after an hour or so rambling round the perimeter of the loch and the boat trip back to Elgol, Pat was
still wringing wet. How we laughed. I imagine even the Captain cracked a smile. </p></span><p></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">There is a pic of Ollie filming the sopping-wet Pat before he got back
in the car. I had forgotten about this cine camera until unearthing these
memories. It was actually Pat’s own camera and it was usually him behind the
lens. He shot a good few spools on this trip. Some of which included our
poorly-conceived attempts at moody 80’s alt rock videos on cliff tops that
usually descended in to something closer to a sketch by The Monkees. I don’t
think I’ve ever seen the developed footage. Must find out if it still exists.</span></p><p class="BodyB"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP0IhYspqItAnimYLYzi9d1gAI6te4-g-LaNNPU_RfIn2Bgg_1j4mvWxGNsxyvkjLaZH4-ZC7o9nH4Dd8Te8u6FCGD-1lB3FWkdya2vdtoqToFFRGUqzIVTCKWAjqYPszyGaXNl1UOncQp0oAbagFRwoYyFv6H94lwK1wvBaVBAYn2c1H4mKpCy05XHGR6/s2622/Scan%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1763" data-original-width="2622" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP0IhYspqItAnimYLYzi9d1gAI6te4-g-LaNNPU_RfIn2Bgg_1j4mvWxGNsxyvkjLaZH4-ZC7o9nH4Dd8Te8u6FCGD-1lB3FWkdya2vdtoqToFFRGUqzIVTCKWAjqYPszyGaXNl1UOncQp0oAbagFRwoYyFv6H94lwK1wvBaVBAYn2c1H4mKpCy05XHGR6/w400-h269/Scan%203.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="BodyB">On the morning of our departure, the Nissan Micra’s poorly chest broke
out again. The same mechanics turned up from Kyle to fix it. They asked with a
wary eye where we were headed next. Thankfully, there were no further incidents
throughout our trip. The weather improved significantly after Kyleakin and I’m
no mechanic but that co-incidence is pretty irrefutable, I reckon. </p></span><p></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Portree is the main town on Skye. Again we used it as a jumping off
point, this time principally for the Trotternish peninsula. There was some
fantastic hikes up in The Quiraing, and around the Old Man of Storr with rock
formations like fingers of granite reaching skyward out of smooth,
time-weathered grassy slopes. Quite remarkable. It is the most photographed
landscape on Skye and we had good enough weather to enjoy the structures in
their true glory.</span></p><p class="BodyB"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL90A8V9RWBxFA2uAW77BNvCGQczoEpMgrRVZD1bKbmppRLnPNymzkOE1LH4XZtZBGHTth8lwfIdx4_b1lg8ozj-IFFnomzyHf61Eo1Q_GLbg4ErCoXmKaw0mS02Q7SfTJ7HLsGlE7GRQcFRIwKaVWY2CIsWVB7dJwn3SWIMN_B4cIEYqoqVTLRADsLApo/s2884/Scan%209.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2884" data-original-width="2331" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL90A8V9RWBxFA2uAW77BNvCGQczoEpMgrRVZD1bKbmppRLnPNymzkOE1LH4XZtZBGHTth8lwfIdx4_b1lg8ozj-IFFnomzyHf61Eo1Q_GLbg4ErCoXmKaw0mS02Q7SfTJ7HLsGlE7GRQcFRIwKaVWY2CIsWVB7dJwn3SWIMN_B4cIEYqoqVTLRADsLApo/w324-h400/Scan%209.jpg" width="324" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="BodyB">We shifted up to Uig, which was my favourite youth hostel on Skye. After
a full day’s walking and a few restorative beers, we played cricket on the
field behind this former hospital (which is still in use as a hostel). We
were astounded to find bat and stumps in the games room, so this was an
opportunity not to be missed. There was no ball, so we made use of a washing poweder ball from the laundry room. (Thanks to Jerry for that nugget of deep-dived memory!) The make-shift pitch was definitely giving
sideways movement and the square made the slope at Lord’s look like a billiard
table, but the views from the crease over the harbour were world beating. I
seem to remember Dave and Pat having fearsome yorkers.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Our gang retraced the 50-odd mile length of Skye and then swung south
back on the mainland, down the west coast. Although some of the details of the
Skye trip are inevitably hazy, the impact of those mountain ranges - by turns,
wild, sinister, glorious and cinematic – have never left me.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Whilst those upland treks around the Quiraing were taxing, the rewards
were magnificent with clear days and sure-footed walking. At Ratagan, we took on a hike where the balance between pain and pleasure was not so favourable.
Ratagan youth hostel overlooks Loch Duich, a mere well-lobbed stone over Glen
More to Skye. It was our last stop before travelling out of the
Highlands to more level coastal terrain.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Tucked up in our dorm, there was some debate about what to do with our
last full day. The youth hostel warden had dangled the prospect of a good walk
over the Five Sisters of Kintail that ‘fit young lads like us would have no
trouble with’. Jerry, Pat and I were not so keen. We’d had some pretty stiff
walks already and quite fancied hiring some bikes and pootling around low-level
landscapes. Lee and Ollie were all for the day-long hike. Dave and Gareth were
somewhere in the middle. I floated the idea of a splinter group. We didn’t have
to do everything together, did we? That didn’t get much of a hearing, and in
the end we all voted for the walk. Me included, so I can’t complain too much
about shooting agony I feel in my thighs right now, just thinking about that
insane trek again. Tempered (of course!) by the memory of the thrilling ascents
revealing views over half of Highland Scotland.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">The five Sisters of Kintail is one of the great ridge walks of Scotland,
taking in three Munros and two other peaks over 900 metres with a combined
1,500 metres or so of ascent. For the record, the peaks are: <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">- Sgurr nan Spainteach, 990 m <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">- Sgurr na Ciste Duibhe, 1027m <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">- Sgurr na Carnach, 1002m <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">- Sgurr Fhuaran, 1067m <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">- Sgurr nan Saighead, 929m</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">We adopted a two-car policy, leaving the Micra at the end of the range
and then a couple of trips in the Ford Jellymould so we could assemble at the start
together. The day was overcast and a bit moist. We couldn’t see any of the
summits.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Off we set. The real challenge of the hike was not the ridge walk
itself, but the steep climb up to the first peak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no question that this was a vicious
slog. From the road to one of the staging posts at the Bealach am Lapain there
was a climb of 480m in less than a kilometre - an eye watering, lung busting 1
in 2 gradient, some of it scrambling and plenty of tricky, greasy going on
rocky ground.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">We were soon in the cloud and whilst there was some satisfaction at
scaling the first peak, there was not much of a view to be had. We dropped away
from the top and I could feel my spirit sapping as the next muscle-mangling
ascent kicked in. The good-natured banter and humour-in-adversity had turned in
some quarters (mine) to down-right mutiny and open dissent. ‘What the fuck are
we doing up here?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We can’t even see
anything?’ One miserable, murky foot plonked in front of and above the other in
thigh-burning manner. Where’s the joy in that, eh?</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">But how fickle are the taut emotions when under duress. As we approached
the zenith of the second mountain, nothing short of a miracle occurred. The sky opened. Strands of cloud blew away from craggy outcrops, mist swirled out of
corries and bit-by-bit the landscape was unveiled. With this transformation, my
very being soared. We all felt the same. The world was briefly filled with
colour. Lochs, hills, coastline, islands and horizons were revealed in
sparkling detail. Loch Duich showed itself off in shimmering ripples. The ridge
line – our route away north-west – was like a knife-edge, flanks picked out by
the breaking sun in light and shade. A good metaphor for the whole
adventure.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeRjWRlTFMhDKrpJrJdUjIazJzjcXeNi_kyQYabXXIF_RXUtuKzuG8BMg1K3pdrlVs3xXkkiHV2slPjt0fiqD0MbuvL2paeuVx-N2dpxMA3QGegMOElNcucFJWJH2Cc6HjZYNiOLMVfLEBDS7KFrruDlHI02Vvtdj5a3f6uedXYmWqieSErPLv1PZtf_lb/s2707/Scan%2013.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2707" data-original-width="2171" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeRjWRlTFMhDKrpJrJdUjIazJzjcXeNi_kyQYabXXIF_RXUtuKzuG8BMg1K3pdrlVs3xXkkiHV2slPjt0fiqD0MbuvL2paeuVx-N2dpxMA3QGegMOElNcucFJWJH2Cc6HjZYNiOLMVfLEBDS7KFrruDlHI02Vvtdj5a3f6uedXYmWqieSErPLv1PZtf_lb/w321-h400/Scan%2013.jpg" width="321" /></a></div><p class="BodyB"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Clouds were already scudding across the vista. It was only a short time
before the illuminated window closed again, so snaps were taken, views were
drunk in and we all agreed that the toil was worth it after all. As grandiose
as it sounds, this was genuinely one of the most uplifting moments of my life.</span></p><p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFJNjEHyQfyildBsOMSwIGSWXRxJ0Hij-m0WjOJ3k15eZ5mu4Fy54hbadcGKRS20plsSEe2udmZLaS6yfO3orPGB-st3a-eUeLb03K2thze4xA05_Kx4W4Rekv8r4FJ9Ekup2sIZvcfoL6bSZ3trju_6nvHU0eK-9HjZUa_sxFjKorMymG1oKBJaGpOPua/s3047/Scan%205.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2031" data-original-width="3047" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFJNjEHyQfyildBsOMSwIGSWXRxJ0Hij-m0WjOJ3k15eZ5mu4Fy54hbadcGKRS20plsSEe2udmZLaS6yfO3orPGB-st3a-eUeLb03K2thze4xA05_Kx4W4Rekv8r4FJ9Ekup2sIZvcfoL6bSZ3trju_6nvHU0eK-9HjZUa_sxFjKorMymG1oKBJaGpOPua/w400-h266/Scan%205.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">The same happened, though less dramatically on the third sister. At one
point, there was a fissure across the path and we could see all the way to the
foot of the mountain several hundred metres below. Soon after, the trek plunged
back into thick cumulonimbus. Progress was a grind under such conditions and
limbs seemed to ache exponentially more. Lee, Ollie and Dave up front, set the
pace, me, Pat, Gareth and Jerry were at the back alternatively moaning,
encouraging, groaning and supporting. And swearing.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Ultimately, there was enormous satisfaction in completing the trek. The
descent brought us back below the cloud line and put the strain on the backs of
legs rather than the front. We regrouped at the bottom of the final sister,
seven of us in a crumpled pile, knackered but pleased with our efforts. Then a
young couple and their dog trotted by us looking fresh in body and mind, waving
to us and saying something about the five sisters being a nice afternoon
stroll. Bastards.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">I’m not really a seasoned mountain walker/munro-bagger, though I’ve done
a few in my time. I would put the Five Sisters of Kintail that day amongst the
toughest walks I’ve ever done. Up there with the endurance feat of the <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/09/seaside-special-ramblin-men-east-sussex.html">London to Brighton schlep</a> and an over-ambitious section of the <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/03/seaside-special-atlantic-highway-north.html">North Cornwall coast path</a> in miserable rain with an overloaded pack.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Oban was the final stop on that trip. Very different in nature to the
Highlands. More like being bussed out for a bucolic, seaside rest cure. Under
other circumstances we would have loved the resort, ice-creams and all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As it was, having had a fortnight in youth
hostels, living out of ruck sacks, away from centres of population, we were
feeling smelly, grizzled and maybe a little wild. A family friendly tourist
hotspot was always going to be a wide of the mark. So heading homeward after
only a brief overnighter in that gentle Argyll and Bute town was probably the
right move. Arriving back in London was quite the culture shock.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">As a footnote, its worth saying that I returned to Ratagan and Skye 17 years later. This time with Mrs A, Daughters No 1 and 2, together with my Mum
and Dad and Mrs A’s Mum, all wrapped up in a little house in the woods behind
Glenelg. We saw otters in Kyle Rhea, a pine marten in the cottage back garden
and a full grown stag next to our picnic table in a café in Corran. The kids
built dens, played shops and opened a museum in the woods. We visited the
Glenelg Inn, run by notoriously surly landlords and got on like a house on
fire. We had a horse-racing video game on the telly and we played cards. My Dad
cheated at both. We saw so few people that my Mum and Helen’s Mum, who between
them never knowingly let a silence brew, actually ran out of things to say. This
was a more sedate, comfortable holiday than the Highlands youth hostel trip,
but I came away loving that corner of the Scottish coast even more. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Series navigation: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/04/seaside-special-excursions-to-coast.html">Intro and chapter guide</a></span></i></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"></p><p class="BodyB" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; mso-outline-level: 1; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Previous episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2023/06/seaside-special-diary-of-caledonian.html">Diary of Caledonian Sleeper</a></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Next episode: NC500 part 1</span></i></p>Davoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2854417785396611556.post-21449417136578510372023-06-30T23:35:00.013+01:002023-09-12T18:16:26.248+01:00Seaside Special - Diary of a Caledonian Sleeper: south Highland<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu-42xpGGttTeTKqVC7CroScXgWu7CPkF-awIPawkJj43H-4VVJWcdSzr3GyseI1RqnVcgfEyK41Bj99Tike7Z2E1yoqudNaOUH6jHjR93yA-9-cxVGdk9cJiGdBwg1trtz_KEQs_5N7-zCQXJ0sEHNUES0GgRMAOtc9e9uFmJ8MFnp3es0NGIOpjC2cPL/s3435/going%20home%209.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2576" data-original-width="3435" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu-42xpGGttTeTKqVC7CroScXgWu7CPkF-awIPawkJj43H-4VVJWcdSzr3GyseI1RqnVcgfEyK41Bj99Tike7Z2E1yoqudNaOUH6jHjR93yA-9-cxVGdk9cJiGdBwg1trtz_KEQs_5N7-zCQXJ0sEHNUES0GgRMAOtc9e9uFmJ8MFnp3es0NGIOpjC2cPL/w400-h300/going%20home%209.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><br />One interpretation of this post is that it is a simple tale of commuting.
Although as journeys to work go, a 36-hour round-trip on the Caledonian Sleeper
via Fort William to my office in Camden was a little out of the ordinary. If
nothing else, it was a refreshing punctuation in the daily grind of stuffed
peak-hour trains and the odorous Victoria Line hell.</span><p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">That journey, back in 2011, was my first
expedition on the overnight service to Scotland. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Caledonian Sleeper remains one of only two
such overnight franchises in the UK. The other is through the West Country to
Penzance, on the <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/02/seaside-special-night-riviera-south.html">Night Riviera</a>. I grabbed a berth in 2018. </span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Both services, having endured perilous
existences and operated under constant threat of closure for years, seem to be
seeing renaissances.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I’ve enjoyed the sleeper jaunt Scotland on a
number of occasions in the dozen years since my initial trip, most recently on
brand spanking new rolling stock via Glasgow to <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2023/04/seaside-special-lowlands-highlife.html">Ayr</a> last year.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">But nothing will ever feel like the first
time. I was so excited to make that expedition. I wrote a blog post not long
after I came back. I’ve buffed it up a fraction, but I reckon the piece earns a
place in this coastal series because Fort William sits on Loch Linnhe, a sea
loch with Forth William at its head. I may not have been there very long, but
it still counts!</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Here’s that original trip in all its indulgent detail. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><b><u><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Friday 26th June 2011</span></u></b></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Today I am taking the first indelible step
towards realising a long conceived plan. I’m buying tickets for the Caledonian
Sleeper leaving Euston next Tuesday and returning on the very next evening’s
Fort William departure. For years I have been aiming to do this trip. Finding
the right time in the right space has always been the challenge. The journey
simply has to be in early Summer when the light is purest and days the longest.
This will give me the opportunity to luxuriate from my sleeper berth in the
full early morning majesty and evening scenic splendour of the West Highland
Line. The trip also has to be completed before the schools brake up for Summer
and before the midges hit top gear.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">It is, frankly, a half-baked romantic and
sentimental notion inspired by Great Railway Journeys of the World (GWJofW) and
fuelled by the buried urge of a latent explorer seeking release from a
shrink-wrapped, pre-packaged existence.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">And now I am set. The weather looks passable;
the convoluted rail timetable appears to provide a train that meets my exacting
requirements; there is just about a suitable gap in the work diary; and
miraculously, it slots neatly into the crowded home diary.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I physically check that the seven bits of
cardboard spat out by the auto-ticket teller at the station are in order:
Depart 9.15pm Tuesday evening from Euston; arrive 10.00am Fort William on
Wednesday morning. Depart 7.50pm on Wednesday evening from Fort William; arrive
7.57am Thursday morning at Euston. 1<sup>st</sup> Class single berth tickets.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">1<sup>st</sup> Class. That’s decadent isn’t
it? The truth is that I don’t want to risk sharing my cabin with anyone on this
special journey. I don’t want to feel self-conscious, for instance, about
pointing my long range lens up against the window to snap a passing glacial
corrie because of a bloke in the top bunk. Same goes for mooning up against the
glass as we zip through Warrington Bank Quay. Only joking, obviously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway, because I’ve left it late, two first
class singles has ended up being only a smidge dearer than the standard class
return. Ha!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Next stop, the library. I pick up a map of
Fort William and Ben Nevis: an essential accessory. I feel naked without a map
of anywhere I visited. I also borrow a rather flowery guide to the West
Highland Line to provide the appropriate light weight, sentimental guff needed
to reinforce my reasons for going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The journey itself is the real motivation, of
course. The vision I hold closely is of the train, known as The Deerstalker
(not just a hat - who knew?), winding carefully across bottomless
sheep-populated bogs, through wide valleys with vertiginous craggy aspects and
skirting deep lochs fringed with pine and alder. This would be my own GRJotW
moment.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I haven’t yet given much thought to what I will
actually do with my day in the highland honeypot of Fort William.
Highlandwalks.com comes to the rescue. I print off a healthy range of high and
low altitude, short and medium range walks in and around Glen Nevis that will
give me enough to do, depending on weather, fitness, and availability of pubs.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><b><u><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Tuesday 30th June</span></u></b></p>
<p class="BodyA"><b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Morning</span></b></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The weather looks less amenable. Light showers
are predicted for most of the following day in the vicinity of Fort William.
The forecasts have been wrong all month. I’m not worried. Not at all. I pack a
rainmac.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Afternoon</span></b></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Of much greater concern is the website update
on train travel. Bad news. Delay City. A points failure at Harrow is causing a
service meltdown that RMT only dream of in their wildest striking scenarios.
Predictions are for things to clear by the evening. This is another forecast I
don’t trust. I elect to take my chances at the local station earlier than
planned, hoping I can pick up a train of any description into town so that I
can rendezvous with the Sleeper in good time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Evening</span></b></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Pitak, the customer assistant at Berkhamsted
station, won’t even sell me a ticket. (My seven bits of cardboard purchased on
Friday don’t cover the stretch to London.) Such is the mayhem following this afternoon’s
points failure that trains are simply not calling at Berko. Instead, they whistle
down the line to get commuters back from London. Of course normally that would
be me and I would be grudgingly applauding London Midland’s default policy. But
today I’m not Mr commuter. I am Mr Head-Spinningly-Angry instead. And a bit of
Mr Uncertain too.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">First I book a cab to take me to Watford. My
logic is that the Caledonian Sleeper calls there after leaving the big city.
But I really begrudge forking out an additional twenty notes on top of
everything else. Pitak is a good lad and he’s definitely on my team. He calls me
over to his window from where I stand quietly fuming by the train indicator
screen. He tells me that he’s spotted a service that should call at Berko, en
route to Euston in about 20 minutes’ time.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I believe him. That will do. Loads of time.
Pitak shuts up shop. It’s 8pm and he is off duty now after a taxing day entirely
filled with the grief and angst of frustrated passengers. “You’ll be alright,
it’s coming”, he says, before adding over his departing shoulder, “Good luck!”
That doesn’t fill me with confidence, but I cancel the taxi anyway.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">8.20pm and there is still no sign of any
southbound train. The automatic announcements are grimly ironic. “The 17.15 to
Euston is delayed due to an earlier signal problem. London Midland apologises
for the inconvenience this may cause.” 17.15? It will be three hours late if it
turns up!</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Cancelling the taxi was a big, naive, touristy
mistake. Pitak did his best but he hasn’t delivered. So I trudge back to the
office, resigned to further cost piled on top of burgeoning anxiety. I need to
rescue my carefully planned trip before I’ve even left my home town.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Finally, I get a break. Linda, sits in the
taxi booth surrounded by Snickers wrappers, microphones and mobile phones,
smiling thinly. She promises that a car is arriving in 5 minutes. No mistakes
this time. The Mercedes crawls into the car park and I pounce on it like a
hungry raptor, clamber in and I’m away. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Watford Junction is predictably chaotic. People
gather around screens, block stairwells and haunt platforms. Or mill about asking
questions that no-one can answer. Nevertheless, the Cally Sleeper is actually
showing on the departure board. That’s something isn’t it?</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">None of the staff know what is going to happen
next.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The station announcer tells a
different story to the departure boards. He begins to proclaim the arrival of the
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Birmingham-bound train at the platform
where I’m waiting. It is not shown on the screen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stops mid-sentence as the approaching
service picks up speed, thunders past the platform and out of the station.
“I’ll just get on to the signal box about that one. We apologise for the….”.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I continue to loiter and shuffle at platform
6, texting Mrs A with live action updates: cliffhangers at the end of every
message that sound like an Eastenders script on steroids. My train is now
showing a delay of twenty minutes and could be, might be the third arrival at
Platform 6. Two minutes later it rolls up only five minutes late and before
either of the two earlier advertised departures. Luckily, I am alive to all
these circumstances and actually recognise the distinctive formation of the
Sleeper service.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">9.45pm<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The poor station announcer is only just
catching up with events and introduces his customers to the latest arrival just
in time for it to leave. By which time I am on and in. It is 9.45pm. I left
home at 7pm and have travelled 15 miles.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Barry meets me in the vestibule. He scans a
clipboard and looks at me warily. He is surprised to see me at Watford and not
at Euston. I explain, rather breathlessly. "Carnage", he beams.
Sympathetically, I think. Still, I am impressed that my name appears on his neatly
typed list of passengers. For the first time in hours, I feel a hint of reassurance.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Barry is great. I order my breakfast for the next
morning and he gives me a brief introduction to the facilities in my berth,
together with an apology for the broken air conditioning.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I nose around the cabin. It doesn’t take long.
Bijou would be an exaggeration. Where is the telly? Where is the Corby trouser
press? No Gideon’s bible in the bedside cabinet? No bedside cabinet?</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">There is a door in the wall that I half think would
lead in to the bathroom. It is locked. And with good reason. It leads into the
next compartment. Oops. The problem with the air conditioning is immediately
apparent. It is like a Turkish bath in there. No power point for my laptop
either.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">But no reason to be churlish: the
complimentary toiletries are an absolute joy. The little draw-string duffel bag
houses an intriguing array of creams and ointments, a fold up toothbrush with
the tiniest tube of paste I’d ever seen, a blindfold (for kinky games I
imagine) and…bed socks! (That’s way too kinky for me!).</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Time for refreshments after so much drama, so I
check out the lounge car. My first beer is free and I also find a power point.
As easily as that, the journey slips into a comfortable place. Within minutes,
I am settled, relaxed and observing the other passengers. About 15 people occupy
the carriage. Some are obvious couples, but at least half are solo travellers –
one or two of whom are chatting to others, but most are not. Two blokes on the
table opposite debate the recently departed Michael Jackson’s true contribution
to music. The attractive girl opposite me is focussing intently on her book,
desperate not to catch anyone’s eye. The older bloke on my right is reservedly
friendly. We exchange a few pleasantries about the state of the trains tonight,
before he returns to jotting in his notebook, held at such an angle as to deny
me a look at what he’s writing. Crafty bugger.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I am desperate for this to be a pastiche of
Murder on the Orient Express. The set up (if not quite the luxury) of the
carriage lends itself to such fantasies: a couple of comfy settees under the
windows; an eclectic mix of apparently unrelated passengers; the sipping of
civilised evening drinks. All we need was some floral print dresses, shifty
behaviour and a power cut. I’d make a rubbish Poirot!</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">But pretty soon people melt away without so
much as a smashed cocktail glass. By the time we rumble through a deserted
Crewe station, I head for my bunk. A toilet door opens in front of me and a
larger lady in pink and white jim-jams furtively pops out, in a manner of
speaking. I avert my eyes, but she doesn’t make it easy. In her haste to join
her husband (I recognised the couple from the lounge car) she bumps and scrapes
her oversize frame down the narrow corridor, catching herself on the door
handles and narrowly avoiding really popping out of her PJs.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I open the cabin door to let the tropical
moths and humming birds out of the glass-house-like atmosphere. In a while I
turn off the lights and look out of the window, thinking the clear night would
reveal a pleasant north country view after dark. It was very dark. That will be
the Preston Brook tunnel, then.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><b><u style="text-underline: #000000;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Wednesday 1st July<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p>
<p class="BodyA"><b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">3.00am</span></b></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">It is sweltering. I’m uncomfortably hot and
sticky. It’s noisy too. And a bit rocky. In fact it’s like trying to sleep in a
blast-furnace on a roller-coaster. I’m not one to moan, but my feet are thumping
into the side of the carriage every time I twist round. Anyone over 5’6” would
have to sleep in the foetal position to squeeze in to this bed.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">4.30am</span></b></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I am nearly shunted out of my bunk by an
engine recoupling, followed by assorted clanking and clattering outside. I peak
through the window. We are leaving Edinburgh Waverley and the train is trundling
through eerily empty and handsome streets in the weak morning light.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">6.00am</span></b></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The line eventually snakes its way up the side
of Loch Lomond after leaving Edinburgh and coming across-country to the north
of Glasgow. I wake from fitful sleep for the final time at Helensburgh Upper
and decide to stay awake. The view is everything I had been hoping for. Mist
rises over the loch and drifts underneath the peaks of massed mountains. Early
morning sun casts thin shadows and dappled sunlight through mixed woodland,
illuminating a soft, peachy landscape. Bliss.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">7.00am</span></b></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I knew the engine had been changed. But when I
go to find the lounge, it seems that the whole train has changed. Left out of
my cabin, where last night there had been six sleeping cars before the lounge
car, now there is only one. And the lounge carriage has gone too, replaced by a
standard-issue BR restaurant car from dating from the late 70’s I guess. The
experience is a little disorientating and for a moment I am consumed by the
vision of the runaway brake van in Polar Express. Except instead of Lapland,
passengers might wake up to find themselves becalmed in a siding somewhere near
Motherwell. Something similar actually happened way back when. My flowery guide
book tells me that a guards' van once broke loose from a goods train known as ‘The
Ghost’ at Corrour and rolled all the way back to Bridge of Orchy at the bottom
of the hill. The guard was still asleep when the signalman went to rescue him.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The train was a quarter of a mile long when it
left Euston. I learn from others in the restaurant car that the missing
carriages were decoupled at Edinburgh Waverley Street. Six headed to Aberdeen
and six others to Inverness behind different locos. No wonder all the commotion
and activity in the Scottish capital.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Barry, my gracious steward, spots me ambling
back with a coffee in my hand. He is suitably camp, fussing over the passengers
and effusively attending to the merest details. He smoothes out his crimson
waistcoat and says he will bring my breakfast right along. It is a fine spread:
bacon and scrabbled egg panini, coffee, banana, juice, yogurt, Daily Scotsman.
I make short work of all except the newspaper, which is filled with infinite
column inches, back, middle and front, about Andy Murray.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">8.00am</span></b></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I am keen to track all the stations on the
route. In the corridor, I peered out into the wispy mist and ask, “Barry, what
station is this?”</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">“It’s Crianlarich” he replies. “Apparently.
Middle of bloody no-where if you ask me”.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">He flourishes a hand as if to dismiss the
scene and minces off down the train. I guess for the staff the romance wears
off after the first few years…..</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">And then we enter another impossibly fine stretch
of the line. I am enraptured by a fantastic sweep of track cutting a tight semi-circle
across the river Allt Kinglass, south of the aforementioned Bridge of Orchy. Horseshoe
Curve is well known on the line and crosses embankments and a couple of
viaducts to maintain the same even contour under the imposing twin peaks of
Beinn Dorain and Beinn Odhar. The jaw-dropping beauty made more magical by the
lifting mist that reveals a clear blue sky. Low morning sun reflects back the
grass and fescue covered slopes to the west in every shade of vibrant green.
Each gulley and rivulet that runs down the giant hillsides is accentuated with
deep shadows as if someone has outlined them with a permanent black marker. My
pulse quickens a little.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Bringing the camera up to the window I snap
away feverishly. What’s that on my lens? Bloody pube left over from Warrington
Bank Quay. Only joking…..</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">8.30am</span></b></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I shake myself into life and ablute in the
canny sink hidden under the removable shelf beneath the window. A group of ladies
in the waiting room at Bridge of Orchy get a lovely view of me polishing my
gnashers as the train comes to rest at eye level in front of them.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">Soon after Bridge of Orchy, we cross Rannoch
Moor. I consult the florid guide book again. Author Alan Hall describes this
part of the West Highland Railway as “a swashbuckling journey that restores
lost youth”. He was right on the money. Britain’s last great wilderness.
Although Preston after dark might run it close.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Corrour, the highest point on the line, is suitably
remote. The handsome station house is framed by the Carn Dearg spine of hills and
Beinn na Lap, with Loch Ossian sitting in the space between them. The station
feels very insignificant nestling in this epic landscape. The bleak,
magnificent isolation is amplified by the lack of trees, whose absence I have
only just noticed. The mixed deciduous forest through which the line meandered
for much of the journey had given way to fir, spruce and pine somewhere near
Bridge of Orchy. Now they have vanished, too.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">9.30am</span></b></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Tulloch. The trees are back. We’ve swung west
along Glen Spean. Deciduous and coniferous woodland hugs the track. I can see a
bloke hacking away at low hanging branches at the end of the platform. He’s wielding
a vicious, long handled, giant-toothed saw with practised ease. Electrickery
clearly hasn’t yet reached the tree surgeons of these parts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">10.00am</span></b></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The train pulls in to Fort William station
absolutely to-the-minute spot-on time. Not bad after an 560 mile, 12 hour and
45 minute journey; particularly given the track carnage and commuter chaos
amidst which the train departed Euston. That all seems light years away. I step
down onto the platform and nod goodbye to Barry through the glass. “See you
tonight”, I mouth. He looks confused. I can see how that might look a bit
strange.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The platform is busy. A heritage steam train,
The ‘Jacobite Express’, hooked up to a 0-6-0 steam loco is loading up with
tourists ready for the trip along the coast on the picturesque Mallaig line.
Another GWJotW over the Glefinnan viaduct of Harry Potter fame. Given my
schedule, I’m giving that a miss. Though I do go shoulder-to-shoulder with the
train-spotter crowd to get a pic of the spitting and hissing engine at the head
of the train.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">So what then? The journey was always the
thing. Not the arriving. I potter around the anonymous 1970’s concrete station
(the Victorian predecessor a little further south was knocked down to make way
for a dual carriageway) whilst I mull the options.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Despite negative forecasts, the weather is
gonna be OK: light cloud, but with high humidity. I decide to do one of the
walks I had printed off t’interweb. First stop is the Glen Nevis visitor
centre, then. No, second stop. I think I’d better pop in to Morrison’s for some
provisions. There may not be a convenient Burger King at the end of the Glen.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I’m not immediately overawed with Fort William
on the way through. I’m greeted by functional, unattractive houses outside the
station and then along a busy road adjacent to Long Linnhe. The route out to
the visitor centre passes enough ‘Ben Nevis’ guest houses to give copyright
lawyers about twenty years of steady business.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The bloke in the Visitor Centre is particularly
chatty. We have a conversation about a walk to the Steall Waterfalls near the
head of Glen Nevis. I had prepared for this moment. My extravagant guide book told
me that the name was pronounced locally as ‘stowel’ (as in bowel), not ‘steel’
as phonetically it might appear.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">“How long does it take to
walk up to the Upper ‘stowel’ falls?”</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I let my emphasis hang a fraction on the
…owel, just for good measure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looks
at me quizzically.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">“Ah, you mean the steel
waterfalls….!”</span></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Bastard guide book.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Anyway, he is helpful with advice about my
route options. And still more helpful with local history anecdotes. Helpful-ish.
If I could just break away, I might catch that bus spotted out of the corner of
my eye that goes up to the car park. But no, I’m hearing about the stone seat
carved by redcoats into a cave on the other side of the valley that now I won’t
see because the bus gas gone… So it’s the lower valley walk instead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">11.30am</span></b></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">A good decision. I’m loving this, following the
lower reaches of Nevis Water. All the back-packers are going in the opposite
direction though. Should I be worried? An elderly couple with a dog pass me. “Ach,
here’s a man on a mission. Is it the top that’s calling you?” “ No”, I say
decisively. “The bottom maybe!”</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Then the youth hostel swings into view - this
explains the backpackers ambling the other way into town. The path gets decidedly
rougher after this point, and I notice that there are very few other walkers
around. With a tiny rush of pleasure, I feel like I have the whole Glen to myself.
It won’t be like this in two weeks’ time when the schools break up.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The track to the summit of Ben Nevis splices off
to my left and uphill. One or two groups are making the ascent. This path is
disparagingly referred to by hardened walkers as ‘the tourist route’. Looks tough
enough to me. Bloody elitists.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I’m sweating buckets now. It’s muggy, especially
so under the trees. I make my way out to the centre of the river, accessible by
stones because the flow is pretty low, and rest against a large boulder.
Snacking on a scotch egg feels appropriate (when in Rome…). There is still no
breeze to speak of in the middle of the river, but it is so <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>pleasant out here with spectacular views
towards the grey slab peaks of the Mamores. My embellished guide book didn’t
offer a view on how this range was pronounced and I wasn’t about to chance my
luck again.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Up towards the lower falls and the terrain was
rougher still. And the weather is closing in a tad. By the time I reach the
fountain of water, my backpack is heavy and I am due a break. I polish off the
remnants of my lunch on an overhanging rock by the cascades. A special moment.
The mountains rise steeply from here and the widescreen vista back down the glen
is stunning. An absolutely text-book example of a glaciated u-shaped valley.
One of the finest I’ve seen. My old geographer teacher would be beside himself.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><b>1.30pm</b></span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The walk back is much easier going, of course,
through woodland on the other side of the glen, which opens up better views of
Ben Nevis. In the morning I had been tucked up under its foothills and could
not fully appreciate the edifice. Now I can see the highest mountain in Britain
in all its slab-sided rotundness. Massive, yes. But not so spectacular from
this perspective. More big and brooding, in the same way that a Black Sabbath
riff, circa Iron Man is. Not sharp and angular like The Clash, circa London
Calling.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Does that sound a bit underwhelming? It’s not
meant to be. The glen was truly magnificent. The sweep of each successive slope
into the valley floor from Nevis’s brethren, receding into the distance is breathtaking.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><b>3.30pm</b></span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Back at the visitor centre I unleash my steaming
feet from their boot encampment, thus guaranteeing a clear seat at the picnic
table. Assuming, that is, you don’t count the spiral of flies feasting on my
discarded socks. I pick up some souvenirs for the girls and then head back to
Fort William, escaping with only a short memoir about Jacobite rebellion and
blood soaked rocks from the centre manager. Living history!</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><b>5.00pm</b></span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The walk has only been ten miles all told, but
tough enough going this morning, lugging the backpack up hill. Dropping back into
town I felt I had done enough to deserve a pint of something brown and frothy. The
town centre, which I had largely missed this morning is fetching enough and my
impressions of Fort William are on the rise. Especially when I find the Ben Nevis
pub (what else?) dispensing McEwen’s 70’. The view over Loch Linnhe is great
and one pint quickly becomes three. I’m tapping away on the laptop (the main
reason why the backpack was so heavy up the glen this morning) and simultaneously
chatting to a couple on the next table. We realise we are on the same sleeper
service back to London. They had been touring round the Highlands in a hire car
for a few days. “Lovely isn’t it”, I say. “I came up from London this morning.”
Pause. “This morning….?”, comes the raised-eyebrows rejoinder.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><b>6.30pm</b></span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Thirst slaked, the hunger soon kicks in, like
night follows day. I look for a restaurant. And then I see the kebab house. I
am so weak. The slathering lump of perspiring meat calls me seductively and
conspiratorially from across the road. It seems to be whispering “Never mind
the tourist trail, Dave, never mind those over-priced, restaurants serving slop
dressed as haggis and neeps to American heritage-seekers. Come over here and
try some real food….be one of the locals…..feel the credibility……you know you
want to”. Tired in mind and limb, I succumb to the warmth of comfort food like
a sloppy kiss. Mistake…….the offering is fat, greasy, cold meat disguised as a
doner, served up in a polystyrene tray with a spongey pitta on the side,
decorated with insipid chilli sauce and….and coleslaw. Regrets? I’ve had a few.
3.5 out of 10 for that muck. And that’s generous because I’m feeling vulnerable
and a long way from home…</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><b>7.30pm</b></span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Arteries unclog a little on the walk back up
to the grey, functional station, where the carriages of my train are already
hitched up to the EWS engine. In a few short moments I am reacquainting with
Barry, placing my breakfast order and settling over a Deuchars in the lounge
car. We are away right on the button. Peering over the rim of my tumbler I
decide that the train is marginally busier than last night/this morning.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Counter-intuitively, the line firstly heads north-east
out of Fort William, before settling on an easterly traverse back along Glen
Spean. The initial few miles reveal a new perspective on the Nevis range. I am
a bit more familiar with the geography than earlier in the day and I can now
properly appreciate the landscape in a different context. I observe that Ben
Nevis is a far more imposing and magnificent edifice than I had given it credit
for this afternoon. Gone are the convex curves and smooth scree of the
glacier-polished southern slopes. Here, the mountain reveals the craggy,
angular and abrupt slopes celebrated in literature. The thing was still
glowering to my tired eye, but from this view, the brooding had real
malevolence (say Metallica - For Whom The Bell Tolls) rather than a simple,
stroppy bad mood (maybe Rainbow - Black Sheep of the Family).</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">We pick up some passengers at Tulloch and two
of them join my table. They have had a good day walking from the southern end
of Loch Treig back towards Tulloch over the Stob a Choire peaks. They hadn’t
seen a soul all day, but suffered the personal attentions of midges and
horseflies. From the train window, we can almost see the exact route they took.
If I ever go back that way, I’ll know where to base myself for walking as
spectacular but more challenging than today. (I’d leave the laptop behind
though.)</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The train lumbers and clanks across the empty
expanse of Rannoch Moor. The landscape is nothing but extreme. Under this morning’s
early sunshine the infamous bog appeared beautifully sparse and breathtakingly
serene. Now, reflecting back a steely sky and fading light, this vast tufted
wasteland is austere and grim. The area was once entirely covered in trees
until they were lopped down principally for shipbuilding and to (literally)
fuel the industrial revolution up until the eighteenth century. All that remains
are a few stumps and petrified branches just about visible in the inky-black
puddles that flash past the window.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">My guide-book lauds the engineers who had to
sink ton upon ton of sheepskin bales and reed matting in an attempt to float
the line across the moor. It was a thankless task and one almost doomed to
failure until one particularly hot Summer dried out the underlying sponge. This
was enough to stop the ballast sinking and was able to support the sleepers,
tracks and trains. I dwell longer than strictly necessary on the precariousness
of this as the loco hauls us inch by inch in a twisting loop towards Upper
Tyndrum.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The three of us marvel at Horseshoe Curve and
declare the sight to be worth the trip alone. We call at a series of neat, tidy
and pretty stations with repeated motifs and styling in the signage, platform
canopies, flower troughs and such like. The tweeness feels out of sync with the
rugged, panoramas that frame the tiny stations. But I like the contrast. The
West Highland Line is mostly single track and the stations provide the only
passing points. On the roll down to the Bridge of Orchy we pass the famous old
stone bridge that gave the village its name. It was built by General Wade,
Cromwell’s top man in the Highlands. Here the line forks out west to Oban.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><b>10.30pm</b></span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The light is fading as we rumble out of Crianlarich.
I bid my fellow travellers good evening. Heading for my bunk. I pause for a few
minutes and lean out of the door window. The train is skirting Loch Lomond.
Even measured against the majesty of the West Highland mountains, this sliver
of silver water and flash of smoky peaks remains amongst the most atmospheric
of sights on the route. A personal favourite, particularly in the ambient
half-light, bringing on enough slack jawed babbling to make me sound like a jibbering
romantic. Time for bed.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><b><u>Thursday 2nd July</u></b></span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><b>6.50am</b></span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Barry knocks on the door. “Oh hello, Sir.
Here’s your breakfast. Hope you slept well”. I did. Brekkie slips down very
easily. But where is the fruit of yesterday morning? And there was only enough
coffee for one cup. Standards are slipping.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I wave in the general direction of our house
as we reverberate through Berko. Shortly after, the metronomic train pulls into
Euston Station platform 1 smack on time at 7.57am.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><b>8.10am</b></span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The epic journey is over. I head in to the
office on Euston Road and I am at my desk a little after 8 o’clock. How about
that for a commute?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><br /></p><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Series navigation: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/04/seaside-special-excursions-to-coast.html">Intro and chapter guide</a></span></i></p></span><p></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Previous episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2023/04/seaside-special-honeymoon-and-fast-car.html">A Honeymoon and a fast car - Argyll</a></span></i></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><i>Next episode: Highland</i></p>Davoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2854417785396611556.post-7495766618651253422023-04-27T11:01:00.011+01:002023-07-25T12:13:00.652+01:00Seaside Special - A honeymoon and a fast car: Argyll & Bute<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5VzikHseZQU4op3KxeYJPfrKlTfFrriCjlNmVT9gEuu-jzvcfVrIoXA2hO0zc8FqA19M7pku3amEAzpbiC08eMNye4J21M1TVMH1HOW50KjZTVAf0mGs55t2BkCwBGJznemG-STyjX0AG6tObereX352XNi9LqRxaJSpC_rhYEPYubEPR1DG3veFptA/s1674/Argyll%205.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1577" data-original-width="1674" height="376" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5VzikHseZQU4op3KxeYJPfrKlTfFrriCjlNmVT9gEuu-jzvcfVrIoXA2hO0zc8FqA19M7pku3amEAzpbiC08eMNye4J21M1TVMH1HOW50KjZTVAf0mGs55t2BkCwBGJznemG-STyjX0AG6tObereX352XNi9LqRxaJSpC_rhYEPYubEPR1DG3veFptA/w400-h376/Argyll%205.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Before I first visited Argyll - so
before 1996 - I had imagined it to be characteristically highland Scotland: full
of muscular, bare crags heaped upon each other with scree slopes crashing down into
lochs overlooked by impossibly romantic ruined castles. This betrayed
uncharacteristically rank research on my part. Argyll was not like that at all.
I usually made an exhaustive study of the nooks and crannies of any of my potentials
destination long before making a booking. On this occasion, I was
under-prepared and poorly informed. But as this was a honeymoon stay, maybe other
matters were legitimately clouding my mind.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I do not wish to suggest that I was
in any way disappointed with the geography of the area. Far from it. I was thoroughly
pleasantly surprised. Our cottage was in a remote spot off the road between Crinan
and Achnamara, perched above Loche Choille-Barr. The one-bedroom bungalow,
converted from a threshing barn, had acres of land sloping away to the shore.
The air was sharp with the Spring-fresh coniferous smell of the enveloping
Knapdale Forest. A large farmhouse, on the same site but well away from our
view, was occupied by the owners. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">They ran a trout farm across the valley.</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif">The owner was hairy and friendly.
I resisted the urge to swap trout-gutting stories with him based on my
experience one summer working on a fish farm. In hindsight this was a mistake.
He would surely have been impressed with my boast that I could take the innards
cleanly out of a dead rainbow trout with nothing but my bare hands and a rusty
razor blade. Useful skills in the wilds of Scotland, I felt. </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Anyway. </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Our aspect was south-westerly and
we spent whatever fine weather April offered us out on the terrace immersed in
the landscape. Barn owls called to each other at sunset, whilst the sounds of
animated deer reached us from the woodlands. Romance clearly extended beyond our
honeymoon abode. This gentle pastime was aided by one of the wedding presents
we had brought with us: a case of scarlet-label Chimay Trappist beer.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9IACiUY_DcOCB1BzaYkH9WZu-uIbvyG_O8uq0V0_cH7TihiZtd_k3fTTyly-db_wjDyS70gd4ZsogJ0AMd_h-jDYyodZuk_I_oxHKb9Ov9SOjPOiYpbgz9pU4YSu5OdYUcYC0UholTogvN1V_8BEhgbWpPN2AYx_brbK4MucoDdPewkP9tRgS2jF2gw/s3686/Argyll%2010.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2478" data-original-width="3686" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9IACiUY_DcOCB1BzaYkH9WZu-uIbvyG_O8uq0V0_cH7TihiZtd_k3fTTyly-db_wjDyS70gd4ZsogJ0AMd_h-jDYyodZuk_I_oxHKb9Ov9SOjPOiYpbgz9pU4YSu5OdYUcYC0UholTogvN1V_8BEhgbWpPN2AYx_brbK4MucoDdPewkP9tRgS2jF2gw/w400-h269/Argyll%2010.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="MsoNormal">Bringing all 24 bottles seemed a
little excessive at first. Particularly as there was a squeeze on to fit
everything in to one of our other wedding presents: a five-litre Mercedes Benz
SL Convertible, leant to us for the duration of our honeymoon. The classic 1975
metallic-gold bullet was in rip-roaring shape, but didn’t offer as much
flexible space as our trusty old Vauxhall Astra. Apportioning over half the
snug boot recess for the beer and a wicker picnic hamper (another gift) might
have been impractical, but was judged to be overwhelmingly necessary. None of
the beer came home…</p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw94wOKcpESoFrJ-JJSzd6lHlxuJPLRJfDv_t2SQ_QTGEos4W-hl-Nacezh31oruk3BJQJtUyeylCxc98kaajSLroVxbm95f1SfOVBW4YbqMOGJc758yjHpv6hEAexPQvNHMSR24Yx2tcIepWkVq-YYZKTisnf5tTup1HEnUDC1DNAjzg8pzo4OCvx1Q/s4060/Argyll%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2879" data-original-width="4060" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw94wOKcpESoFrJ-JJSzd6lHlxuJPLRJfDv_t2SQ_QTGEos4W-hl-Nacezh31oruk3BJQJtUyeylCxc98kaajSLroVxbm95f1SfOVBW4YbqMOGJc758yjHpv6hEAexPQvNHMSR24Yx2tcIepWkVq-YYZKTisnf5tTup1HEnUDC1DNAjzg8pzo4OCvx1Q/w400-h284/Argyll%201.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="MsoNormal">Mrs A (no longer Ms M) loved
gunning the beast around the narrow lanes and steep drops of Argyll, despite
the long front end adding a small risk element to the hairpin bends. This was a
new thrill. Even on the way up the M6, I had felt the rush as we joined the
motorway from a service station slip road at an unholy rate of acceleration. As
soon as I could prise myself off the seat against which I was g-force-pinned, I
looked back down the track for any sign of my stomach, last seen by the petrol
pumps nervously thumbing a lift in the opposite direction.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Mrs A noticed how drivers were
happy to drop in to the middle lane from the outside when we cruised up behind
them in the Golden Shot. A deferential experience not seen very often (…at all)
on the rare occasions the old Astra warhorse huffed up behind an outside lane
crawler.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Cruising round the coastline was a
joy. One evening, we followed our noses and dived off the A83 down a typically
twisting lane through coniferous woodland and round a headland to reveal a
perfect Kintyre fishing village of Carradale, clinging to a spit of land overlooking
the Isle of Arran. (I’ve still not set foot on that island, though I have now enjoyed
the same profile from the opposite side on the <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2023/04/seaside-special-lowlands-highlife.html">Firth of Clyde</a>.) Picture
postcard, they used to say, in the days when people actually sent them. The low
April sun was even glinting off a couple of fishing boats making their way home
as we passed a dozen or so houses on the descent to the harbour.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">A short way beyond fishing vessels
on their calm moorings, the road petered out at a tiny boat yard with bits of
fishing net, lobster pots and sealskin kit strewn about the beach. I was
reminded of a Chris Rea song, ‘Chisel Hill’, in which our gravelly throated
hero rasps “Happy I will be/When the road goes no further than what I see/When
past here/Is no where to go”. He could have been stood on this spot when those
words came to him. He wasn’t, though. The rough-hewn fame-shy singer-songwriting
legend had North Yorkshire’s Roseberry Topping in mind, but we can overlook the
actual facts in this instance.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTsHRUEQL6h9a6VrOPrDxVqWGj1em66RmF02CVMamvXob1rZxJQcmAlfxW0pFwLhi8bmwePExMfVTK--_rku8-DdZD6zOV9zgMRbNEwVnPAO-L3FftaJE5SeBi6ZpsBSB7s_MIiB1FddUkumow3D-ZvmKv1BH44m07Zat5rvJXmU9sHCKA-TL4LKcuHw/s3838/Argyll%206.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2871" data-original-width="3838" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTsHRUEQL6h9a6VrOPrDxVqWGj1em66RmF02CVMamvXob1rZxJQcmAlfxW0pFwLhi8bmwePExMfVTK--_rku8-DdZD6zOV9zgMRbNEwVnPAO-L3FftaJE5SeBi6ZpsBSB7s_MIiB1FddUkumow3D-ZvmKv1BH44m07Zat5rvJXmU9sHCKA-TL4LKcuHw/w400-h299/Argyll%206.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="MsoNormal">A plaque on the harbour wall paid tribute
to the crew of the Carradale-based fishing vessel Antares which was lost to the
sea off Arran in 1990. A sobering reminder that for all its charm,
Carradale was no chocolate box community.</p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">The two street lights had blinked
into a half-hearted glow as we polished off a pint each of 60’ Shilling in the
hotel bar, back up the hill. We headed home. The quiet coastline had plenty of fishing
villages like Carradale back then, though most were easier to get to.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Kintyre was lovely without being
showy. Pretty without being sickly. Rugged without being daunting. The
peninsula extends for 40-odd miles from the Mull of Kintyre in the south and is
no more than ten miles at its widest point.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAMPKeJiE5ro94fM-mN1VY4yxsbLXOBgCumP1n9BrRhRzWeY4BukxCfvPMzuVRAgn-fxuFwlWNfZ1hcftYiq-v13GykgqpSj1QicfyrHNeGCOuPCprn_Uq1A6c0n451VZDkF1_s550PURsBO5HsNP4OEbeRnqRDEAbDduYi0AfNY3gSLFpIM1GpD2qzg/s3797/Argyll%207.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2857" data-original-width="3797" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAMPKeJiE5ro94fM-mN1VY4yxsbLXOBgCumP1n9BrRhRzWeY4BukxCfvPMzuVRAgn-fxuFwlWNfZ1hcftYiq-v13GykgqpSj1QicfyrHNeGCOuPCprn_Uq1A6c0n451VZDkF1_s550PURsBO5HsNP4OEbeRnqRDEAbDduYi0AfNY3gSLFpIM1GpD2qzg/w400-h301/Argyll%207.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="MsoNormal">Not far from our comfortable cottage
near Lochgilphead, a spur of Kintyre struck out in a south-westerly direction,
on which we found Tayvallich gently rolling out of low granite hills into an east-facing
natural anchorage. The Tayvallich Inn served us the best food of our entire
trip. Tucking into scallops with black pudding and spring onion mash whilst
looking out to the harbour as the light dwindled were moments to live long in
the memory. Black pudding on honeymoon! Who says romance is dead?</p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The village of Crinan more or less
marks the northern extent of Kintyre. We walked there one fine morning over
pleasant open moorland. The route was rather more ambitious than anticipated.
The track became barely discernible and bore little resemblance to the
reassuring dashes on my OS Explorer. We ploughed on through thorn and fescue,
bog and marsh, before we dropped down into Crinan a little grazed and damp. Rather
less well-known than canal from which it takes its name, the village of Crinan
was buzzy, active and full of boaty-types wearing lemon sweaters casually
draped over their shoulders. We were rather unprepared for this in our
besmirched anoraks, stained combats and all terrain trainers. The experience was
a bit like Motorhead bumping in to The Beach Boys at a village fete.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">We took the safe route back along
the road. Hairy trout man was on his way home too, and pulled his Land Rover
over to give us a lift up the hill. Now’s a good time, I thought. “I wanted to
tell you about my fish-gutting skills…” No, don’t.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The Crinan Canal starts at
Ardrishaig on Loch Fyne nine miles distant from the village, on the Sound of
Jura. It was designed to provide a quick link between the west coast </span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">and islands at
one end with the Clyde Estuary at the other. This would avoid the long voyage
around the south end of the Kintyre peninsula. Investors included</span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif"> the family of <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Neill Malcolm III, 13th of Poltalloch, a local power-broker and MP for
Boston. We will meet him again in a minute. The canal never really fulfilled
the promise of its original commercial concept, but like most inland waterways,
it has found a second life serving chrome-knobbed pleasure craft guided by
pastel-knit-wearing visitors.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The area offered plenty of decent
lowland walking: heath and forest rich with wildlife, revealing pretty loch and
coastal views at every turn and incline. Dodgy, 27 year-old pics, but just look at these fresh-faced young honeymooners!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpY_m_keNHhzenX9I93x_usWN-RvsG3EcjKRRlU2nhh5sTLJvrPgOaILtMEhndAF3dK_ci7gES5D-UkujF8PxvoBqFck3AI6mIJrUYc5Zl4V--bbNs5QU2-aW4KLuVYGyyKqB9Fka0gSZzxVbVK9U7estXjP-fUxZfjqjTXK5Ro5bnHk2Ss81P0m1xYg/s3512/Argyll%204.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2552" data-original-width="3512" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpY_m_keNHhzenX9I93x_usWN-RvsG3EcjKRRlU2nhh5sTLJvrPgOaILtMEhndAF3dK_ci7gES5D-UkujF8PxvoBqFck3AI6mIJrUYc5Zl4V--bbNs5QU2-aW4KLuVYGyyKqB9Fka0gSZzxVbVK9U7estXjP-fUxZfjqjTXK5Ro5bnHk2Ss81P0m1xYg/w400-h291/Argyll%204.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiepkbQ4KvmUyXCyIP8BZMXhZk-xdWM0GAAgvFO7p7UBJ3uhu-KEVaR65OqFjzghDpIfKCiDRZWLiYZTQbO6vtgZeUGyI15lmSygXAHdrDYUZdNjDMVLlez-yVkAVa78fuvZCxKOxsigfFRay9-H1KqvrRvEPd3_qaF3PTqocLOrrV02DDYcG6mQ-EvOg/s3452/Argyll%209.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2301" data-original-width="3452" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiepkbQ4KvmUyXCyIP8BZMXhZk-xdWM0GAAgvFO7p7UBJ3uhu-KEVaR65OqFjzghDpIfKCiDRZWLiYZTQbO6vtgZeUGyI15lmSygXAHdrDYUZdNjDMVLlez-yVkAVa78fuvZCxKOxsigfFRay9-H1KqvrRvEPd3_qaF3PTqocLOrrV02DDYcG6mQ-EvOg/w400-h266/Argyll%209.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">We’d heard owls and deer from our
cottage and now we explored a landscape where, if we were as shallow as to tick-off
fauna on a list, we would have noted Grey and Common Seal, Grebe, Eider,
Oystercatcher, Ringed Plover, Curlew, Redshank, Turnstone, Common Tern and
Buzzards… Otter, Red Squirrel and Golden Eagle were in residence too, but they
remained unticked on that trip.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">The walk up to Arichonan Clearance Village was dramatic. Once we got there, the sense of quiet desolation was almost overpowering. The Highland Clearances are controversial. The ‘second wave’ of clearances were hastened by the Great Highland Famine between 1846-48. Only the efforts of charities, landlords and the state prevented widespread mortality among the destitute population, and crofting rents collapsed. Many Highland landowners were bankrupted. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">However, others saw the crisis as an opportunity to re-organise their estates along more profitable lines. Step forward Neill Malcolm again. There’s a moving and impassioned account on the ‘ImagineAlba’ website that describes how, in 1848 he served a notice to 40 of his tenant farmers that they were to “flit and remove themselves” by the next month. The Malcolm family had acquired vast wealth in the colonies and the story runs that he saw an opportunity to repeat the plantation model in Scotland by removing his tenants to Australia and opening up the glens for sheep grazing. This is how the Highland Clearances played out for real families who were deprived of the only life they knew.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">The remains of the village ran down a ridge sweeping towards Loch Sween and the sea. The stone ruins were roofless and overtaken with moss, ferns and shrubs, but the structure of the dwellings was clear to see. Chimney stacks standing, roof lintels intact, shapes of the rooms evident. The strongest feeling was of remoteness and emptiness. </span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm; vertical-align: baseline;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglgHqtOPKuovblJmA95uYEnY-sHget65O5I3jWWpjEECNrjTF-h3vrT6GQEHr-_-J1ofL0D5wUhh_jpKrBD0gmHWAyndLKC5g-EjjciZDtOsgpuKJAKOEzdpVvYuku7UANzxyAqTAW9kCNuA_SMfkktNUkpP5d8bRaEVSEOC7GT9zxhhjhsT65yq9GhQ/s3661/Argyll%208.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2679" data-original-width="3661" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglgHqtOPKuovblJmA95uYEnY-sHget65O5I3jWWpjEECNrjTF-h3vrT6GQEHr-_-J1ofL0D5wUhh_jpKrBD0gmHWAyndLKC5g-EjjciZDtOsgpuKJAKOEzdpVvYuku7UANzxyAqTAW9kCNuA_SMfkktNUkpP5d8bRaEVSEOC7GT9zxhhjhsT65yq9GhQ/w400-h293/Argyll%208.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="background-color: transparent;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Exploring south again, in the sleek convertible, Tarbert made for a rewarding visit after another bracing, wind-blown drive. The town sits on an inlet of Loch Fyne providing a sheltered harbour for a healthy fishing fleet on almost exactly the same latitude as Glasgow, 60 miles west. We scoffed locally caught haddock with locally fried chips (ie from the chippy right behind us on the harbour) whilst evading the inevitable attentions of persistent Herring Gulls. Straight in to my Top Ten fish and chip destinations that also includes Weymouth, West Bay and Whitby. And Barmouth, but that doesn’t help with the alliteration. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Further down the road, Campbeltown was also worth a stop. Albeit briefly. The port and fishing town lay in a natural harbour sheltered north and south by hills. Whisky used to play an important part in trade hereabouts and it is one of Scotland’s five malt whisky producing districts. In fact, most of the distilleries have now closed. The harbour was still busy though and the waterfront afforded a pleasant stroll in the warm Spring afternoon. </span></p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">We continued our open top tour of
Kintyre’s west coast. Our guidebook declared that the pretty Dunaverty Bay was
close to the spot where in AD 563 St Columba first landed in Scotland after
being exiled from Ireland. His journey to Iona is allegedly marked by
footprints in the rock at Keil Head.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Kiel was the next marker on our
journey to the Mull of Kintyre, though we didn’t spot any evidence of St
Columba’s feet. We turned south-westerly along the peninsula. After sniffing
the air and feeling the wind on our faces, we decided that it was chilly enough
to put the canvass roof back up. These classic cars are all well and good, but
where’s the little button that automates the task? Eh? Tsk.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">From the southern tip of the
peninsula at the Mull of Kintyre, Ireland is only 12 miles away and is theoretically
visible on a clear day. We didn’t have a clear day any more. Thick cloud had
descended and taken the thermometer mercury with it. This exposed promontory
seemed to have its own microclimate. The road sign announcing our arrival at
the end of the line was partially obscured by snow, stuck fast to the metal by
a howling sub-zero wind. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM3EExIaH8p-369TMDCvzqEDr2wv_sd-IM6kruWlB84ZDOJvfTHt1PZnR_Z2BHs58vNLYFzuWKzf71UIfjlotngHA7XzNYduNQdSQViW8kAS2asqPnqs67PtqAEu6AoIE4eqjx90Fp8xGp5nacr_lTB_UBmo7fDyCuzvJ5S8bK6Z7PMreCO09sNJntbA/s3356/Argyll%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2237" data-original-width="3356" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM3EExIaH8p-369TMDCvzqEDr2wv_sd-IM6kruWlB84ZDOJvfTHt1PZnR_Z2BHs58vNLYFzuWKzf71UIfjlotngHA7XzNYduNQdSQViW8kAS2asqPnqs67PtqAEu6AoIE4eqjx90Fp8xGp5nacr_lTB_UBmo7fDyCuzvJ5S8bK6Z7PMreCO09sNJntbA/w400-h266/Argyll%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="MsoNormal">Ninety minutes earlier, the top had been down on the
jalopy and we had been entertaining bemused sheep with screaming shreds of Jimi
Hendrix. Four seasons in one day. But this
time the weather had changed for good. We didn’t pack away the vinyl roof again
until we hit Skipton on our journey home.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Series navigation: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/04/seaside-special-excursions-to-coast.html">Intro and chapter guide</a></span></i></p></span><p></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Previous episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2023/04/seaside-special-lowlands-highlife.html">Ayshire and West Galloway</a></span></i></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Next episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2023/06/seaside-special-diary-of-caledonian.html">Diary of a Caledonian Sleeper - Inverness-shire</a></span></i></p>Davoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2854417785396611556.post-49663167515459724252023-04-14T19:20:00.008+01:002023-07-25T12:12:31.990+01:00Seaside Special - Lowlands highlife: the Ayrshires<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPGn6b_1V6kDyfBbgTCAPLnjjigQxhGVOTcQeBQuM6m9nySwcGD5-MRlq3vXHQR3zP3oUbmNG3BGMD4AMGNSmGw5SRjX_bAiSLDRXQYc1eMRX7TF5HD_Y6I0Mf1zvaXRwO4TDAVHpCFSUHK8TQ5Ibmp-3AY-DBwJuHT1iv4ziHp_7Zltd0BCyb3OQ9ew/s3225/Ayr%2022.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2150" data-original-width="3225" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPGn6b_1V6kDyfBbgTCAPLnjjigQxhGVOTcQeBQuM6m9nySwcGD5-MRlq3vXHQR3zP3oUbmNG3BGMD4AMGNSmGw5SRjX_bAiSLDRXQYc1eMRX7TF5HD_Y6I0Mf1zvaXRwO4TDAVHpCFSUHK8TQ5Ibmp-3AY-DBwJuHT1iv4ziHp_7Zltd0BCyb3OQ9ew/w640-h426/Ayr%2022.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>Another sleeper
experience. Having introduced the concept on the <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/02/seaside-special-night-riviera-south.html" target="_blank">Night Riviera</a>, and knowing
that this series includes another two such journeys, I’ll skip the detail here
and save it up for the Fort William piece. I was a Sleeper Virgin then. By the
time I visited Ayr I was an old tart (but on new stock).</p><p></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">I emerged from the
train at silly-o’clock, blinking into Glasgow Central. Time to seek out
breakfast and devise a plan. On Gordon Street, apart from a hubbub around the
station entrance (featuring a long, ornate canopy below a renaissance style
hotel. Neither had the glorious glass and wrought iron canopy of the main hall escaped
my attention. It’s never too early to remark on the architectural detail…), the
streets were quiet. It was, after all, before 8am on a Tuesday morning.</span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">I found the flower
boxes and check tablecloths of Barolo on Mitchell Street very appealing and
asked the manager who was just sweeping down the little patio area whether I
was too early to be fed. I was ushered in to a booth fronting the hosed-down
pavement with a smile and ordered the full Scottish breakfast before my
backside had hit the couchette.</span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">The hybrid Italian/Scottish
feast was a treat. Heavy, oaty, bannocks soaked up beans and runny-yolked egg on
a plate piled high with spicy sausages, back bacon and black pudding. Crucially,
both brown and red sauce were neatly presented on a side-salver that I didn’t even
have to ask for. It really is the simple things sometimes. I texted Mrs A and
told her to put Glasgow on the house-hunt list. She laughed emoji-ly. Don’t
think she caught my serious undertow.</span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">The manager was
chatty and interested to hear I’d come up on the sleeper. She didn’t even know
the service still existed and remarked that not many people were beating a path
from the arrival platform to her restaurant. The place was filling up, so I
moved on, feeling like I had started the day in the most satisfying manner
possible. I was due in Ayr that evening and my plan was to catch a train to
Wemyss Bay initially, but taking a moment first to detour through Glasgow’s attractive,
airy squares and handsome, wide boulevards before returning to the station for
my departure. </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9vxgdhWDZWTK2QH_0L5aGz3qMYE1D1yjdBKf_x9gN-8zdhICvmvcyBXeReduPLRZF2FUs7gGNJYLBkcclRPrWSuyM8XdRIZSBFGyjDl5qjv9VPjntdCHrYE3zN-ZHfS21zvNJGfaKZ48N6lpFS_f0pdeqqcUGf9Zql3xQmGhp7ndvWsXtD3rGFdmGyQ/s3933/Ayr%20(Glasgow).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3933" data-original-width="2950" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9vxgdhWDZWTK2QH_0L5aGz3qMYE1D1yjdBKf_x9gN-8zdhICvmvcyBXeReduPLRZF2FUs7gGNJYLBkcclRPrWSuyM8XdRIZSBFGyjDl5qjv9VPjntdCHrYE3zN-ZHfS21zvNJGfaKZ48N6lpFS_f0pdeqqcUGf9Zql3xQmGhp7ndvWsXtD3rGFdmGyQ/w300-h400/Ayr%20(Glasgow).jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p>Heading out on a
sparsely populated eight-car unit, we almost immediately crossed the River
Clyde at Broomielaw and left it behind for a while, passing though Paisley
before rejoining the estuary somewhere near Langbank and then dropping down to Port
Glasgow.</p><p></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">The last named was
much bigger than I was anticipating. The town of some 15,000 souls climbed away
up the hill to my left, whilst what remained of the dock and shipyard
warehousing and workshops stretched out along the riverbank. Port Glasgow came
about as a result of large ships being unable to navigate the shallow and
meandering River Clyde to the centre of Glasgow. The area became home to dry
docks and shipbuilding beginning in 1780. By the mid-19</span><sup style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">th</sup><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> century,
the newly deepened Clyde enabled ships to reach Glasgow and the port declined,
followed by the closure of large-scale shipbuilding in the latter half of the
20</span><sup style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">th</sup><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> century.</span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">The train rounded
the headland at the mouth of the Clyde, turning south into the Firth towards
Wemyss Bay and I had my first sight of two famous old golf courses - Greenock
and Gourock. This part of the west coast is awash with courses. Later in the
day I scooted past the chain around Royal Troon and Prestwick, and the
following day, too close for comfort to Donald Trump’s Turnberry complex.</span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Wemyss Bay station
is a wonder of modern architecture. I had decided to come here on the strength
of a piece by Michael Portillo on his never-ending ‘Great Railway Journeys’
peregrination. I hope this is the only inspiration I ever take from the
self-confessed Thatcher acolyte. It paid off on this occasion. The station was
designed by James Miller in 1903 for the Caledonian Railway. This same clever
bloke who also had plenty to do with Glasgow Central. Quite a track record. There’s
a pun in there somewhere. </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">There are two bits
to the station which stand out. The first is the perfectly proportioned and
gloriously fashioned concourse which welcomes you off one of the two platforms
that remain in use. It is a circular glass and steel marvel with a roof
spinning up and out from a central island ticket booth. I spent too long
faffing about trying to get the perfect photo that combined sunlight, symmetry
and sparseness. With inevitable failure.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2cbljKnIj3T8vLZBzrI9YI6i2Sl8zw6SrdprOfqri0nnvWGbwMQiOo6aHdA-We1wO80PNiLHIJFQzI8DC4f_II0qNBb9pljwBasx1GlH1tUOlkSw4JsB-VbvmeXHyCh2L7GKGNmB2WufqaTka0bIFZmi88lf0sDrIzIHawMMeC2ReKfhM5wIyz2qGYQ/s4005/Ayr%20(wemyss).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3004" data-original-width="4005" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2cbljKnIj3T8vLZBzrI9YI6i2Sl8zw6SrdprOfqri0nnvWGbwMQiOo6aHdA-We1wO80PNiLHIJFQzI8DC4f_II0qNBb9pljwBasx1GlH1tUOlkSw4JsB-VbvmeXHyCh2L7GKGNmB2WufqaTka0bIFZmi88lf0sDrIzIHawMMeC2ReKfhM5wIyz2qGYQ/w400-h300/Ayr%20(wemyss).jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">The second gem is
the gracefully arcing ramp down to the original steamer terminal. It incorporated the same classy glass and steel concept for the roof, held up by large
frames of 12-inch square-glazed windows giving views of the Firth of Clyde above
wood panelled walls. All offset by carefully placed planters to complete the impression
of Victorian elegance.</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span></p></span><p></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">I have begun many
lists of top-tens on this series of posts: seaside towns in which to relocate, Victorian
piers, fishing harbours, fry-ups and real ales. Now I need one for stations. Wemyss
Bay goes straight in No 1.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOdl6VWTPYxV-WqSuXTFj7E_SEhmZIV8gECGvwzvqfxj7UunVjBhhcZkc0Tfx4y6TZ7oepfIKwUYSLrxxmUIl0YtRQeNBeG95WyPB1GMWoleBXJzcbmujXm0Ar7dENytaOhGqkuMRpw0sYfQptJuEA7bZeN6f-8dJX1W6-gM-7A622ZAzQe6vu_ZAgYw/s3898/Ayr%20(wemyss%202).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2923" data-original-width="3898" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOdl6VWTPYxV-WqSuXTFj7E_SEhmZIV8gECGvwzvqfxj7UunVjBhhcZkc0Tfx4y6TZ7oepfIKwUYSLrxxmUIl0YtRQeNBeG95WyPB1GMWoleBXJzcbmujXm0Ar7dENytaOhGqkuMRpw0sYfQptJuEA7bZeN6f-8dJX1W6-gM-7A622ZAzQe6vu_ZAgYw/w400-h300/Ayr%20(wemyss%202).jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So beguiling was
the scene, that I made a snap decision to get the next ferry out to Rothesay in an attempt to capture a whiff of the vision
those romantic Victorians were after, with their integrated rail and ferry
excursion from Glasgow. The 35-minute crossing on the functional Cally McBrayne
car ferry might not have quite conjured up the golden age of steamer services,
but it was good enough for me. I felt quite giddy with my reckless diversion and
snapped merrily away at the views up Firth to Ardbeg and Kilmun, and then south
to the Cumbraes and Kilchattan Bay. I enthusiastically asked a couple trying to
take a selfie in the brisk north-westerly if they wanted me to complete the
task, thinking the camera bag and lenses swinging round my neck might give me
some credibility. ‘Nae thanks, pal. It’s much funnier this way.’ Too right. Who
is this smug sassenach?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2aLfR1gW-B2kk9gar4zhe61zqSdut8xyqHdHCnms7LmEZohac3YaaTUVqgBFIwrQKJdu0bG-AweILcp12ptIGYTmtdlgf1IuwV6R7_ywCIUC8wDKhc1ATmmQ0C2MqwfleJYBz3PteFZ4oxDBx6iIFTodKTSuGmsbyWWU4QvjnrhgsvIQ4lHlvVffbCQ/s5969/Ayr%2011.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3979" data-original-width="5969" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2aLfR1gW-B2kk9gar4zhe61zqSdut8xyqHdHCnms7LmEZohac3YaaTUVqgBFIwrQKJdu0bG-AweILcp12ptIGYTmtdlgf1IuwV6R7_ywCIUC8wDKhc1ATmmQ0C2MqwfleJYBz3PteFZ4oxDBx6iIFTodKTSuGmsbyWWU4QvjnrhgsvIQ4lHlvVffbCQ/w400-h266/Ayr%2011.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My Gran and Grandad
used to holiday out here in the 1970’s, when I was just a lad and Rothesay
sounded like somewhere across ice-floe seas at the end of the earth. Grandad
was a retired railway worker – a tough job laying plates on the LNER - and used
his hard won retirement railpass to travel with may Gran as far as he could on
their annual holiday. I am pleased that this gritty and relentless pursuit of
value has passed down in an unshakeable gene-line directly to my Dad and then
to me.</div>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">I raised my bottle
of water to them both (it should have been a Guinness, but needs must) as Rothesay
swung into view off the port bow. The grand public buildings, hotels and villas
on the shoreline cast a fine silhouette in front of the hills and I felt a rush
of drama as the ferry carved a swathe across the bay. Up close the buildings
betrayed a tired demeanour and I decided to stay on the ferry for the return
trip, rather than the mere cursory exploration that my demanding timetable would
allow. </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3g3j6wnbQf0Zuh_eHSwX1u6czzcNwubjRpluWASa5k4d9s7GOUOxSSxIEEv8fg515AzJcyysOBtQMra9fKdKpihCkcIKfcNI-0SITT5e2GReYmsTssykBYJQWVI8OKbsFeD0_FKB3Q_PeytHGa6wR599oC-XtOZACYmnS4vkMj-3faj54EWZsiPgdmA/s6138/Ayr%207.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4092" data-original-width="6138" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3g3j6wnbQf0Zuh_eHSwX1u6czzcNwubjRpluWASa5k4d9s7GOUOxSSxIEEv8fg515AzJcyysOBtQMra9fKdKpihCkcIKfcNI-0SITT5e2GReYmsTssykBYJQWVI8OKbsFeD0_FKB3Q_PeytHGa6wR599oC-XtOZACYmnS4vkMj-3faj54EWZsiPgdmA/w400-h266/Ayr%207.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>A hearse together
with its funeral party loaded up onto the car deck for the ferry back to Wemyss
Bay. On arrival, it was escorted off before anything else moved and with a good
bit of respect from the other drivers too. I guess this kind of service is a
fact of life (and death) round these parts. The only other unusual aspect of
the crossing was the breasting of the Firth’s choppy surface by a nuclear sub. I’d
never seen one up close before. I’d already harnessed the services of a
sleeper, a commuter train, a ferry and would need a bus for the next leg. I
didn’t feel I needed to enlist the assistance of the Royal Navy at this point.</p><p></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">For my onward
journey south, I needed to hop the seven miles between Wemyss Bay and my next
train departure point at Largs by bus. Curious, but it seems the ports were never
connected by rail back in the day, both being termini for rival lines.</span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Largs is home to the
Viking Festival. It marks the Battle of Largs in 1236, the last mainland confrontation
between the Scots and Norse. Emphasising the legacy, the foreshore is home to a
16-foot metal sculpture of Magnus The Viking in full warrior kit. Very
impressive too. I took a couple of snaps, having recently had my ancestry DNA
results (interpreted via some well-dodgy science, it has to be said) which pretty
much confirmed my own Viking heritage. Thus I felt very at home in the town. It
was rather a shame that the impromptu trip to Rothesay meant my visit here was
confined to a walk along the coast only as far the station.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwWW6n6WaXy-7ryTw02HN2bYgwA3-Qbin6ub9kVQ5sPnckmCuuyFTNvd-DWITQkM76lpWsXap5VuP32LM5iVaFPLQ6rbEdX8yeEfDLV-a4z4tUcKVMagjbV2VnRqMW3xXzvHlwJ1ifIfhUYv-X7_K_pRnzcs8BArjt3cap-aoB--3jf6CRn6rMBOQu5g/s4032/20220804_133500.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwWW6n6WaXy-7ryTw02HN2bYgwA3-Qbin6ub9kVQ5sPnckmCuuyFTNvd-DWITQkM76lpWsXap5VuP32LM5iVaFPLQ6rbEdX8yeEfDLV-a4z4tUcKVMagjbV2VnRqMW3xXzvHlwJ1ifIfhUYv-X7_K_pRnzcs8BArjt3cap-aoB--3jf6CRn6rMBOQu5g/w300-h400/20220804_133500.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p>Onwards to Ayr, via
a change at Kilwinning. The tracks ran down coast for a good stretch out of
Largs with impressive boat houses, piers and jetties flashing by the window. The
names were evocative of Firth of Clyde industry and enterprise: Fairlie, Southannan,
Hunterston.</p><p></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Then the Firth opened
out at Ardrossan and there were sweeping views towards the craggy, blue-tinged
peaks of Arran. Goat Fell and the like. No time to visit them on this trip. I’ve
also seen these peaks from the Argyll side, but still not quite made it over
there. It’s on the list. Sigh.</span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Kilwinning was a bit
grey and unremarkable. A family group on the platform were waiting for the same
train as me. They were all dressed up to party and were already knocking back
pre-mixed cocktails out of cans. I assumed it was a Hen do until I saw the Dad,
Keith, they called him. Maybe he was just the chaperone. I saw them again at
Ayr train station, which was being either rebuilt or knocked down. Possibly
both at the same time. Keith couldn’t find the exit. I’d followed him and his
party down a dead-end and we shared a bit of head-shaking mirth.</span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Ayr – pronounced
more like ‘ear’ by the train announcers - was another of those towns of two
halves. I really didn’t like the centre. I was tired after a long day and
minimal sleep on the overnight train. So I was not in a forgiving mood about the
drab concrete housing, run-down empty shops and chavvy, unfriendly,
street-drinking locals. </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif">For all its
important, ancient and attractive buildings linked with Wallace, Burns,
Cromwell, Government and the Church, the city centre displayed some criminally
bad design. The grey concrete M&S store that crowded out and dwarfed the
medieval auld brig across the River Ayr was a shocking case in point. The
mistreatment of Ayr’s fine railway station hotel, currently under sheeting being
left to rot, was another.</span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Yet the seafront was
fantastic – the council building and law courts commanded a well-kept public
square. Small hotels and guest houses clustered around Victorian dwellings near
Queens Terrace. New low-rise apartment blocks overlooking the coast at least had
a nod to tasteful design, including small balconies and materials easier on the
eye than the grey-stained town centre slabs. Social housing doesn’t have to mean
crap housing.</span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">The wide, sweeping
beach giving way to cliffs looking southward; and the working port to the north
were the town’s best points, for my money. I leant on a rail by the harbour, fascinated
by a crane tipping buckets of loose construction sand into a freighter from a
mountain of the stuff piled up on the dock; and by the sheer size of a brace of
wind turbine blades being made ready for dispatch. Strolling back to the beach,
I grabbed a half-hour on a windy bench and watched a thunderous cloud formation
play with sunset light on a trawler out in the Firth with the Isle of Arran
dipping in and out of view. This is why I do these trips.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSOWePK3hpa2ejSnvbCDXLWfvoumyagbCV1x3iEGMdurd6ejlZAS7ptWeeFc5b4iNNrpuL1omBUHkxwIfEPvXw7esKINxKxkevIcomAcQUG09sFlWfdGBF-cLMtRg796U-2qJZscOpNeRa4LB6UEjXRrVG5aSqgXCSsRJ0wO6J5U1YuDUORgX_zN1NNw/s3617/Ayr%2010.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2411" data-original-width="3617" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSOWePK3hpa2ejSnvbCDXLWfvoumyagbCV1x3iEGMdurd6ejlZAS7ptWeeFc5b4iNNrpuL1omBUHkxwIfEPvXw7esKINxKxkevIcomAcQUG09sFlWfdGBF-cLMtRg796U-2qJZscOpNeRa4LB6UEjXRrVG5aSqgXCSsRJ0wO6J5U1YuDUORgX_zN1NNw/w400-h266/Ayr%2010.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>I say the port and
the beach are the town’s best features. There is the racecourse as well, natch.
When I planned this trip a fortnight or so before departure, a new evening
meeting fixture at Ayr jumped out of the website like a free bet offer. The icing
on the cake of my lowland trip.</p><p></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">The track was only
a short walk from the town centre off an unassuming dual-carriageway. Hardly
the prettiest setting, but once inside, this was a lovely course. Very unflashy
for a Grade I track. The Victorian stands were supplemented by tasteful modern
additions, but all low rise and pleasant. The parade ring was accessible,
viewing lines good and decent bars…and a food snack I had never previously
sampled: the Kilmarnock pie – steak and gravy in a scotch pie-like crusty pastry
case and lid. I feel another top-ten list coming on.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEqOzJMN3r0Pdu6qmn5EETEGufHTYxtPXgj8Gfp9pJJ6BTD6ouZCm0qylLlNkFm5G9tKnFRff5MA7hDEksoV0GvBGf4t6VwFNrRsb77mthaKXmYCP7ROV51Jboq8pd5gwK5bollMEmVZ6E1mFW_kzzPwtsyTkJMGtLIxffxBOypwrwPFpVkK82G6XXnA/s4032/20220804_182114.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEqOzJMN3r0Pdu6qmn5EETEGufHTYxtPXgj8Gfp9pJJ6BTD6ouZCm0qylLlNkFm5G9tKnFRff5MA7hDEksoV0GvBGf4t6VwFNrRsb77mthaKXmYCP7ROV51Jboq8pd5gwK5bollMEmVZ6E1mFW_kzzPwtsyTkJMGtLIxffxBOypwrwPFpVkK82G6XXnA/w400-h300/20220804_182114.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">It was striking how
busy the racecourse was and how much punters had dressed up for a night at a
pretty average set of races. I was in the minority in my scaggy jumper and
trainers. No wonder the steward had looked me up and down at the ticket
booth.</span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Walking back in to
the bar and restaurant, I saw Keith and his glad-rag family again. So not a Hen
do at all. They had made the effort just like the others. They were at a table
overlooking the winning post, knocking back flutes of fizz now. I nodded to
them again.</span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Winless, I walked back
to my b&b near the seaside and collapsed into a deep slumber. Breakfast was
served up by Martin, my chatty host (aren’t they all) who had me as his captive
audience, in the absence of any other guests. He was fine, to be honest, even
if he felt the need to unburden himself of various life events and
achievements. I did pick up a couple of interesting nuggets though. Firstly
English black pudding is different to Scottish black pudding (of which I had
some fine examples on my plate) in that the recipe hereabouts used beef suet
and oatmeal, giving a coarser texture than those at home.</span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Secondly, after hearing
about my trip to the races, Martin told me that fixtures remained
popular with Irish racegoers who could get a 2 hour crossing from Belfast into
Cairnryan, near Stranraer, and from there a direct bus service to the track. Ayr
races is certainly the destination of choice around these parts.</span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Martin’s
information was given added relevance by the fact that I was heading for
Stranraer that very morning. Another end-of-the-line destination. Fabulous
train ride. I know I say that a lot in these posts, but flippin’ ‘eck it was
lovely around that neck of the woods. We were into the hills south east of Ayr
pretty quickly, away from the coast around Dalrymple and Maybole and then south-west
onto Girvan. Rolling and expansive landscapes that seemed to draw you out of
the train window. Not soft limestone and chalk like southern England, not hard grit
like the Pennines or Cumbria, not empty like the Moors, not craggy and extreme
like the Highlands. Very much its own thing. </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_OXIcgMLH5ByEzk04Yj_G0lrro8RMNYlqIHIp0AqEmHw35Yp0wz_GEIiQvNvFXfNK_n3eyzI9NS-xI0LJyAoOI3JAExj20xueu1qFRoKsA9x3BtXq4_1ediTdwGSxSS3mMPtuhLC7_Mr3zBO6X3NYYdG1yGLF_UqQ7WKq-JCEYibcWve5faDkJXzz7Q/s6107/Ayr%2017.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4071" data-original-width="6107" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_OXIcgMLH5ByEzk04Yj_G0lrro8RMNYlqIHIp0AqEmHw35Yp0wz_GEIiQvNvFXfNK_n3eyzI9NS-xI0LJyAoOI3JAExj20xueu1qFRoKsA9x3BtXq4_1ediTdwGSxSS3mMPtuhLC7_Mr3zBO6X3NYYdG1yGLF_UqQ7WKq-JCEYibcWve5faDkJXzz7Q/w400-h266/Ayr%2017.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRjEqVRaFXnnVujbAKg36q7JxX__dPIG3xRDmCmFVhugT3lA-sdHDEDuXk-D8-6tDcOUyTHDiY738WeaDpFwG_SKSms-ynm1uKyTzrAbhB3YMoxWik7WRlxuJEGzCD01j-bNcj2i1_CAnhelDlDdsE69yFS8QsyHm6H0h637YpnWK0rBor0BaQuPaVlA/s2675/Ayr%2018.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1783" data-original-width="2675" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRjEqVRaFXnnVujbAKg36q7JxX__dPIG3xRDmCmFVhugT3lA-sdHDEDuXk-D8-6tDcOUyTHDiY738WeaDpFwG_SKSms-ynm1uKyTzrAbhB3YMoxWik7WRlxuJEGzCD01j-bNcj2i1_CAnhelDlDdsE69yFS8QsyHm6H0h637YpnWK0rBor0BaQuPaVlA/w400-h266/Ayr%2018.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Beyond the harbour
town and seaside resort of Girvan, with Ailsa Craig hovering in the mid-distance, the view changed to be dominated by broad valley-sides dotted with white-washed cottages, farmsteads and
hamlets. We followed the lively rivers Stinchar and then Duisk south, where the
landscape felt like a different planet to Ayr and the northern coastline. The railway
almost touched the south coast of Galloway at Luce Bay before swinging a wide curve
back north-east into Stranraer.<p></p><p></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">The line skirted
the edge of the town and then ran across vast acres of broken and concrete
slabs enclosed by chain link fencing that used to be the car parks for the
ferry terminal. The train trundled on past empty sheds and rusted rails towards
what was once a harbour.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4XWXM-7B7D1-VWW5Y7bVriK6_N-rCeIzP7UuXKAtu7VPqeNaLollrSxz9cbKjgvC0S3kO9nIYuXXPtYvYbJPpMKMwsdMP6q6cSU7y4wZwYWk6Srap6NmeFm4S3YWBgM-7hcAN_1XLKEDgiTRipHrSOS_OEblAG28uNIOKIu7u8xxS7iYXlWllVQMCoA/s3992/Ayr%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2994" data-original-width="3992" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4XWXM-7B7D1-VWW5Y7bVriK6_N-rCeIzP7UuXKAtu7VPqeNaLollrSxz9cbKjgvC0S3kO9nIYuXXPtYvYbJPpMKMwsdMP6q6cSU7y4wZwYWk6Srap6NmeFm4S3YWBgM-7hcAN_1XLKEDgiTRipHrSOS_OEblAG28uNIOKIu7u8xxS7iYXlWllVQMCoA/w400-h300/Ayr%203.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">We came to an unceremonious
halt in a dila</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif">pidated station at
the edge of a jetty to nowhere. Stranraer used to be a major ferry passenger terminal
to Belfast. This was its station. The ferry terminal closed and moved 5 miles
up the coast in 2011. The station has remained here, deprived of the purpose it
was built for. A sad reminder of a former bustling life. Gothically poignant, like
a Victorian Romantic folly for the 21</span><sup style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">st</sup><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> century.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi32RyBibfc21HPtqfJw8O6ahQsINAS_CsRG76z6ZQG5NqVYCM8wDhNEmgy0UFNnFtCLbah_l9YentQf4xeOKxsqVPF4ZIDxNBZomuRHPN8L_JyYNTCak5gH3FtJgYFHFKeycMBwyxMAWslhBfrIVyggs7GPf3QNKPGkQc6Lu8i4oCdkuQHgnyp4bmENw/s4032/20220805_162327.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi32RyBibfc21HPtqfJw8O6ahQsINAS_CsRG76z6ZQG5NqVYCM8wDhNEmgy0UFNnFtCLbah_l9YentQf4xeOKxsqVPF4ZIDxNBZomuRHPN8L_JyYNTCak5gH3FtJgYFHFKeycMBwyxMAWslhBfrIVyggs7GPf3QNKPGkQc6Lu8i4oCdkuQHgnyp4bmENw/w400-h300/20220805_162327.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Attempts to keep it
looking pretty were futile: rotting geraniums withered in pots on the window
ledges; dead daisies left to compost themselves in a planter made out of
barrels to look like an engine and carriage.</p><p></p></span><p></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">The visceral
manifestation of neglect stretched out on all sides. This is what a port looks
like when you take away its principal reason for being.</span></p><p><o:p></o:p></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">I loved it!</span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">But that’s just my
perverse love of ruinous landscapes. After more than 150 years, when the last
crossing sailed from the town for Northern Ireland, it ripped the heart out of
the place. The new £200m development at Cairnryan enabled Stena Line to cut
costs and journey times with a port that wouldn’t silt up. It has seen freight
levels and passenger numbers increase.</span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Billboards
advertised the site for development, either wholesale or piecemeal, and there
was at least some prospect that a new marina with Scottish Government and local
authority investment might breath a bit of life back in to the town.</span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">I couldn’t really understand
why the station hadn’t been moved back down the line nearer to the town rather
than left in the dereliction of a former ferry complex. There was a 15 minute
walk back down a path next to the line and it didn’t seem overly ambitious to
have put up a couple of platforms at this end of the spur. But maybe this was
all part of a bigger redevelopment plan.</span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">The town itself had
some obvious signs of deprivation - the former landmark George Hotel was now a damaged eyesore, but the church square, streets in the older part of town and
the park on the front all showed signs that Stranraer was intrinsically an
attractive town, with a good bit of history to show off.</span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Back at the
station, a couple I was chatting to remained unconvinced. They harked back to
days when packed 12-car trains would pull in here and the town was alive with visitors
waiting for ferries or for trains home. Now they said they couldn’t even get a
bag of chips.</span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">I enjoyed the evening
train rides back to Glasgow via Ayr and a final ramble along the seafront. I
knew I could get a bag of chips there.</span></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKMnE-CmHMtt-wSGzjCevczCrOZyiay7NCf8I-nyJic_m1eoA5EW1rtWnantGMcIIGdbQ9JmjV2Yj_ShYMAxqAYBJirtY8YFJPC-PhwAoAl_ySZu-rmSaEB9JKBFO2xmSaV2sDfTp3WEn0V-e23S8p8z1a5yZJa5Or-zqu6_q5P7_cYvkZ-5o21MBKfg/s4169/Ayr%2015.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2779" data-original-width="4169" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKMnE-CmHMtt-wSGzjCevczCrOZyiay7NCf8I-nyJic_m1eoA5EW1rtWnantGMcIIGdbQ9JmjV2Yj_ShYMAxqAYBJirtY8YFJPC-PhwAoAl_ySZu-rmSaEB9JKBFO2xmSaV2sDfTp3WEn0V-e23S8p8z1a5yZJa5Or-zqu6_q5P7_cYvkZ-5o21MBKfg/w400-h266/Ayr%2015.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">The sleeper to
Euston awaited. A good return leg, though I thought I was in for carnage when three
beered-up Eastern European cyclists got on, swayed around, struggled to put
bikes in the racks and cracked open bottles of San Miguel. Then I spied the
contents of their whisky distillery bags spread out across the table. Party?
Please, no! But within 15 minute they were all zonked out, snoring way like
little piggies. One of them laid down on the floor between the luggage racks,
another sprawled with his legs out in front of the vestibule door, grumbling
every time the guard came through.</span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">My local train back
up the line to Berko left Euston at 5.30am. It was littered with youngsters assuming
similar postures to my Eastern European friends. These were coming home after a
night out clubbing in London.</span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Never a dull
moment. Whatever their trip had been, it can’t have rivalled my own.</span></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><br /></span></p><p><i>Series navigation: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/04/seaside-special-excursions-to-coast.html">Intro and chapter guide</a></i></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><i>Previous episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2023/03/off-beaten-track-dumfries-and-galloway.html">Dumfries and Galloway</a></i></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><i>Next episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2023/04/seaside-special-honeymoon-and-fast-car.html">Argyll</a></i></p><div><i><br /></i></div>
<p><br /></p>Davoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2854417785396611556.post-26681323804605457262023-03-22T17:47:00.010+00:002023-04-14T19:51:43.978+01:00Seaside Special - Off the beaten track: Dumfries and Galloway<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Gd6fr-QY58kdUqGHk41Zp79ZSPnXZhwUX3W-lMOo_4sZ3uDEc6j7cuwU3KHyMvJTDAojbDMdxGv2jTd8OJv06-9lzEzdMoipKBEU6mebkxLix_s-NK4nSXynzI5q7j6LsEnHfa8zefSS11-MkwT6kjwnCNlGVwyL9hpTMZhySp4CyPRMJj92QoCSvA/s1050/annan.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1050" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Gd6fr-QY58kdUqGHk41Zp79ZSPnXZhwUX3W-lMOo_4sZ3uDEc6j7cuwU3KHyMvJTDAojbDMdxGv2jTd8OJv06-9lzEzdMoipKBEU6mebkxLix_s-NK4nSXynzI5q7j6LsEnHfa8zefSS11-MkwT6kjwnCNlGVwyL9hpTMZhySp4CyPRMJj92QoCSvA/w400-h266/annan.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Dipping our
noses over the Scottish border for the first time on this circumnavigation, the
broad, sparse and forested acres of Dumfries and Galloway beckon. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">We are back in
2007 now, on our way home from a three-generation, eight-berth family holiday
in a remote house on the Sound of Sleat. More of that in later pages. The
series goes clockwise, so we’ll hit North West Scotland later. For now, imagine
five of us packed into a battered Zafira heading on a long schlep south and
looking for somewhere to break the journey. We’d parted company with Mum, Dad
and Bruv as they prepared to drop off their hire car and couple up with the Kyle
of Lochalsh Line for the splendid Highland train journey back to Inverness via
Achnasheen. </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">“Stop the car!”
cried Granny. She’d lost a knitting needle. The girls chuckled and raised
collective eyebrows. We were seriously overdue a break, though and this was the
cue to pull over. Tourist Information helpfully found us B&B in Annan (remember
when that’s what a Tourist Info Bureaux used to do?). To be honest, I’d barely
heard of the place.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">On we went, Annan-bound.
Wherever that was. Hanging a right off the M6, we spun through the bizarre
would-be tourist honey pot of Gretna Green. This curio of 18</span><sup style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">th</sup><span face="Arial, sans-serif">
century illicit marriage still retains a foothold in border folklore, and was marked
by a hotel, tea room and gift shop on the site of the original blacksmiths
forge. Once the nuptials were struck over the anvil, I noted that the heavily sponsored
roundabout opposite was advertising a plethora of newlywed activities. The ‘Marital
Maze’ sounded particularly intriguing. </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7lhU0slJTP6YwoxRqVh7Ra4svopVIABs0HFMR49JoK-Pf5oAzZJ38_q5RG6LY4sbCZdGZnur9SPegJ4UqbH1XlhL66kn3zSpBh0TAux8rZ4DD56UapYoJ7ui6q8UJUNginA4nUpXTh0al-3HTFsx31KvKV0Lr34z6Ml1ZqOjwuCzdzeiw8YBfHXs-fA/s1600/gretna.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7lhU0slJTP6YwoxRqVh7Ra4svopVIABs0HFMR49JoK-Pf5oAzZJ38_q5RG6LY4sbCZdGZnur9SPegJ4UqbH1XlhL66kn3zSpBh0TAux8rZ4DD56UapYoJ7ui6q8UJUNginA4nUpXTh0al-3HTFsx31KvKV0Lr34z6Ml1ZqOjwuCzdzeiw8YBfHXs-fA/s320/gretna.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">The A74 took us
north of the new town of Gretna (as oppose to the Green – more of this later) and
in to the quiet streets of Annan. The B&B was on a wide residential road of
stout Edwardian villas just off the town centre. There’s always a frisson of
danger when booking a B&B. You never quite know what you will get. 80% of
the time, the stay is unremarkable. For the remaining 20% there is an element
of unpredictability. </p></span><p></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">On this trip,
the unpredictable won out. After dropping our bags with the aim of heading out
for a bite to eat, our landlords, a married couple of mature standing, matching
golfing jumpers and lilting accents, had us trapped in the residents lounge.
Before we knew what had hit us, out came the family anecdotes accompanied by
battered photo albums, tea and cake. I was half expecting a screen to drop from
the ceiling and the flicker of a slide projector to kick in.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Luckily, we had
a secret weapon. Granny - my Mother-in-law - was in our party. When it came to
banter, Granny was an Irish World Champion contender. Unstoppable. The
discussions she used to have with her sisters were the stuff of family legend. That
they all talked at the same wouldn’t surprise anyone, but their ability to simultaneously
introduce new nuggets of gossip and also respond to earlier chat without any of
them drawing breath or pausing the flow was a miracle of communication the
surface of which social media has barely scratched. A cacophonic brain-scrambling
experience that I almost miss!</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Our hosts were
game, however. Something to do with a shared Celtic gabble-gene, I assumed. We
did prise ourselves away eventually, and escaped to the Queensberry Arms for a
bit of scram and a drink. We didn’t need to book. The place was like a morgue.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">When we got
back, our hosts were still up. Lying in wait with the lights down low, they
heard the click of the front-door latch and they pounced, wielding milky drinks
and night caps. The girls ran off to bed whilst we bravely took the anecdote battle
to the locals, led unswervingly from the front by Granny. “Ah sure, my son
Chris built most of the Barcelona Olympic village…” </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Breakfast passed off remarkably calmly. There were no
other guests, but our hosts seemed distracted by various housekeeping and
booking-in tasks. We snuck out for an explore.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">I was a bit disappointed with Annan. The town had some
fine red sandstone civic and commercial buildings dating from the early part of
the 20</span><sup style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">th</sup><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> century when the export trade brought prosperity to the
area. Annan was at the centre of a rail hub linking the west coast port of
Stranraer with lines north to Glasgow and south to England. With the decline of
both the port trade and the closure of the railways, Annan had become this
strange ghost of a forgotten town home to about 10,000 souls. Some roughness
around the edges was apparent. Those statement buildings had become burdensome
maintenance responsibilities and stinging reminders of departed status.</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">I came across a website listing
a range of ‘interesting and unusual’ facts about Annan. There weren’t many. A
highlight: one of Scotland’s most haunted roads passes through the town. How
would you know? </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #111111;">The list also included reference to the Annan
Academy, founded in </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #222222;">1802, which had seen the philosopher <span class="apple-converted-space">Thomas Carlyle </span>pass through its doors. A
local called Crystal had responded in the comments box to dispute its
inclusion. </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129;">“Annan academy may have been great years ago
but now it's a shit-whole (sic – a bit of a question mark there about the
quality of its English Language department) with kids pulling knives on
teachers. It's more like a prison the way the police patrol it.”</span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">If the
attributes of the town were in question, there was always the coastline. We
went for a ramble, heading south, nominally by the banks of the River Annan,
but in fact you don’t see much of the actual river once you’ve left the town. Eventually
we found our way out to the estuary and the vast Solway Firth. It is just about
possible to walk along the coast back as far as Gretna. We didn’t try, but as
an entertaining blog by Ruth Livingstone documents, the route is not exactly a
pleasant amble across gently shelving beaches. Cloying mudflats, impenetrable
bogs and military debris present seemed to be the order of the day.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Annan Merse is a wide expanse of wetland at the mouth
of the Annan, extending east towards Torduff Point. Ann, who is blogging her trek
around the entire British coastline, was unimpressed.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">“I know these wetlands are supposed to be teeming with
wildlife, but they look rather bleak and desolate to me. After a while, my
nice, dry bank disappears, and I’m picking my way across marsh, leaping across
waterways and balancing on dry tussocks. Occasionally I find a handy bridge,
but most of the time it seems to be a matter of finding my own way. Torduff</span><span class="apple-converted-space" face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Point.</span><span class="apple-converted-space" face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif">A place I had hoped would be pretty
and scenic, but isn’t. Ah well.</span><span class="apple-converted-space" face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Onwards.”</span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Ann had reached the
MoD land outside Eastriggs. The site contains 63 stand-alone explosives storehouses
which used to hold munitions for the three armed services. It closed in 2010,
just a few years after our visit. At that time the area was still prohibited
and Ann reported signs on the fences warning of guard dogs patrolling the area.
“But I don’t see any dogs”, she said, “nor security cameras, nor anybody… it’s
a lonely and deserted landscape.” Beyond a fenced-off pit that only temporarily
blocked the progress of our resolute hiker, she observed “…a crumbling mess of
deserted buildings. Their foundations are slowly slipping down the bank and the
shore is littered with tumbled bricks and smashed concrete.”</span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Munitions are a
staggeringly important part of the history of this coastline. I had no idea
until we visited. Eastriggs and Gretna were both originally constructed during
World War I as accommodation for the largest munitions factory in the world, HM
Factory, Gretna, between 1916 and 1918. The villages began as a collection of
wooden huts, but were developed as model villages.</span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">The factory, </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Codenamed<span class="apple-converted-space"> ‘</span>Moorside’ was a nine-mile long
establishment built to supply ammunition to the British Army in World War I stretching
from<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Eastriggs along the Solway
coast as far as<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Longtown<span class="apple-converted-space"> back over the border </span>into England. Between
20,000 and 30,000 workers, mostly women, found employment there at the
factory’s peak. The site was chosen for its remoteness from populated areas –
which I can happily testify to – but also had good access for services and
supplies. It would prove difficult for the Luftwaffe to reach the area, so far
north and west. The area itself had a vast empty landscape of natural cover,
with the sea frets and mist from the surrounding hills combining to obscure the
site from the air.</span></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">What a grim job it must have
been. A museum back down the coast in Gretna tells the story of the factory. The
workers mixed by hand an unholy cocktail of nitro-glycerine and guncotton into
cordite paste – which became known as ‘devil’s porridge’, before loading it
into shell cases. Devil’s Porridge is now the name of the museum.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisLy5t51xMwXZZH_crRYW6vuc3Tp3xiR8L3xLdgxn7aVHrQ_4-B4Q9999xK43lv-B_RNclELhx0zzbCipkTKnWKjnb1sLOLMlczCqYpHhrOFTd6jFT8CzueXNyLPVsxy3WNo7E3S9G9t2ZrhYolHkdmM-uavQq11CRCqtt64kYF2hxwz0wjFkXlB7G2g/s976/factory.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="549" data-original-width="976" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisLy5t51xMwXZZH_crRYW6vuc3Tp3xiR8L3xLdgxn7aVHrQ_4-B4Q9999xK43lv-B_RNclELhx0zzbCipkTKnWKjnb1sLOLMlczCqYpHhrOFTd6jFT8CzueXNyLPVsxy3WNo7E3S9G9t2ZrhYolHkdmM-uavQq11CRCqtt64kYF2hxwz0wjFkXlB7G2g/w400-h225/factory.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Courtesy: BBC</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span><p></p><p>There is nothing much
left of the site now. We stopped a couple of times on the road back to Gretna
on our way off the Solway Firth, but we could see very little. Most of WWI factory
was cleared in the 1920’s. Some land and buildings which survived were incorporated
in to the later munitions storage site. Viewed through the magic filter of
Google Earth, there’s nothing to see of the former site, but the explosives storehouse
– all separated from each other and surrounded by earthen banks to prevent
chain-reaction explosions – are very clear, deposited in grassy landscape like sand
bunkers on an epic golf course. </p><p></p>
<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Granny found her
knitting needle as we climbed back in to the car. We took that as a cue to
scoot away, leaving this surreal and curious corner of the world to its quiet ways.</span></p><p><i>Series navigation: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/04/seaside-special-excursions-to-coast.html">Intro and chapter guide</a></i></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><i>Previous episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2023/02/seaside-special-shifting-sands-cumbria.html">Shifting Sands: Cumbria</a></i></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><i>Next episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2023/04/seaside-special-lowlands-highlife.html">Ayrshire</a> </i></p><div><i><br /></i></div>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Davoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2854417785396611556.post-44411812915392268582023-02-09T11:21:00.005+00:002023-03-22T17:48:23.451+00:00Seaside Special - Shifting sands: Cumbria <p><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTcarRoZvJhnSkx7swEr9MpTrkS4xsOBEvkYKn24O4rOwSd6y0vQ1UjTHtJOj9VH6uO4uABN_olin7siup1aV6C8x1ZPooAHVMzi_ghx09e_ASbYiDs9KwSQEAOxBEQ0idivzWTv2u8av2VCDWBCemSp1nG5wysqvHfnMWxkhkSBFM80NC6RsQiEdbig/s3803/Cumbria%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2535" data-original-width="3803" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTcarRoZvJhnSkx7swEr9MpTrkS4xsOBEvkYKn24O4rOwSd6y0vQ1UjTHtJOj9VH6uO4uABN_olin7siup1aV6C8x1ZPooAHVMzi_ghx09e_ASbYiDs9KwSQEAOxBEQ0idivzWTv2u8av2VCDWBCemSp1nG5wysqvHfnMWxkhkSBFM80NC6RsQiEdbig/w640-h426/Cumbria%201.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><br />Is there
anywhere finer in England than the Lake District? As a Yorkshire lad, it takes
a lot for me to nod such glowing approval towards the west. But without
sounding like a tourist office publication, Cumbria pretty much has it all. The
region is England’s only genuinely mountainous area. It looked positively Alpine-esque on my first visit here as a callow youth, gazing up at the
jags and serrations of Sca Fell Pike, Helvellyn, Great Gable and the like.</span><p></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I soon
discovered the equally beautiful, if less dramatic, fells around Ambleside,
Coniston and Grasmere; stunning passes into Buttermere and Eskdale; and sparse,
squat villages like Elterwater, Boot and Glenridding.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And the lakes
themselves, of course. Swimming in Derwentwater on a summer evening outside the
youth hostel. Stone-skimming on Wastwater under the vast bleakness of Whin
Rigg. Throwing up on the shores of Crummock water after eating a rotten chicken
breast.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It was some
while before I fully appreciated the Cumbrian coastline which felt like something
of a neglected feature, lying in the shadow of the more vivid attractions
inland. Not just neglected in its tourist profile, but also in terms of
industrial abandonment and decline. Not all of this coastline abutting the
Irish Sea is cast-iron visitor-bankable.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">However, I most
definitely fell for the beguiling charms of Morecambe Bay way back in 2009.
Staying in a holiday cottage south-east of Ulverston, the slickly moving waters
of the bay lapped against a shingle bank that marked the perimeter of the land
at our property.</span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Morecambe Bay has a murky reputation. In 2004, a few years before our stay, at least 21 cockle-pickers drowned out on the flats where treacherous tides caught them out. It emerged that there was a much more sinister side to this apparent tragic accident. The group were illegal immigrants from China and were being ruthlessly exploited by a criminal gang of racketeers posing as legitimate traders. The ensuing outcry and investigation prompted a range of impacts. Most immediate amongst them was the passing of new employment legislation in the shape of the Gangmasters Act, which set up a body to licence agricultural agencies and make them adhere to proper labour practice standards.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The tragedy also cast</span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> a half-light on the underground problem of modern day slavery and
people trafficking. Walking along the embankment from Ulverston to Bardsea that
bright May, it was hard to believe that such a shadowy world existed. The wide
expanse of Morecambe Bay waters shimmered in Spring sunshine. Twisting currents
caused myriad ripples and eddies to blink back bright slices of light. A
deceptive scene that effectively masked the bay’s turbulent history.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Where the tide
had retreated, the mud was cracked with rivulets and gullies streaming water
back to the main flow. Brackish-loving vegetation hung from broken and half
rotted breakwaters.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We turned round
and headed back to Ulverston. I was distracted by a rush of wind and gurgle of
water, and looked down thinking I had stepped over a drain. No. This was the
tide sluicing back up the estuary making disturbingly fast, uneven and
unpredictable progress. Suddenly it was clear how anyone out in the bay with
only a rudimentary knowledge of the tides and lugging a bucket of cockles would
get into difficulty. The returning waters overtook us and in no time were creating
turbid swirls by the iron pillars of the railway bridge joining Ulverston with Cark
on the eastern side of the bay.</span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIXFOZgF6pK2N8zk-0kfwaF1QlnOdKgigQ9IR-yjKVy7Hv9amFwYLkRvJMlWhPJgp8H7wbOpDKKZaUxUw7inFDBz-1FyvW6lH4-ZO7wrpyLD-e3Y1CQmBSz7CF1s314Ka-RxePIPX50KO0lQJzuEGjb8nexlSZVkJHgcpNargdLzr1TXlUl_pQmlwKyg/s3808/cumbria%208.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2144" data-original-width="3808" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIXFOZgF6pK2N8zk-0kfwaF1QlnOdKgigQ9IR-yjKVy7Hv9amFwYLkRvJMlWhPJgp8H7wbOpDKKZaUxUw7inFDBz-1FyvW6lH4-ZO7wrpyLD-e3Y1CQmBSz7CF1s314Ka-RxePIPX50KO0lQJzuEGjb8nexlSZVkJHgcpNargdLzr1TXlUl_pQmlwKyg/w400-h225/cumbria%208.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">There are
proper footpaths across this death-trap bay. Ridiculous as it may seem, older maps
will vaguely identify a murderous offshore track marked by innocent red dashes
marching out into the graduated brown and blue Ordnance Survey shading of the
bay from Hest Bank over on the eastern shore, north of Morecambe and running northwards
to Kents Bank at the mouth of the River Kent.</p><p></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">If only the
route was as hazard-free as those benign dashes would suggest. Robert McFarland’s
excellent book ‘The Old Ways’ describes a path “whose route fluctuates and
whose walking therefore requires vigilance and improvisation”. He goes on to
describe the rushing tides and disorientating flatness, as well as mud that can
grip and quicksand that can swallow. Such is the fluctuating nature of these
dangers that the official route now starts from much further north at Arnside
and the distance is now a mere nine miles. The shifting course of the River
Kent is the causal factor. The walk cannot be completed without the services of
an official guide, known as t</span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">he 'Queens Guide'. This position was held until recently by a gentleman called Cedric Robinson. Now retired, </span>he explained the origins of the walk and his unique title in an interview.</p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">"Years
ago, before the coming of the railway, it was a necessity. People in one
village needed to get to another, so they'd take to the sands. Many lives were lost,
so there was a petition put to the king. The first royal appointed guides were
in the 1500s. Before then, it was the monks of Furness at Cartmel
Priory."</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">I’ve yet to
attempt the trip.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">The house in
which we stayed on that holiday was vast. There were any number of cavernous
bedrooms, a couple of large sitting rooms and a conservatory with a shiny floor
on which the girls played bumper cars with the caster-wheeled armchairs. A
lovely house, though maybe the furnishings had seen better days. Possibly on
account of the dubious behaviour of guests sliding around the posh conservatory
on comfy sofas.</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">There was a
faded photo in a frame on the dining room wall of Take That. It had been
clipped from the local rag a few years ago. The story was that Howard and Jason
had hunkered down in this house for a few days whilst hiding from the red tops.
But they were rumbled, as this story attested.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The house was
set in a large landscaped garden with a tennis court at one end and a wood that
led to the coast at the other. The front of the house looked towards the
Cumbrian mountains and caught the evening sun. This was where we barbecued,
overlooking the lane back to Ulverston. I thought I caught a flash from behind
one of the trees and a rustle of undergrowth. Bloody papps.</span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsZ15zcS7K3Tz-MMUj0WYim-9NbVEbOIlwr36YNxHm0oKRqnXFj0wMqNkM4D8yIDKUN7yRyGH_j5CJE_OfTRvouvqFrT4ZAe8AaOTlTHg020x1OvmK1F4gKehFsY2J7n1ZT3LujD3AfUGKhLGY2NQ0wNUGQL1rycbs-tlRl2QtaDRAYLzqqToJehi6TQ/s3180/cumbria%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2141" data-original-width="3180" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsZ15zcS7K3Tz-MMUj0WYim-9NbVEbOIlwr36YNxHm0oKRqnXFj0wMqNkM4D8yIDKUN7yRyGH_j5CJE_OfTRvouvqFrT4ZAe8AaOTlTHg020x1OvmK1F4gKehFsY2J7n1ZT3LujD3AfUGKhLGY2NQ0wNUGQL1rycbs-tlRl2QtaDRAYLzqqToJehi6TQ/w400-h269/cumbria%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">Our gaff, the
gardens and the tennis court, plus a barn conversion on the other side of the
court formed one lot of a much larger estate owned by Roger Fisher, a local
businessman who started out on a market stall in Barrow-in-Furness and went on
to make a tidy pile. He also bred and trained a few racehorses. As we spat
gravel from the Zafira’s tyres trundling up the drive past his huge, well-kept farmhouse,
the businessman’s real passion was revealed by a couple of cast-iron horse
heads atop the gateposts.</p><p></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Cartmel,
Cumbria’s infamous racecourse, was just down the road from Ulverston. That
weekend, we paid a visit to the famous May bank holiday meeting where Fisher’s
horse Mystified won the ‘Sticky Toffee Pudding Selling Handicap Hurdle’. Celebrations
in the big house that night, no doubt, though we were happy with the 14/1
returns we picked up in a loyal punt on our landlord’s bay gelding.</span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNkiSpi_tJ17loRiXmTtolUMp2tU0-xFkDxYXdHq9zmre_-RpbySzbvhhwBnc1AICt0eRKITGrulPzPxQjXFGkI1iaBIrXPlI-eSy-xRbYFJkksTlbsqWjEYcd9YZ1RJVT3UjiRhkTygmVWqSERcdZr2M9kVo0om8IIq5XJiOFOJnAAMn_r-jtaGI0cA/s1382/cumbria%206.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="882" data-original-width="1382" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNkiSpi_tJ17loRiXmTtolUMp2tU0-xFkDxYXdHq9zmre_-RpbySzbvhhwBnc1AICt0eRKITGrulPzPxQjXFGkI1iaBIrXPlI-eSy-xRbYFJkksTlbsqWjEYcd9YZ1RJVT3UjiRhkTygmVWqSERcdZr2M9kVo0om8IIq5XJiOFOJnAAMn_r-jtaGI0cA/w400-h255/cumbria%206.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span face=""Arial",sans-serif"><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif">Fisher’s estate adjoined, and
had open access to, </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="border: none;">Conishead Priory. The
building was ‘a very important Gothic revival country house with few peers in
the north west’ according to its guardians, English Heritage. The pile stood
out for a couple of reasons. For a start the huge, distinctive twin towers at
the front of the priory could be seen for miles poking above the trees.</span></p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="border: none;">However, the week we were
there, the building’s occupants were more noteworthy than the architecture. Whilst
the priory had previously served time as a hydropathic spa and then a
convalescent home for miners, for the past twenty five years it had been the
base of an international college for Buddhist studies. The Manjushri Buddhist Meditation
Centre had raised almost £1,000,000 and invested thousands of hours to
eradicate dry rot, bring the building back into use and secure the future of
the landmark. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="border: none;">Our visit coincided with
one of the main retreats in the Buddhist calendar. </span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif">The path from our rental to the sea
passed through the woods that bordered the priory. We tramped between trees and
large shrubs under which Buddhists had set up a temporary campsite for their
attendance at the festival. Brightly coloured tents were strewn about the woods
like a haphazard collection of makeshift dens that did their best to make
Glastonbury look civilised.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif"> We felt like invasive tourists as we followed the
path through the maze of tarps and canvass where convention-goers were abluting
or making breakfast right beside us. The scene was very bizarre and ended
abruptly at the perimeter of the wood which gave on to the beach. A microcosm
of alternative activity, largely hidden from the gaze of the wider world.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The gathering
began to disperse by the middle of the week and we took the opportunity to look
around the grounds of the priory once they were open to the public again.</span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4unbzPRkDnva0yDz6bN0DFlvUubAlX6pNOrGzfRwJTY1PIEvUBYbSsUGjs_0qhyMJGoHqDNFaiJPFdVO3A9efpOCx_j5AfVvyLFA5Ikm-z1HzZ25u-CPYCiKWKE-bFUUo1YuD7pCwxbnOAF6EWWrb6caBgeiMwKzYfnpOE-sInz-gjfvNpARf3EOXoQ/s3819/umbria%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3819" data-original-width="2546" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4unbzPRkDnva0yDz6bN0DFlvUubAlX6pNOrGzfRwJTY1PIEvUBYbSsUGjs_0qhyMJGoHqDNFaiJPFdVO3A9efpOCx_j5AfVvyLFA5Ikm-z1HzZ25u-CPYCiKWKE-bFUUo1YuD7pCwxbnOAF6EWWrb6caBgeiMwKzYfnpOE-sInz-gjfvNpARf3EOXoQ/s320/umbria%203.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">Our explorations
took us to another eccentricity just down the peninsula from the Take That House.
Piel Island was a small community based around a castle at the mouth of the
deep-water harbour for Barrow-in-Furness, reached by a causeway at low tide
from Roa Island. The landlord of the island’s pub, The Ship Inn, traditionally
inherited the title of King of Piel. That afternoon, the setting was very
pleasant with the calm waters of the estuary permeating a soft sheen in to the
air, giving the castle on the distant island an ethereal glow.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY1kWTrfluGpx06LbS08Lta_lz5YEl9UXkXAtgw9qKRLlPU3xmQbylINLk2B5otxkO0a0QWeb1Xr9xbKX3LkLda2FwDCDUG8pyZPdvznwJfEcpIQtaUp5h2gUOBBbnGbiJwW2pd9GdVQXI7UEd8NId0vMfXvdCbfPRCtg99ln8XjUs60vUnUDXWcYDaw/s2592/cumbria%205.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2576" data-original-width="2592" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY1kWTrfluGpx06LbS08Lta_lz5YEl9UXkXAtgw9qKRLlPU3xmQbylINLk2B5otxkO0a0QWeb1Xr9xbKX3LkLda2FwDCDUG8pyZPdvznwJfEcpIQtaUp5h2gUOBBbnGbiJwW2pd9GdVQXI7UEd8NId0vMfXvdCbfPRCtg99ln8XjUs60vUnUDXWcYDaw/w400-h398/cumbria%205.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">The causeway
was covered and though there was an amphibious craft offering a crossing later
in the day, we eschewed a pint with the King and instead settled on a drink overlooking
the sound in the Bosun’s Locker.</p><p></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Roa Island was a
tiny spit of land linked with the hinterland back to Barrow by a causeway of
its own. It was properly the end of the road on flat bit of land hanging
pendulously off the bottom of Cumbria and surrounded by the expanse of Morecambe
Bay. Remote and a bit austere, but not without a certain tough attraction. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We drove back
across the elevated which road cut across a wide estuary strewn with small
fishing boats and pleasure craft lolling on their sides as if abandoned to the
seaweed. In reality, they were just waiting for the high tides. </span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqulewTuoW_TPjdOqBKDyxNPKoUg1HqnuF7ixkI82xbLBCA1OLrmXq-ROtCZklBEDuAqWboAaeh0H7jC6sxwZ48HF5DoQWpbYvpqvk9QKH9qhVOH5l35RlCa4Yv8af1s3O1o8JqPlxy_Djm1XrwUisTQamHW69znZCZRQoHoXT8QtVFoeqY0aNIITZxQ/s3888/cumbria%204.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="3888" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqulewTuoW_TPjdOqBKDyxNPKoUg1HqnuF7ixkI82xbLBCA1OLrmXq-ROtCZklBEDuAqWboAaeh0H7jC6sxwZ48HF5DoQWpbYvpqvk9QKH9qhVOH5l35RlCa4Yv8af1s3O1o8JqPlxy_Djm1XrwUisTQamHW69znZCZRQoHoXT8QtVFoeqY0aNIITZxQ/w400-h266/cumbria%204.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">The empty scene provided a stark contrast with the urban, largely industrial
town of Barrow. On the horizon, the corrugated roof of the enormous dock hall siren-called
the town’s shipyards and slipways. It was the tallest building in Cumbria.</p><p></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Naval ships and
submarines are still the lifeblood of this isolated town. Even now, after contraction
of the industry, there remains a town-within-a-town of shipbuilders’ homes.
Vickerstown was a planned residential development to house employees of the
naval shipyards which were owned by Vickers at the time of construction in the
early part of the last century. Though the industry is way below that peak, there
were still 7,500 people employed there at the time of our visit. The Trident
replacement programme looks likely to ensure submarine building and maintenance
by BAE Systems at these yards for the next generation.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Barrow has a
bad reputation, but I’m not sure it’s any more deserved than some other places
on this tour. Bill Bryson in his book ‘The Road To Little Dribbling’, described
Barrow as only ‘being famous for being forgotten and depressed” and compared
the town centre to a prison yard. Harsh. Local politicians took issue with this
and told him, in words of one syllable, not to come back.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Heavy industry is
– or was – a common feature of this hybrid coastline, interspersed with sand,
shingle and low-lying hills. Much of it has not fared so well as the manufacturing
and defence shipbuilding in Barrow. When my civil service job took in rural
development, I was initially surprised to learn that financial support to
combat economic and social deprivation was intensively targeted at a strip of
towns and villages running from Barrow northwards taking in Workington,
Whitehaven and Maryport. Tourism jobs didn’t permeate as far as the coast in
any great numbers and these largely run down towns were some of the most
deprived rural areas in England.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The settlements
found prosperity during the industrial revolution. Whitehaven was a planned
town inspired by Sir Christopher Wren’s designs on a grid-iron pattern and was
built on mining – including the deepest undersea mine in Britain at the time –
and shipping. Maryport was originally a small fishing village, expanded significantly
in another planned development that transformed the place to become a
shipbuilding centre. Equidistant between them, Workington grew wealthy as a
port for transporting iron ore and steel at the mouth of the River Derwent.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A combination
of geography and changing trade eventually did for them. Ships began docking at
ports with deeper waters further south; and mining, shipbuilding and heavy
industry entered a phase of terminal decline from the 1980’s onwards. At the
time of my first visits here as part of that job, the one bright spot (quite
literally) in the area was controversial in the extreme. The nuclear industry provided
vital jobs at Seascale and Sellafield, the latter having ditched its toxic original
name of Windscale after Britain’s worst nuclear accident at the site in 1957. It
is currently being decommissioned, but still employs about 11,000 people.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Some of the coastal
towns are showing hints of a resurgence. Money has been pumped into regenerating
town squares, harbour-sides and warehousing. Business and shopping facilities
are springing up. In some places, grand buildings associated with an earlier
phase of prosperity are being saved, spruced up and reinvented for new uses. In
others, they are being left to decay amongst high streets littered with boarded
up shops and peeling paint. If industrial tourism is to prove a belated lifeline
for these anachronistic ports, in the shadow of Lakeland visitor honeypots, it
will be piecemeal.</span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVCYN8RMm3c3BdjEhDp_9x2UWey6WMaLWomr4FGW_KyrKe8-Tusg2w_gvaNdOm9CAhfp2nPuxf6MgC0YSbucxVXKPGA1s_A7rYz1QEp1H84CUpSdd9sK7Dm9qOkSVxXb24Z7Eee7klRHVZWQB_8-RMM7qQPPPEMdAbqAt3nCXlr3SxTs5x3I6cTykOQ/s259/cumbria%207.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVCYN8RMm3c3BdjEhDp_9x2UWey6WMaLWomr4FGW_KyrKe8-Tusg2w_gvaNdOm9CAhfp2nPuxf6MgC0YSbucxVXKPGA1s_A7rYz1QEp1H84CUpSdd9sK7Dm9qOkSVxXb24Z7Eee7klRHVZWQB_8-RMM7qQPPPEMdAbqAt3nCXlr3SxTs5x3I6cTykOQ/s1600/cumbria%207.jpg" width="259" /></a></div><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Whitehaven, by contrast,
hopes to shed the anachronistic tag altogether. In November 2022, the
Government gave the go-ahead for the first new coal mine in the UK for 30 years
in this town. The move seems like staggering hypocrisy by a Government
committed to reaching net zero emissions by 2050. The mine at Whitehaven will
bring investment of £165m and create 500 new jobs. Producing 2.8m tonnes of
coking coal a year, the facility will also chuck out 8.4m tonnes of CO</span><span style="font-family: "Cambria Math",serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Cambria Math";">₂</span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> into the
atmosphere a year. The equivalent of putting 200,000 cars on the road.</span></p></span><p></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Whilst this
seems like a backward step to most, local opinion is much less clear cut. The
economic, demographic and political landscape is complicated in Whitehaven. There has
been a widespread welcome about the mine's go-ahead. Some commentators suggest that deprivation is responsible for this view alongside the promise of
economic renewal. Conversely, data shows that wealth exists alongside poverty in Whitehaven (not uncommon with patterns of UK deprivation) and research has found that many of the community’s
pro-mine voices are retired/comfortable (if not affluent) residents.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Most
interestingly for this blog series and its observations about changing
economic, social and cultural circumstances around the coastline, is that other
commentators have described a yearning among Whitehaven’s community for a
bygone industrial past. One researcher found that the town’s history was often
discussed in terms of satisfaction and aspiration. A new mine would for local people be
something of a return to the town’s proud industrial heritage.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The similarity
between this desire and the reflective nostalgia that powered Brexit views is
striking. Arguments about supporting communities like this with a proactive
industrial policy based around green jobs are not really fully developed and
are probably for another day. For now, this is just further evidence (as if any
were needed) of the challenges that face communities in some of the most beautiful
and yet deprived and polarised places on our coastline.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><i>Series navigation: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/04/seaside-special-excursions-to-coast.html">Intro and chapter guide</a></i></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><i>Previous episode:<a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2023/01/seaside-special-blackpool-birthday.html"> Blackpool Birthday Party - Lancashire</a></i></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><i>Next episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2023/03/off-beaten-track-dumfries-and-galloway.html" target="_blank">Dumfries & Galloway</a></i></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></p>Davoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2854417785396611556.post-7479494075212408582023-01-09T21:37:00.006+00:002023-02-09T14:15:37.652+00:00Seaside Special - Blackpool birthday party: Lancashire<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHuXjO0KWr-qqsQZTAx7xfKs4I5i3LYM9MBN10f5Td1tiwY8jin1cc-ScNlcnXSvpXBFbqBkYENfKONQ-xxcuCRr7KO9jJn_W20v64klbrb0iog8w--XGU8x5FrTsCZk0RGwf6kkEQio0apaQ01CzQ2vswiNim_Zt-YvBvxvTMzHMbMAroirQBoX-UJA/s275/blackpool%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHuXjO0KWr-qqsQZTAx7xfKs4I5i3LYM9MBN10f5Td1tiwY8jin1cc-ScNlcnXSvpXBFbqBkYENfKONQ-xxcuCRr7KO9jJn_W20v64klbrb0iog8w--XGU8x5FrTsCZk0RGwf6kkEQio0apaQ01CzQ2vswiNim_Zt-YvBvxvTMzHMbMAroirQBoX-UJA/w400-h266/blackpool%201.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />From <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/12/seaside-special-riotous-journeys.html">Southport</a> to Blackpool. The sublime to the ridiculous? Not quite.
For all Southport’s genteel, let’s-retire-somewhere-nice persona, the place
left me a little underwhelmed. For all Blackpool’s kitsch, tack and brass, I
have a soft spot for the town.<p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I’ve been coming here for years. As a kid we visited the illuminations
in October, regularly staying in a boarding house on one of the many identical
streets of two-and three storey Victorian terraced b&bs that all led to the
seven-mile seafront. Mrs A’s Mum and dad came here for their honeymoon and
returned in 1997 to celebrate their Ruby Wedding Anniversary. We came up to
surprise them for a party, my daughter only a few weeks old.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Blackpool’s emergence as a resort is similar, if a touch more dramatic,
to the growth of the Scarboroughs, Great Yarmouths, Morecambes and other
popular destinations of our great British seaside.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The town’s growth has been fairly rapid since the late 18th century,
when it was transformed from a small hamlet clustered around a “black pool”
into a fashionable sea-bathing centre. In the same vein as the publicity
afforded to the health-giving properties of spa resorts, the early popularity
of Blackpool can be traced to writers and doctors who popularised the benefits
of bathing in seawater.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Nearby Lancashire industrial towns provided a mass of potential visitors
and the introduction of fast railway services gave them a means of getting
there. Blackpool’s 19th-century growth was rapid. The fine sands along this
stretch of the Irish Sea were exploited with promenades, piers and, in 1895,
the building of Blackpool Tower as a 520-foot homage to the Eiffel Tower. The
introduction of illuminations, seafront decorations and a tramway all followed
and cemented the town’s position as the pre-eminent seaside resort in the
country. The population currently sits at around 142,000.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">My most recent visit was in 2016 for my Sister-in-Law’s birthday. Sue’s party
was a scream, even if it was further landmark evidence of the world moving on
apace. Fifty? So how come she looks thirty? And acts fifteen?</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Sue’s great friend Leye owns the Viva Club in Blackpool and had arranged
for the birthday party gang to have ringside seats for an evening of Las
Vegas-style goodtime showbiz. Pukka variety cabaret given a 21st century twist
of sass and cheek. Leye hosted a revolving cast of singers and</span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"> showgirls, whilst delivering his camp comedy and set piece songs that
involved at least a dozen costume changes. No-one works harder in the business
and the capacity crowd lapped it up.</span></p><p class="BodyA"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvBXpWhbekeLM6X_E508owvCVwX0hLHv5haCw6_uvCO4p7EnyJYsmo8G4Wf8o3Tuu531rVoWwUjjP_5zzdmKoGkhLdy_2PvWy3W_Dkkw3jqsZ1HfR7YNzAmaOeeunS7qgz3HI9bNWVIJ2UZx5jumz-LFaeG8cZtZ9PbKqFUxANTwqV_TjUFqtoN8lyTw/s1600/blackpool%20-viva.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvBXpWhbekeLM6X_E508owvCVwX0hLHv5haCw6_uvCO4p7EnyJYsmo8G4Wf8o3Tuu531rVoWwUjjP_5zzdmKoGkhLdy_2PvWy3W_Dkkw3jqsZ1HfR7YNzAmaOeeunS7qgz3HI9bNWVIJ2UZx5jumz-LFaeG8cZtZ9PbKqFUxANTwqV_TjUFqtoN8lyTw/w400-h266/blackpool%20-viva.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif">I was interested in my girls’ reaction who,
exposed to too much tosh like Hannah Montana and Justin Bieber when they were
growing up, had been deprived of gems like Seaside Special (only the
inspiration for the blog series, of course) and, er, The Des O’Connor Show. Hmmm.
Whatever. They had never seen anything quite like this. That much was apparent
in their initial confusion and awkwardness about what exactly was going on. until
they got the point of the glitzy, tongue-in-cheek, but high quality
performances, and with cheesy comedy and the air of self-deprecation woven
through. Daughter No 2 loved the dancers, the glamour and style, and then
leaned over at one point to inform me that “That girl has an AMAZING voice”.
This was Jenny Ball and when she later belted out a faultless blues standard,
Daughter No 1 said ‘Oh, this is by Etta James. I love this!” When, in all her
18 long years, did she discover Etta James without telling me?</span><p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Leye and Sue kept rolling up the treats. At
the interval, salvers piled high with sweet and savoury gorgeousness arrived.
The tables groaned with duck and orange liver pate, black pudding and
Cumberland sausage wrapped in bacon, chicken and crispy pancetta, salt and
pepper calamari, king prawn skewers… you’d never guess Sue was a vegetarian.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Our inimitable host kicked off the second half
of his show with personal birthday wishes for Sue, laced with sincerity and
noticeably absent of showbiz cheese. There was chance to catch up with him
properly after the show late into the night. Luckily there was also lots of
chances for outrageous Dad-dancing (‘madness, madness, they call madness….’);
oh and thankfully just time to squeeze in a quick rendition of Fields of
Athenry too with the Irish wing of the family choir-mastered by bruv-in-law Chris.</span></p><p class="BodyA"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH5aRBwKAbPGDUSk6XjzxOfRXBMaTpdrg0eUsEF6XQ4_xtHp7SKgkWezd-pG4X1XadiS6XZQQnYUv7DSCfiXFt6W95a1WZFiebHiZIW5BhVu2gm1R1ivsE90N4FYMuIpKnLLZSv1pwcCvPIc98wsxpoO5D_6U6FimpvtV7FtRIlnmhLJT76pknrw9gEQ/s320/blackpool%20-%20souvenirs.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH5aRBwKAbPGDUSk6XjzxOfRXBMaTpdrg0eUsEF6XQ4_xtHp7SKgkWezd-pG4X1XadiS6XZQQnYUv7DSCfiXFt6W95a1WZFiebHiZIW5BhVu2gm1R1ivsE90N4FYMuIpKnLLZSv1pwcCvPIc98wsxpoO5D_6U6FimpvtV7FtRIlnmhLJT76pknrw9gEQ/w400-h300/blackpool%20-%20souvenirs.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Souvenirs</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="BodyA"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Chris has seamlessly stepped into his Mother’s
shoes, possibly without knowing it, where matters of blather are concerned. Mrs
A’s younger brother had been in the front seat of the taxi down to the venue at
the start of the night. I’ve never heard a taxi driver out-bantered before. But
it happened then.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">“Yeah, Blackpool’s alright isn’t it? I’ve been
here on a few jobs. There’s a good pub just down there, they used to show the
Chelsea games. Just down there. Queen of Adelaide…Oh it’s gone…. Harharhar.
Blimey. ” The driver never had a chance.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">As we pulled on to the front, Chris was still
entertaining him. “That tower’s alright isn’t it? Sorta special. Sorta
unique-like. Well apart for the original of course! Harharhar!” He gave the
taxi driver a thump on the arm. The driver looked round at us, his slack,
redundant jaw flapping like the tower flags in the force 10 gale. Talked into
submission. His Mum would have been proud.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The finish to the night was suitably late,
back at Nick and Paul’s. With a generosity bordering on lunacy they had offered
to put up most of Sue’s entourage for the night. In a scene reminiscent of
Glastonbury, there were bodies everywhere. I fell into slumber against the
backdrop of doors opening and closing as merrymakers (including my two daughters) tried to find
where they had left their sleeping bags, toilet bags, handbags and probably
glad rags too. Daughter No 1 woke up to find Auntie Sharon snoring away in
their double bed when she swore blind it was a cousin Robyn when she went to
sleep.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Next morning, in something resembling a
steroid-induced mash up of Saturday Kitchen meets meaty Bake Off, Nick and his
glamorous assistant Glenys provided a never-ending stream of fried breakfasts
in a double-sitting of guests hanging out in the conservatory, kitchen and
dining room. We had barely washed down that lot with the first birthday drinks
of the day when out came the beef pies, hot pots and cheese flans, all sourced
from the farm shop round the corner. How good can it get?</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Or maybe how bad? Not
wishing to dampen the mood, but in a tour of Britain’s coastline, it is only
fair to describe Blackpool as a town of extreme contrasts. Alongside the </span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">multi-million
pound seafront regeneration and new money for the business district renovation,
Blackpool remains one of the most
deprived towns in England. The Department for Communities and Local Government,
my old employers back in the day, periodically releases the Index of Multiple
Deprivation. This little gold mine of statistical data looks at the way poverty
and disadvantage, such as low income, unemployment, bad housing, poor health
and low educational achievement can all combine in small geographic areas.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">Blackpool is ranked seventh
most deprived town in the country. It was ninth worst in 2010. Bloomfield, an
area of about 2,000 households south east of the seafront near Blackpool FC’s
football ground is ranked 2<sup>nd</sup>
worst out of all 32,844 areas in England. The most deprived area in all
England, one worse than Bloomfields, is also a coastal area, over on the other
side of the country, just east of Jaywick in Essex.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">There is plenty of evidence
of boarded-up properties around the town and homelessness is on the rise. Deaths
from misuse of drugs in the UK are at an all-time high. The rate in Blackpool is
far greater than anywhere else in the country.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">Most traditional seaside
towns face challenges. Blackpool seemingly more than most. The council
recognizes this. “Millions of people come from all over the United Kingdom
every year to enjoy our unique environment and attractions,” says its new
strategy. “Tourism continues to dominate our town like no other place in the
country.”</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">The region has ridden
shifting trends before. Gay-friendly businesses helped to regenerate the local
economy through the pink pound at the start of this Millennium; and the town is
still a huge magnet for stag and hen parties. </span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">The
town is also home to the Blackpool Opera House, one of the largest theatres in
the United Kingdom. In addition, Blackpool has developed as a major British
conference and convention centre. </span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">There’s also the ‘Strictly..’
factor, not lost on the Council, whose current drive is to pull in a new type
of visitor through cultural tourism and growing the creative talent sector. I’d
like to think that Leye’s place at Viva can be part of a bright future. </span></p><p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><i>Series navigation: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/04/seaside-special-excursions-to-coast.html">Intro and chapter guide</a></i></span></p><p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><i>Previous episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/12/seaside-special-riotous-journeys.html">Riotous Journeys - Merseyside</a></i></span></p><p class="BodyA"><i>Next episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2023/02/seaside-special-shifting-sands-cumbria.html">Shifting sands - Cumbria</a></i></p>
<b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="break-before: page; mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" /></span></b>Davoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2854417785396611556.post-62836070325947400862022-12-15T17:09:00.010+00:002024-02-08T12:26:37.833+00:00Seaside Special - Riotous journeys: Merseyside<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOlnZyKhCNfm9DfDjFBD90BFOWIWJ1L2zFFeoGpIMOURhSHfnQamwNIMEHSsmUdMgiS1qkzHxka93YV0_D1V0dA-KNBe8CWW45sx6x55AWuxC-q1flaBm1o8vz6v5kbyhNAZgWPhLuKr6TSyOAfcjTLkDrcbRT8O3ea0wGOGsPpie_4nPmUK28KAd2SA/s2592/Merseyside%205.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1458" data-original-width="2592" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOlnZyKhCNfm9DfDjFBD90BFOWIWJ1L2zFFeoGpIMOURhSHfnQamwNIMEHSsmUdMgiS1qkzHxka93YV0_D1V0dA-KNBe8CWW45sx6x55AWuxC-q1flaBm1o8vz6v5kbyhNAZgWPhLuKr6TSyOAfcjTLkDrcbRT8O3ea0wGOGsPpie_4nPmUK28KAd2SA/w640-h360/Merseyside%205.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />I know Liverpool as well as any other British city. Probably better. From 6th Form trips to check out the universities, momentous days at Aintree racecourse and right through to a sneaky post-lockdown outing in 2021, I’ve been a regular visitor. <p></p><p>Those early expeditions were liberating and a little wild. I knew mates who came to study here and I made plenty of journeys north-west from Stoke-On-Trent where I was attending the Poly. The vibe was addictive. Probably only on a par with Newcastle of the cities I knew. Scousers and Geordies have more in common than divides them. Certainly there was more happening than in the sleepy Potteries. Great gigs attended, top pubs and clubs crawled and new mates made. Liverpool was the first city where I discovered a bona-fide heavy metal pub. Wilsons on Wood Street was a sweaty, strip-lighted, sticky-floored, real-ale venue, with a powerhouse jukebox playing AC/DC and Led Zep classics; and walls plastered with UFO and Black Sabbath posters. Bands played there as well. I’d never seen anything like it. Sadly, Wilsons no longer rattles and shakes on a Friday night, having pulled down the shutters for the last time in 1995.</p><p>The Grafton, where The Beatles used to play (there must be a million venues claiming this within a 5-mile radius of the city centre) was a regular haunt, followed by the best chips and gravy I’d had anywhere, from the corner. Real vegetables and everything. I also remember sneaking my friend Liz into the men’s urinals downstairs in The Philharmonic Dining Rooms. They are legendary installations with stalls and hand basins chiselled from spectacular orange marble, cisterns featuring ornate ironwork and walls packed with decorative mosaics and tiles. In 2017, the loos were given Grade 1 listed status by English Heritage. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU2AFkxlERfujXM47GolK9hSX-XI1t2oJM4adohiyIgh6qCbhvkCo-bIAjv6dPEtRzCVBo-5sUW5i-Y_0DLlprAnfvLw0nZIzVbGyS4MogbY8t6ZePc7vCNtuDQYU-InsPDAYTpQ587zxnlDPiDFi0hThasUUGc4GI7dkxQuDFG7fmxFij0j98iNaLiw/s960/Merseyside%206.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="960" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU2AFkxlERfujXM47GolK9hSX-XI1t2oJM4adohiyIgh6qCbhvkCo-bIAjv6dPEtRzCVBo-5sUW5i-Y_0DLlprAnfvLw0nZIzVbGyS4MogbY8t6ZePc7vCNtuDQYU-InsPDAYTpQ587zxnlDPiDFi0hThasUUGc4GI7dkxQuDFG7fmxFij0j98iNaLiw/w400-h271/Merseyside%206.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Credit: Nicholson's Inns</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I had a work trip to Liverpool in 2012 that was very far removed from those early social and sports outings to the City. We need a bit of preamble for this. Back to the previous year. Summer of 2011 saw the eruption of riots across our cities. It was the worst civil unrest in a generation. Although 11 years have now passed, the memories of violence and looting that filled our telly screens in those days still feels chillingly fresh. The riots were an explosive fusing of pressure cooker tension and poor police relations mixed with opportunist criminals and thug tourism. </p><p>What started as a stand-off between local police and the community in Tottenham after the shooting of Mark Duggan then saw trouble spreading faster than a bushfire in the outback. Rioting escalated across London and then to many big cities. </p><p>By a twist of tales too convoluted even for these pages, a year later I found myself on the team that was charged with researching the causes and the actions within the riots. The Reading The Riots team was a good one. With financial backing from the eminent social and political think tank The Joseph Rowntree Foundation (amongst others), we bristled with academic and journalistic muscle from the London School of Economics and The Guardian newspaper who initiated and drove an ambitious undertaking. I was part of the pavement-pounding, rail-riding, stairwell-dwelling, prison-visiting, café-loitering research cadre who sought to capture the diverse stories of those involved.</p><p>The project was one of the most challenging I’ve ever worked on. So when the findings were published in a week-long Guardian serial I’ll admit to a sense of satisfaction that the study was recognised as a valid and authoritative insight into what happened on those incendiary nights the previous August. Pithy public policy lessons abounded. The report received some criticism too, inevitably: accusations that it was an apology for violence and looting. That is not what the work was about at all. Not in the slightest. It identified a wide range of complex causal factors with implications for policing, politics and social policy. The critics seemed to be saying that even by asking questions about the riots there was some tacit condoning of the violence. I don’t think so. This was about piecing together explanations. Not justifications.</p><p>At a personal level, the work shone a light into dark, secretive corners to illuminate some disturbing causes and motivations. A big chunk of the evidence base came from hearing the stories of those who rioted and those who policed it. That’s what I was doing. Tracking down rioters from our contacts and taking testimony. And then talking to the coppers on the front line. </p><p>This is how I found myself in Liverpool one chilly week in April 2012. Berthed in a hotel close to the Mersey, we were interviewing police officers in the Merseyside Police HQ which was then at Canning Place. That series of interviews stand as some of the most moving I undertook in the whole project. The out-of-control situations that confronted officers provoked genuine fear and desperation. This often came out in the testimony. For example I was capturing the story of an officer who was hit on the head close to Liverpool city centre. He went down under boots and fists. He looked across at me with red-rimmed eyes and said at that moment he thought he was going to die. He was visibly shaken. </p><p>Talking about their experiences brought about a cathartic release. These men and women were reliving terrifying moments in discussions that provided some kind of ad hoc therapy. Where many outbreaks had been all about looting and thievery, such as central Manchester, others were more malevolent. The riots here in Liverpool and also in Salford carried an altogether more extreme intent that aimed at settling scores with the police as directly as possible. </p><p>Interviewing the tactical support officers was a different story. These were the guys with advanced riot and crowd control training. They absolutely got off on the adrenaline surge of violent confrontation. “It’s what we are trained for. It’s what we do”, said one of the unit commanders with a glint in his eye. </p><p>To interview those who had participated in the Liverpool riots – and who had already been sentenced – I travelled out to Lancaster Farms youth offender prison. A new complex outside the town that housed a good proportion of all the young offenders in the north. Does Lancaster count as coastal? Well, you could see Morecambe Bay from the complex. </p><p>There I interviewed people who had rioted in Manchester and Salford as well as Liverpool. The cell blocks were built on diagonal lines inside and out to improve observation. The design was open plan (as far as it's possible in a jail!) and the oppressive battery-hen atmosphere of Feltham (where I’d also carried out some interviews) was absent. The blocks were placed at the four corners of a grassy quadrangle. I was walking across this area, admiring the views to the Lake District hills and said to my accompanying prison education officer that the environment must support rehabilitation. </p><p style="text-align: left;">"It does", she said. "Though this square is where the trouble happens. If there's a grudge, it will kick off here when they move between activities". </p><p style="text-align: left;">"Is that often?" I asked. Rarely I guessed. </p><p style="text-align: left;">"About twice a week..." </p><p>My stride visibly quickened. </p><p>She also said that the best chance of rehabilitating young offenders was before they hit the mainstream adult prison provision. At that point, re-offending became a much greater risk. </p><p>It seemed though that many were already on that path. I spoke to 18 and 19 year olds, dressed in olive green sweats - the house style - who had been arrested 15-20 times. If they hadn't been inside for rioting, it would have been something else. On the other hand the rioters were absolutely at the centre of a politically-inspired sentencing crackdown. One young man with a string of convictions said that he was charged for his involvement in the riots during an interview with police for a separate assault on his brother with an axe. He got a longer sentence for the rioting than for cleaving his brother's head open.</p><p>Emotionally charged interviews one upon another left their mark on us. It was important to get some head space at the end of the working day. Luckily, Liverpool is not short of entertainment options, as we have established. I insisted our riot team researchers visit The Philly on Hope Street, though none of my female colleagues felt sufficiently moved to steal a quick gander at those exquisite loos. Even less enthusiasm to track down some heavy metal pubs. Surely researchers should pursue their innate sense of curiosity?</p><p>Talking of Hope Street, I grabbed the chance to revisit the cathedrals at either end of the road’s fizzing cultural, art and food establishments. The Anglican Cathedral is massive. I have no other words. The largest in the UK, I gather. It dominates the skyline rising from a small ridge and looks rather menacing in its dark, weathered sandstone. I’m not sure the Mordor-factor was quite the intention at the design stage. At the other end of Hope Street, the modernist Metropolitan cathedral, known with over-celebrated Scouse wit as ‘Paddy’s Wigwam’ is counter-intuitively older than it’s traditionally-designed Anglican neighbour. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvzXLUwY212hum4a7vyhQEmk04CMDQfSzhonYgG3jfkitSfSvydqoqc8JQzGiIJImU79glYjbjJWngq9Hi5VFVxzV6j9bE7cn0cnNzW6VRK1gMEBvup5mQ_D4TjAMZjPj_nu0mUDI39tAuEjLcZbgr5mBd6axOFxygJV1tEeuNyRvE3esVAVmor4UsKA/s2056/Merseyside%204.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2056" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvzXLUwY212hum4a7vyhQEmk04CMDQfSzhonYgG3jfkitSfSvydqoqc8JQzGiIJImU79glYjbjJWngq9Hi5VFVxzV6j9bE7cn0cnNzW6VRK1gMEBvup5mQ_D4TjAMZjPj_nu0mUDI39tAuEjLcZbgr5mBd6axOFxygJV1tEeuNyRvE3esVAVmor4UsKA/w299-h400/Merseyside%204.jpg" width="299" /></a></div><p>Albert Dock, close to our Travelodge was formerly the engine-room of Liverpool’s trading wealth. Its regeneration was completed in the late 80’s but the handsome Victorian warehouses and surrounding structures only really began their second life in the 1990’s, playing host to smart eating, drinking and shopping ‘experiences’. (Note my easy adoption of blatant marketing terms). </p><p>Ambling around the perimeter and admiring the assorted boats in the dock, I found myself outside the former White Star Line head office close to the riverfront. The city had just marked the 100th anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic. The second floor balcony was where the Chairman of the White Star Line announced news of the tragedy to a large crowd that had assembled below. The building in two-tone brick with turrets and wrought-iron balconies looked a bit shabby now. A large yellow ‘offices for rent’ sign hung on the ground floor doing nothing for the image or the history lesson. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf8wBSkp0suFjLAEwoYKI3nedWOhgKPBgYVAuhVJfBthpenavHqBmDwwwpvYikdOQnV2R0sJsI8ok2F4243Z2_avQnFdIDX29DnLeSfiGwBp5JMNWB_WUVw_a2Un-5PAXhiXe2_jWVGPRjOm2-BurLj8--1090tA_Tc7v3kTEyzJY7VFIGu6S2uP5SQQ/s1704/Merseyside%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1444" data-original-width="1704" height="339" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf8wBSkp0suFjLAEwoYKI3nedWOhgKPBgYVAuhVJfBthpenavHqBmDwwwpvYikdOQnV2R0sJsI8ok2F4243Z2_avQnFdIDX29DnLeSfiGwBp5JMNWB_WUVw_a2Un-5PAXhiXe2_jWVGPRjOm2-BurLj8--1090tA_Tc7v3kTEyzJY7VFIGu6S2uP5SQQ/w400-h339/Merseyside%203.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Summer 2021 and I was returning to Liverpool for the first time since the Reading the Riots interviews. As chance would have it, I arrived on the tenth anniversary of the riots spreading beyond London. </p><p>I’d already had a slight skirmish of sorts at Stockport station. As I was purposefully crossing the platform to catch the Liverpool train, I was surprised to see an attractive young woman grinning at me. This doesn’t happen often. Slight in appearance, lush dark hair and about half my age. Christ, what had I done? Flies down? Ketchup on chin? </p><p>No. We were both wearing Rush t-shirts! She sported a classic black number with the Starman logo, circa ‘2112’. Me, the retro orange swirly-writing logo circa ‘Caress of Steel’. How we laughed. </p><p style="text-align: left;">“Great band”, I blurted. “What a coincidence - I only wear this shirt about once a year!” </p><p style="text-align: left;">“Same!” she giggled. “You hardly ever see these in public”. </p><p>We remarked that you don’t wear a Rush t-shirt because it’s a fashion statement. But we left it there. Although I was dying to know how she knew the band, and what her favourite tracks were, and if she’d seen them live, and just how good she thought Neil Peart’s drum solo was, and…I realised this risked becoming what my daughters describe as ‘awks’. They would already be horrified at this little scene. We grinned a bit more and then continued our traverse in opposite directions along the platform.</p><p>I felt different about Liverpool on this visit. Maybe it was the road works everywhere that meant significant detours for pedestrians simply to get to the waterfront. Maybe it was the tired looking Albert Dock, or the weed-strewn, fenced-off and uncared-for vintage ships in dry dock by the Museum of Liverpool. As much as anything, it was looking at the city's grand public buildings through BLM-eyes and recognizing how much of this proclamation of wealth was built on the slave trade. This was how I felt on a recent trip to <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/08/seaside-special-ding-dong-avon-calling.html">Bristol</a> and here it was again. The city was recognizing uncomfortable truths around white privilege and a whitewashed history, and the new International Museum of Slavery represents something of a benchmark. </p><p>Not just that lot either. The Beatles too. Everywhere in the city, there were billboards, street names, branding, gift shops, pubs, themed restaurants… constant belligerent marketing. Liverpool had really stepped up the cultural bombardment since my last visits. Sure, I get the significance of the band. Of course. But, as I munched through a meat and potato pie by the Fab4 Store, I mused that the Cavern Quarter was all a bit much for me.</p><p>And another thing. I couldn't understand why there were so many kids everywhere. Then I realised. It was GCSE results day. That’s OK then. Wind your neck in, Mr Grumpy-Pants…</p><p>Clearly I was not in the mood for the big city experience after too many months of lockdown and social restrictions. I headed up to Crosby, for some fresh Irish Sea air and a rendezvous with Antony Gormley's Another Place. This is art on a grand scale. There are usually 100 life-size sculptures over a two-mile stretch on the beach and in the surf, all made from casts of the artist’s own body. Which I found a bit unnerving if I'm honest. They've been here since 1997 (I was surprised how long ago) and dependent upon their placement, are in various states of wear and tear. Those furthest out to sea take the biggest battering, but even those buried in sand close to the dunes have corrosive facial lesions, striations and dents. I say ‘usually’ 100 casts because I noted that work was in progress to clean-up and restore the statues and that some of them might be missing. I didn’t count up. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxvyNCocDb2nwniT9rkHTWlUdqxsT2E1-5CzjTc3E0B_QG8ysx_RYyGb47thRUH28MQl3dgr5Jz1LtWv3VQvck4QaaOagH-kXo6sXdKg6oB7s9rjf4wHvVrRZN2-BS_iVRwX4SutA3sQIhipmKI7643gS2IpGakSBuuXuK-jpCDyfSz7ja0Yt2igoB1Q/s1998/Merseyside%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1383" data-original-width="1998" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxvyNCocDb2nwniT9rkHTWlUdqxsT2E1-5CzjTc3E0B_QG8ysx_RYyGb47thRUH28MQl3dgr5Jz1LtWv3VQvck4QaaOagH-kXo6sXdKg6oB7s9rjf4wHvVrRZN2-BS_iVRwX4SutA3sQIhipmKI7643gS2IpGakSBuuXuK-jpCDyfSz7ja0Yt2igoB1Q/w400-h278/Merseyside%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>I loved the way beach visitors were interacting with the art. Some arranged family pics with the statue in the middle; some draped arms around the cast-iron necks; others had left behind bands and bracelets attached to wrists. I’ve mentioned elsewhere how I love public, accessible art brought out from stuffy galleries and away from clutching elitism. The way that everyone, anyone can come to accept and even own the works is part of the attraction. </p><p>In 1998, not long after Gormley’s bold - and at the time opinion-dividing - Angel of the North opened, the landmark was subversively dressed in a 30ft Alan Shearer replica Newcastle United shirt. Magpie fan Kevin Waugh and nine of his pals pulled the stunt using a combination of fishing line, rubber balls and catapults to hoist the shirt on to the statue. The inspired prank became a piece of Geordie folklore and a sign not only of acceptance, but of pride as well. </p><p>Crosby is in Merseyside about seven miles out of the city centre. The train followed the Mersey estuary past heavy industry and docks that have moved downstream from the old port. I wandered through Crosby Coastal Park, packed with kids screaming on dodgers above pumping, bass-heavy vibes, whilst wasp-attracting fast food stalls sat in the in the shadow of Bootle’s container cranes and dock gantries. </p><p>Ten minutes beyond the park, the beach was reassuringly busy with families doing exactly what they should in a staycation summer. I liked Crosby.</p><p>At the northern end of the beach begins the Golf Coast, where a series of high profile links courses swallow up the dunes and shoreline like a vivid green duvet. The crown-jewel is The Open-hosting Royal Birkdale. I caught the train that ran alongside the patchwork greens and inviting fairways, but chose to stay on board until Southport. This was my first visit to outer limits of Merseyside. </p><p>Southport was not as expected. I had developed the idea that the town was an exclusive, upmarket north-western gem. Posh even, and full of both old world charm and statement buildings. A grander version of Southwold. </p><p>A few streets might just about match that description, but on the whole it’s not quite like that. I didn’t particularly dislike the place, more a sweeping sense of the underwhelming. I’m not sure who I’d talked to that had but the place up in my mind, but they were almost certainly Liverpool FC fans impressed that Alan Hansen and Kenny Daglish lived there. The most pleasant parts were in the old town, on the landward side of the man-made Marine Lake. Lord Street was a wide tree-lined boulevard and boasted attractive colonnaded shops, hotels and tea rooms. </p><p>Marine Lake divided the town from the coast. I didn’t like this. The lake had a promenade and was lined with guest houses as if it was the real seafront. The lake and surrounding gardens had to be crossed on a footbridge to get to the coast. Or get up on to pier which started at the lake next to a sprawling pub with an oudoor family entertainment area. Here, a bloke in a too-tight fitting Beatles Rubber Soul t-shirt was belting out Elvis cover versions alongside two yellow shirted sidekicks shuffling vaguely in time and waving red collecting buckets. I thought we were a cashless society now?</p><p>Between the lake and the seafront, the esplanade had suffered a lot of disappointing development: a leisure centre, ten-pin Bowling hall, giant KFC, cavernous Pizza Hut. I carried on to the end of the pier where it was possible to make out Blackpool in the distance. The tide went out miles. Far beyond the pier. Apart from Blackpool all I could see was a low-lying, shimmering sandbed with shallow pools of seawater whipped up by the stiff breeze. And a few people who had decided to walk out and meet the sea. They had set up a base camp and organised regular food drops. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitx5VtTRhYYL5WbzrmfIh_4lCpOGGooz2pILnp4uWY7LoaE6BBuCIfx_LOk9yfY9QsVmoCKEJl7Zog6TCnN2X0ILbM7H_KcRWlrH1ejAuC_1EmsSqUk5eOXHrqL34jqe8d6FgSRS5Vh99y7wFj984SJYwuADJszDsp-yy7S3vz7VtxIqKARNiKvSe15A/s3226/Merseyside1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2059" data-original-width="3226" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitx5VtTRhYYL5WbzrmfIh_4lCpOGGooz2pILnp4uWY7LoaE6BBuCIfx_LOk9yfY9QsVmoCKEJl7Zog6TCnN2X0ILbM7H_KcRWlrH1ejAuC_1EmsSqUk5eOXHrqL34jqe8d6FgSRS5Vh99y7wFj984SJYwuADJszDsp-yy7S3vz7VtxIqKARNiKvSe15A/w400-h255/Merseyside1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Much more rewarding was the walk back southwards from the pier along the beach towards the grass-covered dunes of Birkdale sands and the golf courses. Red Rum, the only horse to have won three Grand Nationals just down the road at Aintree was a local legend. He used to be trained on these expansive sands in preparation for his runs by the unique, former used-car salesman, Ginger McCain. Never mind uninspiring Southport or irritation in the city centre, Red Rum was a lovely thought to take away with me for the return home. </p><p><i>Series navigation: </i><i>- <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/04/seaside-special-excursions-to-coast.html">Index and Intro</a></i></p><p><i>Previous episode - <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/11/seaside-special-bank-holiday-blindspot.html">Bank Holiday Blindspot</a></i></p><p><i>Next episode - <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2023/01/seaside-special-blackpool-birthday.html" target="_blank">Blackpool Birthday Party</a></i></p>Davoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2854417785396611556.post-78707400469453738402022-11-06T19:36:00.008+00:002024-02-08T12:25:49.216+00:00Seaside Special - Bank Holiday blindspot: North Wales <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV5EBYJ2BBbJ31PpOyjEO8N8SNuVSk6KCX6jv49QjMO9kv71lkYg9xgRetiOoKzohfWj0wfGNPp7CuXJxJrjoQ6t6YAGHzrd-xYpimvyAXZqu_rOV8T7j3wz8jBx_Gtk3s2JEdKdcTGbWanAQ30KaW_XC7tsreY87hNYb2DzlCFhWCjlEincsiiSSPrw/s5201/conwy%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2696" data-original-width="5201" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV5EBYJ2BBbJ31PpOyjEO8N8SNuVSk6KCX6jv49QjMO9kv71lkYg9xgRetiOoKzohfWj0wfGNPp7CuXJxJrjoQ6t6YAGHzrd-xYpimvyAXZqu_rOV8T7j3wz8jBx_Gtk3s2JEdKdcTGbWanAQ30KaW_XC7tsreY87hNYb2DzlCFhWCjlEincsiiSSPrw/w640-h332/conwy%203.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #444444;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Another
trip, another train. Heading to north Wales via public transport on an August Bank
Holiday Saturday. A momentary lapse of reason. </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span></span></div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">I’d arrived
in Crewe relatively unscathed along a pleasant branch line from our friends
place in Whaley Bridge. But stepping off the train from Stockport and shuffling
over to Platform 11, I realised my miscalculation. Twenty minutes before the
Holyhead departure, holidaymakers were already four or five deep by the
gangways, sporting an assortment of bikes, double buggies, surf-boards, fishing
gear, suitcases, holdalls...</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">Coronavirus
might have significantly impacted commuter journeys during 2020, but once
restrictions were lifted on UK holidays, people were not waiting for a second
chance to hit the coast. I hadn’t entirely seen this coming. The empty train pulled
in to the platform firing the starting gun for a scramble to get on board.
Within a couple of minutes all the seats and vestibules were overflowing. The
train manager was prowling up and down the platform, squinting in through the
windows. Eyebrows becoming increasingly knotted above Dane Edna spectacles and regulation
black face mask. She disappeared into the guards cab and the PA crackled into
life. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">I feared the worst.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">“There’s
too many people on this train”, I could hear the exasperation in the tones of
the scouse accent. “Too many. I’m not letting it leave the station until we are
socially distanced.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">Here
we go, I thought.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">“So
another five carriages are going to drop onto the platform and attach to this
one. The doors will stay locked. There will be 225 new seats so that passengers
can move down and be social distant. Thank you”.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">Well
that was a surprise. Not a cancellation. And instead a resourceful and helpful
solution.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">The
carriages were linked up with a satisfying clump and the bloke next to me who
was already half-way through his picnic, squares of kitchen roll neatly laid
out on his lap, nearly choked on a scotch egg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Tha’’ll be the extra train then!” observed his wife.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">More
scrambling to take up the new seats, encouraged by the train manager who was by
then properly bad tempered. “Please move forward to the front carriages. Move
forward. I will not let this train leave until you have social-distanced!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">Once
under way, she made a further announcement, slightly less frantic, that we had
departed 16 minutes late. I was impressed. Just a quarter of an hour’s delay,
despite having to whistle up some extra coaches and move half the passengers
round. She’d done a top job even if the stress had ruffled her demeanour
momentarily.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">Chester.
The train manager had quite rightly put her feet up by this time and delegated announcements
to the automated service, which enunciated this fine medieval city as ‘Esther’.
Clearly on more personal terms with the place than the rest of us. The train stuck
to the south bank of the ‘canalised’ River Dee through unremarkable places like
Queensferry, and Shotton. The canal was built to keep the port of Chester open
in a constant battle against the silting up of the Dee Estuary.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">Chester
is the tidal limit of the Dee and once beyond the city, the river widens into
the expansive estuary. The view out of the window, between a few more
unremarkable settlements, was a wide landscape of salt marsh, mud flats and brackish
tidal flows punctuated with islands of grasses, sand banks and dunes, boat
wrecks and abandoned industrial or marine buildings.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">This
changing riparian environment has been silting up since the Middle Ages, essentially
due to shifting sands and erosion of the shoreline. Towns on the Wirral side of
the estuary, such as Gayton, Neston, Parkgate and Thurlaston lost their anchorages
and ferry services by the seventeenth century. New ports like Hoylake were
built further out on the estuary. Eventually Liverpool and other ports on the
deeper Mersey came to dominate trade.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">As
part of a geography field trip in the late 80’s I went to Parkgate, just north
of Neston on the Wirral. I was fascinated by its Victorian promenade that
looked out onto a mosquito-infested marshland bog. The ornate railings and
fancy lamps were all still there. People ambled along and scoffed fish and
chips like they were on Scarborough front. We field-trippers found a top (as in
‘value’, being a student) pub called The Ship in which to replenish ourselves,
but could instead have bought ice creams from a brightly-painted kiosk and sat
on a wrought iron bench, rusted and warped with salty air, admiring the view.
The place had all the characteristics of a seaside town without actually having
any sea.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSTh-g_IQcEm86__JIEZY52oVe80VPj0Pki8NTzomhQBqD-Ic4dCt8Yuj4yDKk8SMb7iClRaPbKTtZfDbc7hvDygZ1NBuMhAUH4f0OZyI6UOEpKGEl4npDVqvT1E4oNNaaUVZU-ByU4E82GLS81QxaVXqHyC4N36SttWvx1YufEpQDC7MNPU6ohpfXFg/s640/conwy%209.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSTh-g_IQcEm86__JIEZY52oVe80VPj0Pki8NTzomhQBqD-Ic4dCt8Yuj4yDKk8SMb7iClRaPbKTtZfDbc7hvDygZ1NBuMhAUH4f0OZyI6UOEpKGEl4npDVqvT1E4oNNaaUVZU-ByU4E82GLS81QxaVXqHyC4N36SttWvx1YufEpQDC7MNPU6ohpfXFg/w400-h268/conwy%209.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #444444;"><p class="MsoNormal">Except
that’s not quite true. A couple of times a year, around the spring and autumn
equinoxes when the moon’s gravitational pull is at its strongest, high tides
once again inundate the Dee off Parkgate. The tide doesn’t sweep in like the Severn
Bore or the fearsome wash further up the coast at Morecambe Bay. Instead there
is a slow seeping of the sea into the network of channels and creeks before
submerging the grasses and fescues. Eventually, the vast saltmarsh becomes flooded
up to the old sea wall. I’d love to witness this. A belated return field trip
is on the cards.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">As we
flashed past Mostyn, the Dee estuary was so much wider and once again in reach
of the free flowing sea. The Port of Mostyn has seen a lot of late 20<sup>th</sup>
century development and I could see a couple of medium sized vessels moored off
the new quay. It has become important for the offshore renewable energy sector,
I gathered.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">With
that, the train turned westwards and we hit the run of holiday resorts on the
north coast of Wales: Prestatyn, Rhyl, Colwyn Bay… Loads of passengers departed
at Rhyl. I pitied them. It’s a grim place. As a kid of 10 or 11, we had a
family holiday here. The flatlet (as they used to be called) was so dirty that
my mum caught impetigo. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">I
climbed out at Conway to find a compact town on the estuary heaving with
day-tripping Scousers. Liverpool on sea. There was even a pub called Liverpool Arms
on the quay, where a member of the Scouse tribe was snapping his mate taking
cash out of a machine housed in a redundant phone both. "Yeah. And I'm
even gonna get that seagull that's just about to shit on yer 'ead!" He
guffawed at his own joke, much the way I do myself and grinned at me as I
passed.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #444444;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">Next
door was a tourist attraction billed as ‘the smallest house in Great Britain’.
Outside of which was the largest queue in Conwy. The slowly moving line was
being distracted by a noisy bag pipe player in full tartan regalia. I assumed
this was an example of pan-nation Celtic brotherly love, before realising that the
musician (I use the term loosely) was playing the</span> <span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">Welsh version
of bagpipes, the pibau cyrn (I had to look it up), that he was wearing St
David’s Tartan (I had to look that up too) not Scottish Highland gear.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">None
of this authentic local heritage saved me and the queuing Bank Holiday-makers from
some terrible reverberations from his instrument more in common with the squeal
of gelding pigs, the drone of crippled spitfires and the screech of diesel
train brakes. Bagpipes of any description should only be heard during AC/DC’s
‘It’s a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock n Roll)’. And even then should
be ejected before the end. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">I
made swift progress away from the harbourside, circling the beautifully
preserved, murky-stoned, gritty-looking castle and following the town walls
that are apparently the most intact in Europe. The town itself was endowed with
narrow cobbled streets, ancient buildings and entire families wearing Everton
and Liverpool footie tops. The World Heritage Site blurb outside the medieval
castle didn’t mention this phenomenon, but did a good job of describing how the
castle was a key part of the ‘iron ring’ of fortresses built around Snowdonia
in the 13th century by Edward I to contain the Welsh.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_RYNxB6Mac2z6hSq-VFNzyhcg3Pk_PAKPfNWyT7I_wZ6RVLKBzeYJHi40T-mekmXXgyothbfmTDi7ANfjrhKWb-qWb4wxnBcB8dZXgyiqJMmpFYhtkW4lIsl59LlrUBkmPzCLJrJFxh-gs0SJtAXOBy73jggE5geuzvLWGuVEs0zwx7Sy6hb57wXkcQ/s6240/Conwy%205.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_RYNxB6Mac2z6hSq-VFNzyhcg3Pk_PAKPfNWyT7I_wZ6RVLKBzeYJHi40T-mekmXXgyothbfmTDi7ANfjrhKWb-qWb4wxnBcB8dZXgyiqJMmpFYhtkW4lIsl59LlrUBkmPzCLJrJFxh-gs0SJtAXOBy73jggE5geuzvLWGuVEs0zwx7Sy6hb57wXkcQ/w400-h266/Conwy%205.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #444444;"><p class="MsoNormal">Lunch
was of the very welcome fish-and-chip variety in a busy café up a tiny alley
with a well-organising queuing system, followed by non-alcoholic liquid
refreshment in the castle grounds. After another amble around the town I
strolled back to quay to find it so much quieter by mid-afternoon. But where had
everyone gone? Surely they didn’t all leave just because of the bagpipes? </p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">It meant
I had room to breathe and appreciate the mix of craft out in the Conwy Estuary:
small sail boats, a couple of sightseeing boats and a lot of lobster smacks.
All hanging loose at low tide. There was still a fishing industry here, despite
the heavy reliance on tourism. A plaque on the sea wall commemorated Keith ‘The
Fish’ Robinson who had run a stall on that site for 40 years and was also a mainstay
of the Conwy lifeboat.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">The
best view of the castle was from the east bank of the estuary, taking in the Telford's suspension bridge, road bridge and the mass of the fortress itself. This is where I headed, turning seaward for a walk up the Wales Coast path towards Llandudno.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrwjF42arlAyWjkiOK-1SmWbIRK3AZvkmUtqWES3H32zML22vyyDPO5I_ZbOgY-XeKlOl0qYGYl_U8cAB6zEsBU5GdDkoY-IlMmOtMx1YTz7Iyq8zNAOGLkaGBDMzicIUxyb3hvPYQrc0Sh8LQHBx8QwI1og471pLemGm-FTxBrmvjiS1n2ExzuE3B7A/s2048/conwy%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="2048" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrwjF42arlAyWjkiOK-1SmWbIRK3AZvkmUtqWES3H32zML22vyyDPO5I_ZbOgY-XeKlOl0qYGYl_U8cAB6zEsBU5GdDkoY-IlMmOtMx1YTz7Iyq8zNAOGLkaGBDMzicIUxyb3hvPYQrc0Sh8LQHBx8QwI1og471pLemGm-FTxBrmvjiS1n2ExzuE3B7A/w400-h274/conwy%201.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #444444;"><p class="MsoNormal">Deganwy,
a couple of miles up the estuary path, was a good place to stop and take in my
surroundings. The resort used to be busy with Victorian and Edwardian steamers
pulling up at the landing station and heading upstream to Llandudno. That was
not possible now as the estuary has silted up too much. What is it with silt
and this corner of Britain?</p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">A stout
former hotel, the Deganwy Castle Hotel near the railway station, still retained
its original façade as the nucleus of a new block of apartments. There had been
some other recent investment in the town. The Quay hotel together with some
housing had been built around the small bay alongside a new marina development.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">You'd have been hard pressed to know it was a bank
holiday. Dog walkers and a few family groups were out strolling this long-distance path, but the
contrast with that morning in Conwy across the sand and silvery water was
stark. There was no queue outside Sue’s Beach Hut where I refuelled with a dense
cappuccino and a sticky, intestine blocking brick of raspberry flapjack.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">Above
Conwy Mountain on the far side of the estuary, clouds were lined up like
battleships on the high seas. Flat-bottomed, steel grey, coffin-shaped vessels rumbling
through the sky with rays of sharp light poking out between them. Sat on the
seawall, I watched the patches of sunlight that had evaded the cloud flotilla skip
across the dings and dinks of the green ridges of the mountain. It was easy to reflect
on the simplest of good things at such moments, like a coffee served in a real
mug and a cake on a crockery plate. (And the knowledge that Yorkshire’s thin
batting was miraculously holding up in their Roses encounter in the Bob Willis Trophy
match at Headingley).</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtxPQn7row4HIWmcrjmhSTMMUz1nbW_torQyM9kGkZPSqY1tHUqnKq9ENBctNL-xRpGDMt0DN4pQ5yvMRha3WeT-zU-25H0N4gZ9d2Q1vfHjkaodBUWjHAXsEhbgm13XhoN5wKvqhx6oArXkURbOKDBRgxXASB4sPj8RS1HsRBWjXYNKnRVwGk-jflBA/s2048/conwy%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1416" data-original-width="2048" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtxPQn7row4HIWmcrjmhSTMMUz1nbW_torQyM9kGkZPSqY1tHUqnKq9ENBctNL-xRpGDMt0DN4pQ5yvMRha3WeT-zU-25H0N4gZ9d2Q1vfHjkaodBUWjHAXsEhbgm13XhoN5wKvqhx6oArXkURbOKDBRgxXASB4sPj8RS1HsRBWjXYNKnRVwGk-jflBA/w400-h276/conwy%202.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #444444;"><p class="MsoNormal">I
loved that a lot of the punters who arrived at the Hut knew Sue. There were brief
conversations with Mums about the kids going back to school the following week
for the first time since Covid hit; and about the slowness of trade given the
pandemic and the recent weather. Life seemed altogether more sedate on this
side of the estuary. Though every now and then I thought I caught snatches of a
strangled ‘Land of My Fathers’ whining up from the castle and out to sea on
fresh breeze.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #444444;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">Llandudno
ticks a lot of boxes as a seaside destination. For a start it has two splendid
bays. Walking up from Deganwy, I happened upon the western bay first, sitting
on the Conwy estuary and sheltered by the bare rock and vertiginous cliffs of
Great Orme’s wilder side. I’ve decided that I like estuaries. You tend to get
two coastlines for the price of one. If you are lucky, you get some noteable
geographical features. And there’s often abundant wildlife. Best of all, there
are plenty of water craft and water side features (i.e. pubs, restaurants,
cafes, castles, boat-trips) to boot. Llandudno’s west bay had all of these bar
a pub. Which I could just about forgive. </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif">This
was the less popular of the two bays. The north bay on the other side of Great
Orme was more developed. It was also far more elegant. Genteel, even. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoV1JynB7LindG3raA4ZIXm8ARiDTLld8Xzwe31_Od6sJhoU0qfaNozF5SbX2DkVtVQnCqmyoxmrCwua6ljCv0fo9y5eKvQBh3GkjyY8uoMAG7wu1e-Sz7YBTKy4R-rVAh4hs8-WrEjHiImufWabAdozwCImJx_-5WGaX4lVgwe9D4WW4NMxQQuK8xQw/s5967/conwy%208-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3978" data-original-width="5967" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoV1JynB7LindG3raA4ZIXm8ARiDTLld8Xzwe31_Od6sJhoU0qfaNozF5SbX2DkVtVQnCqmyoxmrCwua6ljCv0fo9y5eKvQBh3GkjyY8uoMAG7wu1e-Sz7YBTKy4R-rVAh4hs8-WrEjHiImufWabAdozwCImJx_-5WGaX4lVgwe9D4WW4NMxQQuK8xQw/w400-h266/conwy%208-1.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #444444;">The wide,
flat, traffic-free promenade arced pleasantly away from the headland around the
bay and insisted that you gambolled along it to embrace the sea, access to
which was unfettered by wall or railing.</span></div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">Night
had enveloped the town before I was able to get out for a full explore. The sea
was hard up against the prom, in a frisky mood, whisked up by the onshore
breeze. I’d emerged from my hotel a few streets back from the shore at roughly
the mid-point of the bay and a line of multicoloured lights strung up between
lampposts traced its sweep in either direction. Both wings ended at their
respective Orme, each tastefully illuminated: to the west, Great Orme; and to
the east, Little Orme. Beyond the latter, I struggled to identify the source of
a slew of red and yellow lights extending out in to the bay beyond the headland.
Too big for another pier and wrong direction for the next town down the coast.
The mind played tricks and then cleared: this was the Awel y Môr Offshore Wind
Farm, adding some extra colour to the vista. Serviced by ships from Mostyn, no doubt.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">Llandudno
prom is a carefully manicured public space backed by elegant Edwardian hotels,
each the same height and design, planned carefully to enhance the uniform curve
of the bay. All the hotels were full. The Imperial, The St George’s, The Isis,
The Queens Arms. All the others too. ‘No vacancies’ signs hung on every
double-fronted doorway. Even the smaller guest houses. The barman at my hotel
safely tucked adjacent to Oak Furnitureland had said the same. They had barely
had a vacancy or an empty table since July, when lockdown restrictions eased in
Wales. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">So where was everybody? The prom was virtually empty. And for all the
elegance of the esplanade, a few decent pubs or restaurants from which to soak
up that view were sorely needed. Can you imagine such a bay in France or Italy
without a ring of cafes and bars? Then again, they don’t get the North Walian
weather, I suppose.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOAmCgs_gkUnZP6TB9ai2vOX6amvuLLhNSNb4SdsnL0rto7EcBVdPxxvhkx41ZKx6YgZ-Lnf7ytBzF1DSQBbLcQDAVQH-LCH-bVmqfFtlLwiY5kzOIwhYsIuotE2KYwrIDmnxuwtUDJq34Xywzdx65YLqjNk3t-M_oEf_PWfxkSXkxD47q_AViCdE00A/s2036/Conwy%204.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1145" data-original-width="2036" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOAmCgs_gkUnZP6TB9ai2vOX6amvuLLhNSNb4SdsnL0rto7EcBVdPxxvhkx41ZKx6YgZ-Lnf7ytBzF1DSQBbLcQDAVQH-LCH-bVmqfFtlLwiY5kzOIwhYsIuotE2KYwrIDmnxuwtUDJq34Xywzdx65YLqjNk3t-M_oEf_PWfxkSXkxD47q_AViCdE00A/w400-h225/Conwy%204.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #444444;"><p class="MsoNormal">The
place was unnervingly quiet at night though. By the pier head there was a little
more activity where a few youths were having a game of footie on a spit of beach
under the prom lights. A busker with a spangly trilby and tinsel-wrapped
microphone was massacring a version of ‘Heaven Is A Place On Earth’ for no-one
in particular. 10pm and the pier booths were shutting up. The few funfair rides
were already closed and under cover. I wound round by Mostyn Street - another
handsome, attractive thoroughfare - where there were one or two appealing
restaurants and where the bars looked a little more lively. This was bank
holiday Saturday. Were all those families and retirees really all tucked up in
their dated hotels watching telly? I guessed so. They don’t need that much
entertainment after dark, and this group is absolutely the town’s target
audience.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">Next
morning of course, they were all up with the lark, rested after an early and peaceful
night’s sleep. I walked up Great Orme. The hill was humming. Young families and
grandparents all springing around the hill and the bay below, full of beans
after their relaxing night in. Great Orme is well used. The dry ski slope,
toboggan run and cable car all had proper Bank Holiday queues in the morning
sunshine. I walked up and enjoyed clear views along the coast and down the
estuary. And then back down the other side, wending my way to the station.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEOPZ4y0gLFE0B4qBPD1P9-BFP6obxGrVhuLGg_uS8SLxcQcaQEpLtftGeohITQnA-1XBNbViDE1PKfel0TooqRhqXE858uUq2CiA0ZuLu57lKRROdU-T88JMXiZF83XA_zGxVBzDndW7GkM8uW1romzjJMWzaTaDdaPCGT2v265JTz72zamNwY_skiA/s6240/Conwy%206.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6240" data-original-width="4160" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEOPZ4y0gLFE0B4qBPD1P9-BFP6obxGrVhuLGg_uS8SLxcQcaQEpLtftGeohITQnA-1XBNbViDE1PKfel0TooqRhqXE858uUq2CiA0ZuLu57lKRROdU-T88JMXiZF83XA_zGxVBzDndW7GkM8uW1romzjJMWzaTaDdaPCGT2v265JTz72zamNwY_skiA/w266-h400/Conwy%206.jpg" width="266" /></span></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieVu_09fjquZg5wyplNnFGn1nev6GhjN9rljssAu91MKt0yENOUVy9MSYPLv2IjEHTj-dXC7Lo678n1ks75A8rBxHZiAhwFYYCYImV8x3zH282_7-UDc6l-BwhqHC99YcDj8QWzpEfXgzTtNDMcaGy-QCoGiJ6L8ON5hP8zwPR1vnv4SOV1yhAc8WdQQ/s2048/conwy%207.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1279" data-original-width="2048" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieVu_09fjquZg5wyplNnFGn1nev6GhjN9rljssAu91MKt0yENOUVy9MSYPLv2IjEHTj-dXC7Lo678n1ks75A8rBxHZiAhwFYYCYImV8x3zH282_7-UDc6l-BwhqHC99YcDj8QWzpEfXgzTtNDMcaGy-QCoGiJ6L8ON5hP8zwPR1vnv4SOV1yhAc8WdQQ/w400-h250/conwy%207.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #444444;"><p class="MsoNormal">Llandudno
is lovely to look at. Clean, wholesome and measured, with fine buildings,
attractive streets and a set of physical attributes stunning enough to make
Baywatch blush. But I’m the wrong demographic for this town. I said earlier
that Llandudno had a good few ticks on the ‘seaside destination’ list. But not
enough to make the ‘could I live here?’ list. Mrs A will be delighted to hear
this.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;"><o:p><i>Series navigation - <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/04/seaside-special-excursions-to-coast.html" target="_blank">Seaside Special: Excursions to the Coast</a></i></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;"><o:p><i>Previous episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/10/the-cambrian-line-ceredigion-and-gwynedd.html" target="_blank">The Cambrian Line</a> - Ceredigion and Gwynedd</i></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;"><o:p>Next episode: Merseyside - </o:p></span><a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/12/seaside-special-riotous-journeys.html">Riotous
Journeys</a></i></span></p><br />Davoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2854417785396611556.post-69371193565451613482022-10-24T23:33:00.005+01:002024-02-08T12:22:50.696+00:00Seaside Special - The Cambrian Line: Ceredigion and Gwynedd<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvivC7DnVn9ydQ-X436WoTf1d59QDvH6sKzBpTN4HTHTMRgWdukA-BojDuolo8fIb2RuqkEHkoc1MdQhQE-sMD_MPfOrNkOZgWyx5x3cmlM3b2AAuqtshMWQyrv64tEUqHbyV2vhd1s0mTDF2L3VYXbr4-2_prHlhtP_Bw0fbL3LLSq9daXHEJxyfT6A/s3723/cambrian%20line%204.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1578" data-original-width="3723" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvivC7DnVn9ydQ-X436WoTf1d59QDvH6sKzBpTN4HTHTMRgWdukA-BojDuolo8fIb2RuqkEHkoc1MdQhQE-sMD_MPfOrNkOZgWyx5x3cmlM3b2AAuqtshMWQyrv64tEUqHbyV2vhd1s0mTDF2L3VYXbr4-2_prHlhtP_Bw0fbL3LLSq9daXHEJxyfT6A/w640-h272/cambrian%20line%204.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />I’d already been travelling for a
couple of hours, but the journey only felt like it was properly beginning as we left Shrewsbury. Something to do with the train reversing out of the junction
station in the direction it had entered. As if a newly configured service.<p></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Where once I had been sat in the
front two coaches, as the electronic signage had directed me at the newly
rebuilt Birmingham New Street, I was now in the rear two. And on the wrong side
for the view of sweeping coastline that I was keenly anticipating from my
carefully chosen window seat.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Not long out of the station, we skirted the Shrewsbury signal box on the opposite side to my arrival a few minutes earlier. Not just any old junction control housing, though. This was the largest working mechanical signal box in the world. Oh yes. </span></p><p class="Body">The conductor appeared. This proved to be the catalyst for a passenger migration only surpassed
by the partition of India. Slightly fewer fatalities, in truth. Every time the portly conductor
squeezed his oversize girth through the narrow aisle, he was asked the same question
about where they should be sitting for Pwllheli, Aberystwyth, etc, etc,
followed by sighs of relief or the gathering up of possessions and a move
forward. Or back. The couple next to me were particularly aggrieved that they
had to shift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Moaning about rubbish
information on the platform and the general incompetence of Arriva Trains
Wales. Harsh, I thought.</p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">I was learning a lot about Welsh
language pronunciation from the conductor, looking increasingly jaundiced of
completion. I also learned that I was in the right part of the train for that
anticipated picture-window experience after all.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">A more obvious reason for the sense
that the real journey had started was the changing scenery. The world seemed to
open out in the Welsh Marches. The land steadily rose into ancient, round
topped upland hills, mostly marked out for pasture, but with a few coniferous
plantations punctuating the horizon. Only the higher peaks were left to open
heathland and sparse deciduous woodland. Agriculture had gradually taken over
the landscape.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">The further into Wales we travelled,
the fewer industrial developments we saw. The cargo handling centres, gas and
water plants and cavernous distribution terminals that had dominated the north
West Midlands became increasingly rare. The water beside the rail tracks
changed from canal infrastructure to sparkling rivers and brooks. Houses became
greyer, with more whitewash and the appearance of Welsh slate on the roofs. Beyond
the settlements, farmsteads became rugged in construction and handsomely
uncomplicated by architectural finesse. Flinty, even.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">There was further passenger anxiety
when the train split at Machynlleth. The on-board indicator and automated announcements
were both determinedly telling us that the train destination was Aberystwyth,
testing once more my confidence that I was in the right bit of train. When a
new, much more relaxed conductor breezed through the carriage and said we were
Pwllheli-bound, the lads who had joined the train on my right performed an
ironic fist pump/knuckle touch duet.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">The journey actually splits after Dovey
Junction, where there is a station and literally nothing else. Even the Cambrian
Railway guide describes the lonely platforms as “</span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">convenient
for nowhere”. </span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">We crossed over the wide river Dovey
by means of a low bridge; and the south bound-tracks arced away on the far
bank. This was estuary-land where the coast and the mountains of Snowdonia met
the broadening river valley. The track followed the brackish water’s edge,
sandwiched between all three. Buddleia clung to the rock on the right-hand side
of the train, scratching the windows. Botany right in your face.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">Anthony Lambert in his book ‘Greatest Train
Journeys of the World’ describes the route from Dovey Junction to Pwllheli as
“perhaps the finest stretch of coastal railway in Britain”. Lambert recalls the
Cambrian Express during Rail’s Golden Age when you could board a train for this
destination at Paddington and take advantage of the dining car through
Leamington Spa, Wolverhampton Low Level and Snow Hill before an engine change
at Shrewsbury necessitated by the weight restricted Cambrian Line. No hint of
train reversing out of stations, dubious signage and passengers clambering
around for window seats. A Golden Age indeed. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Nevertheless, I lapped up the
picture-window experience in this Information Age, happy that the journey still
existed even in this utilitarian form. Hazy sun was glistening on the water’s
surface. The estuary was busy with fishers of all description: rod and line
together with beak and bill. The area is good for waders apparently. I guessed
that the gangly-legged specimens on the sandbars across the estuary were members
of the local angling club. Sandpipers and Redshanks were also on view. (That’s a
joke.)</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Across the estuary the windows and
greenhouses of Borth, first stop on the southbound branch, glinted in the
sunlight. We headed away north. The partition was complete.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">The first station on this branch
was Penhelig. The platform’s elevated position offered a view over the perfect
little pastel shaded village onto the esplanade and out across the bay. The
settlement was hardly big enough to warrant a station in this day and age, even
if it was only a two-hourly single-track service. Maybe the village wasn’t so
perfect: I was fascinated by the array of spikes at various angles and of
different lengths on all the chimney pots and nearly all the buildings. There
was obviously a significant problem with gull guano. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">By the time we reached Aberdovey
the caravan parks had made an appearance. Hurray. Plenty of them too. As my journey
continued, I applauded, through gritted teeth, the developers who had managed
to cluster the flocks of caravans around every decent coastal vantage point
available. I’ve really tried not to be snobby about them in this series, all
too aware of my stylistic wrestle with Paul Theroux. But bloody hell, they are rarely
pretty. Unlovely tin boxes crushed up against each other, with little attempt
to disguise, camouflage or blend them into the landscape. A defiant and brash statement
occupying all the best spots by the sea.</span></p><p class="Body"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq4MZ7ySbnmupFQyKtPLz5tklFyzZAV427yQlStg7llH0aCQT9CDWLZDtrl4jcmE32oZjU0HRO2tSNK5_0WTJtFG7MLSmwJJnqH4geSwK7dCrt0ah-G8iXrhqcev_kzkRg5YKIgBgv8Nip6reih5qvYfe3uzFEgyAeNa_lEkeDN293AqIVQAGqJBdh_g/s2051/cambrian%20line%209.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1025" data-original-width="2051" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq4MZ7ySbnmupFQyKtPLz5tklFyzZAV427yQlStg7llH0aCQT9CDWLZDtrl4jcmE32oZjU0HRO2tSNK5_0WTJtFG7MLSmwJJnqH4geSwK7dCrt0ah-G8iXrhqcev_kzkRg5YKIgBgv8Nip6reih5qvYfe3uzFEgyAeNa_lEkeDN293AqIVQAGqJBdh_g/w400-h200/cambrian%20line%209.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="Body">The train turned inland and we
passed another characteristically coastal feature. The links golf course. I’m
not saying trains are rare in these parts, but the ladies on the twelfth tee waved
at us.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Maybe the trains should be less
rare, because by Tywyn, the service was really busy. Spontaneously lured, I
speculated, by the prospect of a day by the seaside on a baking hot day. One
extended family gathering was obviously beach bound, advertised by giveaway
clues like brightly coloured, overstuffed nylon bags, fold up chairs and
pétanque sets. It wasn’t a shopping trip at any rate.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The Llyn Peninsula</span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"> twisted away westwards
as the train meandered northwards with Snowdonia now up close and personal to
the east. Rounding the headland near Fairbourne Bay, the track seemed to
balance precariously on a ledge in the mountains with a sheer 40-foot drop into
the sea on my left. The track, literally carved out of the cliff, was pretty
hairy at this point and I noticed that the 20mph speed limit was being adhered
to. Blocks of boulders in wire mesh cages were piled at the water’s edge, and
stacked up against the cliff in neat rows. They were the only thing between the
train and a wild-west style ravine plunge. (One should never be shy of injecting a bit of travel drama. Michael Palin shouldn't get all the fun.)</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">I later read that a landslip on New
Year’s Day in 1883 derailed the evening train from Machynlleth at this point.
The loco and crew were smashed on the rocks below, whilst the carriages
teetered on the edge. The incident prompted the construction of an avalanche
shelter above the track.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Fairbourne itself was an odd,
reasonably modern place with a miniature railway station adjacent to the
station which meandered out to the headland. Maybe the recent (ish)
construction of Fairbourne as a dedicated resort town was the reason that there
was no Welsh name at all on the station sign. The only town on the line not to
have one.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">As we pulled away, I attempted to temper
my abuse of the caravan park. So many parts of the coastline were uncluttered
by such manifestations. The rolling stretch in which the small village of
Dyffryn Ardudwy sat was wonderfully unsullied. The further north and west we
travelled the more sparse became the landscape. And the tinier the stations.
Tonfanau was a</span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">lmost closed in 1995. The guide to
Aberystwyth observes that “Tonfanau doesn't really serve anywhere now. Indeed,
it's rural enough that it was easier to put up a wind turbine to power the
platform lights than try to connect to mains electricity.” At Tygwyn</span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"> the train pulled into a station so small that the
last carriage blocked the level crossing beyond the platform. Set back from the
coast, the station was framed neatly by woodland and rolling hills, with a
placid river winding down to the sea.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Pwllheli. End of the line. I found
the town a little disorientating at first. The area round the station was
fairly uninspiring with its modern functional buildings occupied by Wilko,
Costa, Subway and the like. I found a chippie on the new market square and
munched on battered sausage as I considered my options. I thought I was on the
way to the coast. In fact I had found a dead-end at a car breakers just beyond a
dreary looking amusement park. This was not a great start. Doubling back, I sat by the inner harbour to finish my snack.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">A couple from Colwyn Bay joined me
on the bench. They had come here on a restored 1950’s Britannia service bus as
part of a magical mystery tour. After lunch in a posh restaurant in Betws-y-coed
and high tea in Criccieth, they looked a bit underwhelmed by Pwllheli. “Not
many seats are there?” He was a Lanc by birth. Never happy.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">I trundled on in my search for the
beach. After a schlep across a bit of scrub land adjacent to part of the inner
harbour fenced off by ugly 10-foot metal railings and then onto a council
estate, I was beginning to feel the same way as my Lancashire cousins.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Cutting through the housing, I
found a path over the dunes that finally revealed the sea! This was more like
it. There was a fine walk along the top of the dunes as far as Gimlet Rock
which marked the entrance to the sheltered, if convoluted harbour approach. A
few teenagers were clambering over the rocks and sunbathing. I guessed this was
the haunt of a few parties judging the shards of glass crunched into the fescue
and bits of discarded clothing lying about…</span></p><p class="Body"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ5byEM5n2bVY2Ndk6hUA3aUVKmz5GGhftHRqZvLhDywlGJa9mNi8lTVRdFn9Ebi_-orHqdDMMP_sp1TMBwt2XzVSd-7Uk9CiVKsS5hgdw804li42FMZKv-lL2duSy8VIXA8Zd8aSyjkRMoG_jb2cSI0uvHAGcQMDOmbnL0I_Cno-Hp_5gbfHL6RNlzw/s3952/Cambrian%20Line%2011.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2964" data-original-width="3952" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ5byEM5n2bVY2Ndk6hUA3aUVKmz5GGhftHRqZvLhDywlGJa9mNi8lTVRdFn9Ebi_-orHqdDMMP_sp1TMBwt2XzVSd-7Uk9CiVKsS5hgdw804li42FMZKv-lL2duSy8VIXA8Zd8aSyjkRMoG_jb2cSI0uvHAGcQMDOmbnL0I_Cno-Hp_5gbfHL6RNlzw/w400-h300/Cambrian%20Line%2011.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="Body">The beach was mostly sand and
shingle. And deserted. I passed two dog walkers and that was it. I retraced my
steps and then carried on to a row of buildings where the dunes dropped down to
road level. Maybe an esplanade, I thought. No. One closed hotel, one closed
cafe and, round the corner, a closed and derelict tapas bar. This was Summer
2017. We can’t even blame the pesky pandemic.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">I traipsed back along the path to
what a tourist sign told me was the town centre. Surely I must be missing
something, whilst the thought ‘sometimes it is not the destination but the
journey itself that is the reason’ played around my head.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span color="windowtext" face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Back the town
centre, the concrete square near the station looked even less appealing after
the coast. I ventured further back in to the town. A good looking pub had been
turned into an estate agents. There was a bookies next door to it. The Welsh
for bookies was written on the sign. ‘bwci’, it said in lower case, which is
pronounced bookie. Was this an example of retro language fitting? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="Body"><span color="windowtext" face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">Probably. There was no doubt,
however, that indigenous Welsh-speaking is on the march as a first language in this part
of nationalist Wales - Plaid Cymru was founded in the town, after all. The days of switching from English to Welsh just to wind up the
Southerner who has walked in to the pub appear to be over. The majority of
people I passed in the street, in shops or in their front gardens were speaking
Welsh. And I received the friendliest of welcomes everywhere I went. The stats
would appear to back up this anecdotal observation. </span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">According
to the 2011 census, 65.4% of Gwynedd residents are Welsh speakers.</span><span color="windowtext" face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"> </span><span color="windowtext" face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">Though these numbers are spectacularly useless in supporting my
friendliness assertion.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span color="windowtext" face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Venturing passed
the bwci, I had to revise my opinion of the town. A grid of attractive, narrow,
Welsh stone streets ascended the Cambrian foothills and hosted a fine array of independent
shops and galleries offering something more characterful than the functional
outlets around the square. There was a rewarding view over the town and out to
sea from a winding road out of the shops and up a steep incline Meirion-Dwyfor college.</span></p>
<p class="Body" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span color="windowtext" face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">The town was very quiet though. By then it was about 5pm and it seemed
that hardly anyone was about on the streets.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">I stopped to read a plaque set in
the wall of the Pen Cob pub and immediately understood the curious geography of
the town. Pwllheli was originally a fishing settlement around a salt pool by the
sea. </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Shipbuilding yards sprang up by the
pool – now the inner harbour - along the foreshore and the creation of an embankment,
known locally as the cob, protected the harbour. Following the draining of land to the south, the embankment connected the town to the new coastline. A new quay was built in the 1900’s. Subsequently, declining port trade led to the conversion of the inner harbour in to a marina. </span></p>
<p class="Body" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Time to move on from quiet Pwllheli. I took a train from the near-deserted station back down the line to Porthmadog. I
was staying the night here. The place had a very different feel to the town I had just departed and also to the other traditional seaside towns on the line. Here, the history of slate quarries, shipbuilding
and railway infrastructure explained why Porthmadog wasn’t a chocolate box
town, but a handsomely made port and transport hub proud of its industrial
heritage.</span></p>
<p class="Body" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">The port was
originally named after William Maddock, an agricultural reformer in these parts. The Council's splendid town trail explained in lyrical terms that “Years ago this
quay resounded to the squeaking sound of crane chains loading ships and the
shouted instructions of stevedores. The steam train would have puffed and
whistled to and fro and the sound of the creaking timber of tall masted ships
would have echoed across the waters.” In its late
19<sup>th</sup> century heyday up to a thousand ships and 116,000 tons of
Blaenau Ffestiniog slate passed through the harbour. The mine was deep in the hills above the town. Slate came down the narrow-gauge line on trains of 60-odd gravity-powered wagons. No other motive power was needed. The line and terminus next to the harbour still exists. This </span>video is of a recent reconstruction of the bonkers slate gravity roller-coaster journey into Porthmadog. 'Faster, more reliable and more comfortable than Northern Rail' comments one wag! </p><p class="Body" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/B5xzUsNbZ-g" width="320" youtube-src-id="B5xzUsNbZ-g"></iframe></span></div><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><br />Harbour traffic is now resolutely small scale fishing and pleasure craft. In the other direction, Snowdonia.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic8rw2ULG_e09a23kVDiGfIdLl5MNLfqlfWUpLGo1dUbbnLph4tEU1OyTA-RP0bBOuaWics4JddtdbWhS_dLqBVbIXPysWvKBquoYrtKfvuD5hqgWvsuB2L26lPXaSa_qAty_oarkLngv-TEHP6YAMO0sGi_jX62TD8TGwqIgw1jFvToyDDszb1Fj4tw/s2768/cambrian%20line%2012.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic8rw2ULG_e09a23kVDiGfIdLl5MNLfqlfWUpLGo1dUbbnLph4tEU1OyTA-RP0bBOuaWics4JddtdbWhS_dLqBVbIXPysWvKBquoYrtKfvuD5hqgWvsuB2L26lPXaSa_qAty_oarkLngv-TEHP6YAMO0sGi_jX62TD8TGwqIgw1jFvToyDDszb1Fj4tw/s2768/cambrian%20line%2012.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhijrV6S-Dl82rk8cc85GhkXFadPrlMPX6zDP2Dr1-GDs4Kej1cX8vl85RjsrMk5ZxAPYdzGVLF5FqbrsTCoN6NbxUY-bnQrThRdRZktLfdMBpSKnPwyrFMEYYa5IIqzOJNUS-W60LMF0MaqrVgHB0eccz4fdy4wjclJ6T5cTi72JsiAdEp_WsjSeZNbg/s3003/Cambrian%20line%208.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2252" data-original-width="3003" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhijrV6S-Dl82rk8cc85GhkXFadPrlMPX6zDP2Dr1-GDs4Kej1cX8vl85RjsrMk5ZxAPYdzGVLF5FqbrsTCoN6NbxUY-bnQrThRdRZktLfdMBpSKnPwyrFMEYYa5IIqzOJNUS-W60LMF0MaqrVgHB0eccz4fdy4wjclJ6T5cTi72JsiAdEp_WsjSeZNbg/w400-h300/Cambrian%20line%208.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><img border="0" data-original-height="2076" data-original-width="2768" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic8rw2ULG_e09a23kVDiGfIdLl5MNLfqlfWUpLGo1dUbbnLph4tEU1OyTA-RP0bBOuaWics4JddtdbWhS_dLqBVbIXPysWvKBquoYrtKfvuD5hqgWvsuB2L26lPXaSa_qAty_oarkLngv-TEHP6YAMO0sGi_jX62TD8TGwqIgw1jFvToyDDszb1Fj4tw/w400-h300/cambrian%20line%2012.jpg" width="400" /></div></span><p></p><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="Body" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">Beyond the harbour I picked up a
hydrangea-rich path over the headland. Sea air and plenty of moisture is
obviously the thing for these giant blooms. The track dropped into the
delightful village of Borth-y-Gest, best kept village in Caernorfonshire
declared a sign sunk into a tidy flower bed. It spoke nothing of the
perfect horse shoe bay, whitewashed and flower bedecked harbourside houses with
Snowdonia as a backdrop and the crystal waters of the Afon Glaslyn channel in
the foreground. A pint was just the thing to help properly contemplate the
view.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaqJQYwYhW_UHQYeptaHAtl4P0aZagxb7A_Ayi8sphxlO-XHy5O1VY7YTjYRd8MeQPKQypaddlWQHlRWvaezQ5WEeS9VST1tRrr-IhQiY0r5iDapSYlptcVTazkAq0XxL18HEyy-ghSi3hpGX1HILgzCoAW9YvUvM02nJdQ0SDlmunKUxAYoCXmt78og/s2961/Cambrian%20line%207.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1974" data-original-width="2961" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaqJQYwYhW_UHQYeptaHAtl4P0aZagxb7A_Ayi8sphxlO-XHy5O1VY7YTjYRd8MeQPKQypaddlWQHlRWvaezQ5WEeS9VST1tRrr-IhQiY0r5iDapSYlptcVTazkAq0XxL18HEyy-ghSi3hpGX1HILgzCoAW9YvUvM02nJdQ0SDlmunKUxAYoCXmt78og/w400-h266/Cambrian%20line%207.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="Body" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">Back in Porthmadog, my anticipated
lie in was interrupted by unruly gulls delivering a cacophonous dawn chorus somewhere
between a Valkyrie onslaught and a Stuka blitzkrieg.</p></span><p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">My combat with the gulls was only
just beginning. Exploring the town before a return train trip, I went up to the
war memorial near the station. Immediately my feet ascended the stone steps I
was under attack. The assault became more intense the further I climbed. Presumably
there was a nest on the top of the Celtic cross that prompted strafing
manoeuvres by white-headed gulls more akin to North African desert warfare. The
memorial, created by </span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Griff Morris, architect of Porthmadog,
remained unviewed by me. His carefully designed approach intended to achieve a sense of
procession from street level saw instead my unceremonious helter-skelter exit. </span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"></span></p><p class="Body">Over a decent breakfast earlier
that morning in the high-celinged dining room of the Royal Sportsman hotel, I
thought about breaking my journey home at Portmerion. I’d been fascinated by
Clough Williams-Ellis’s fantasia since watching reruns of The Prisoner in the
Eighties. Having enough time to do the flamboyant village justice was my chief
concern. Now on the train, I decided to skip it and head on to Barmouth. </p><p></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Two elderly friends either side of
me in the carriage were Swindon bound for a family visit. The woman opposite me
had bright red hair and piercing blue eyes. All the while we were talking she
reminded me of my friend Ruth. I almost asked her if she had a younger sister, only
just biting my tongue against such rudery and an abrupt end to conversation.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">She said my decision in favour of
Barmouth over Portmeirion was definitely the right vote. She leaned across the
table and rubbed her thumb against her fingers.</span></p>
<p class="Body" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">“It’s all
about money. £12 to get in to the village. Never mind a cup of tea or, Lord
forbid, an overnight stay!”</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">We talked about the train and how
much I enjoyed the journey. She told me that the service was a lifeline. Much
faster than the road. She said it was quieter in winter, but still relatively
well used. It had improved massively since the direct service was extended to
Birmingham, including more comfortable, air-conditioned coaches. I certainly
agreed with that point. There was a nervousness locally because the franchise
was up in 2018 and no-one knew what the future held for the service.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">I thought back to my great railway journeys book
and considered that a resurrection of the dining car service and through trains
to Paddington were unlikely. That said, the efforts to </span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">grow tourism in former industrial towns like Pwllheli
and Porthmadog was gaining traction. The line was an economic as well as a social
asset. I felt at the time that the Welsh Assembly would be mad to pull funding. Of course a lot has happened since that Summer, and as of October 2022, I note that a service still exists, though it is less frequent and a change is required at Machynlleth. No through trains exist to Shrewsbury at the moment.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">In Barmouth the gulls still had not
done with me, though it was more of a lucky escape than a direct attack. A
massive herring gull swooped over my head and I instinctively ducked. This
vulture of the seaside was close enough for me to see the blip on his bill and
the beady look in his eye. He had spotted a woman with an ice cream directly
behind me. The bird deftly knocked the cone out of her hand with its outstretched
feet. She screamed. I turned round there was a little humorous/horrified banter
between us as Herman the Herring Gull and his ravenous mates gathered round to
hose up the ice cream. A cunning and ruthless plan, oft-repeated no doubt. </span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">I spent a few sublime minutes at
the end of the harbour wall looking over a few yachts <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and fishing boats in the wide Afon Mawddach estuary,
backed by the sweeping, low-rise railway viaduct. Sitting on the train whilst
crossing it gave the impression of riding on water.</span></p><p class="Body"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidBX4_RwjnJYBlsj-1HyhhL46WlwKcux7QthWt9ml6xTClEFzPD5JkMTiKhIwatqEHCbhTtXpDVkTIh7d9lEWj8GBHY62u65_hIv-M7wXdjIzB1q2aiyJvG9ziQRoieYZ2xdcw_zM7tV70mBPeRGy4plFokYSwQwEp8Nh-yGgdzIaXoBY2zTiNkvXmSw/s3878/cambrian%20line%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1939" data-original-width="3878" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidBX4_RwjnJYBlsj-1HyhhL46WlwKcux7QthWt9ml6xTClEFzPD5JkMTiKhIwatqEHCbhTtXpDVkTIh7d9lEWj8GBHY62u65_hIv-M7wXdjIzB1q2aiyJvG9ziQRoieYZ2xdcw_zM7tV70mBPeRGy4plFokYSwQwEp8Nh-yGgdzIaXoBY2zTiNkvXmSw/w400-h200/cambrian%20line%203.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNhtjVEJFCGPeXqajZmaQRserYgST1MYownr7dmViZmkoMWyZjqqAtNuyDHS5b8gA_LaqSMd1ZcAUuyDmEQDis0ICFi-0q-KunDfDLKPsVgvO7j6VQQ4E6YFeNNU2jkIsKiVFejLhvLRVIwFp0sUoKWatM-Pa--HQh69doSuIy01SPKcPggzzxDKd6RQ/s3297/cambrian%20line%206.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3297" data-original-width="2473" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNhtjVEJFCGPeXqajZmaQRserYgST1MYownr7dmViZmkoMWyZjqqAtNuyDHS5b8gA_LaqSMd1ZcAUuyDmEQDis0ICFi-0q-KunDfDLKPsVgvO7j6VQQ4E6YFeNNU2jkIsKiVFejLhvLRVIwFp0sUoKWatM-Pa--HQh69doSuIy01SPKcPggzzxDKd6RQ/w300-h400/cambrian%20line%206.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="Body">The sparkling shoreline and rising
hills provided a spectacular setting for the town’s handsome townhouses, stoutly
built to three or four stories of mellow stone punctuated by large stone-mullioned
windows. On the prom, there were a few amusements, rides, cafes and gift shops
but nothing too garish or tacky. The place was busy and yet clean, refreshing.
It retained the right mix of bucket-and-spadeness combined with just enough elegance
to tick all the boxes for me. I liked Barmouth very much. It’s on the list, if
only for completeness. I know that this one is way outside the relocation radius that Mrs A will contemplate. Wales is off the radar. </p></span><p></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">On way back to Machynlleth, legendary
Led Zep frontman and all round rock ‘n’ roll hero, Robert Plant casually
stepped off the train. He had a mobile jammed to his ear and was wearing the
sort of orange shorts that would look a bit weird on any other 65 year old who
didn’t happen to be the voice of the most influential rock band on the planet.
We didn’t get chance to banter. Shame. I think he would have liked my anecdote
about puking up after too much tequila during his ‘Fate of Nations’ set at
Glastonbury in 1991. Neither did I have the opportunity to ask him what he was
doing getting off the train in one of the most remote spots in mid-Wales.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">It was another two hours before I
was to get off the train myself. Delays and diversions all along the line into
Shrewsbury gave what had been a superb journey a rather tortuous and frustrating finale. But I won’t let a ‘trackside maintenance issue’ spoil my memories of a
revealing, absorbing and thoroughly enjoyable round trip on the spectacular
Cambrian Line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><i>Series navigation - <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/04/seaside-special-excursions-to-coast.html">Seaside Special: Excursions to the Coast</a></i></span></p><p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"> </span><i>Previous post - <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/09/seaside-special-tipping-point.html">Tipping Point: Pembrokeshire</a></i></p><p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><i>Next post: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/11/seaside-special-bank-holiday-blindspot.html" target="_blank">Bank Holiday blackspot - North Wales </a></i></span></p><p class="Body"><br /></p>Davoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2854417785396611556.post-62665708684990345382022-09-07T13:51:00.004+01:002024-02-08T12:21:53.401+00:00Seaside Special - Tipping point: Pembrokeshire<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">This is where the coastal blog posts
get even more sketchy than usual. My only visits to Pembrokeshire were when the kids were
little, in the early Noughties. I haven’t managed to add any recent trips to
that visit. I can’t pretend that what follows here does justice in any meaningful
way to this beautiful, craggy seascape of tiny coves, flowing bays and pretty
seaside towns. Particularly as one of the visits largely centres on a bout of
seasickness out of Fishguard ferry terminal. But hey, this was always going to
be an imperfect project, so I will plough on regardless. </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Our journeys over to this far-flung,
westernmost corner of Wales were, in common with many others, to rendezvous
with the ferry for Rosslare across the Irish Sea in County Wexford. Mrs A’s
family are all Irish and although most of the rellies were based in north
Dublin, we had some wonderful holidays combining visits to the capital with
stays around the south coast, from Fethard to Dungarven to Kinsale to Skibbereen
to Baltimore. Entry via Rosslare and exit via Dublin/Dun Laoghaire. And sometimes the
other way round.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Fishguard is really only a village.
Three-thousand odd souls clustered around the old quay at Lower Town and up the
hill across the cliff to the village centre. Brightly painted two-storey
cottages, pubs, craft shops, tea rooms packed into narrow lanes. All very
picture-postcard on the surface, but maybe just a bit too quiet to be properly thriving. </span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The Royal Oak pub was the location of the surrender of a bunch of French Revolutionary invaders in 1797.
This was the final mainland invasion seen in Britain. It’s hard to know why the
French picked this outpost as a launch pad for conquest. It
really is a long way from anywhere, let alone the levers of Government in Whitehall.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">If there was time before the ferry
departure, we’d have an ice-cream on Quay Street where Cwm Gwan empties gently
(most days) into the Irish Sea. Then make our way over the headland into Goodwick
at the western end of Fishguard Bay for the ferry terminal. All very civilised.</span></p><p class="BodyB"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPpuJmrD2LX2kUiul4w-25o5JbHN1yMFXKDrdepXdAr15im9dQsMhbYcGAki4YsoE5rQyJfMWuVCgCBD6UKLGr8E0ft7I3Es1-JwgKHVQTwnxTPdQkXd5AFGymq4nUT-pdal1VWbTlQzqKiZ97eP5VzoRecLgyB5uMapsBFOcU-rJJPU1QOOJcTKHOVw/s800/Fishguard.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPpuJmrD2LX2kUiul4w-25o5JbHN1yMFXKDrdepXdAr15im9dQsMhbYcGAki4YsoE5rQyJfMWuVCgCBD6UKLGr8E0ft7I3Es1-JwgKHVQTwnxTPdQkXd5AFGymq4nUT-pdal1VWbTlQzqKiZ97eP5VzoRecLgyB5uMapsBFOcU-rJJPU1QOOJcTKHOVw/w400-h266/Fishguard.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="BodyB">Except when it wasn't. One crossing,
stamped indelibly on the memory, saw us give the Quay Street ice cream
tradition a miss. Firstly, we had to find a chemist tout-suite when it emerged that Daughter No 1 had brought a few friendly headlice with her on the journey. Every parent's unbridled nightmare. The little buggers had been rife across the school in the previous week. We thought we'd escaped. But no. </p><p class="BodyB">Gallons of Hedrin duly purchased, we had to make further haste on looking skywards. Banks of dark, fat old clouds rolling in from the west.
A deep Irish Sea depression was high-tailing into Wales and we had precious
little chance of avoiding it. Sure enough, the ferry left on time and ran smack
in to pitching seas and cross winds barely before we had seen the Fishguard
harbour walls, and Pembrokeshire's granite cliffs disappear over the horizon.</p><p></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">There was nowhere to hide. Within
the hour, groaning bodies were strewn around the passenger lounge as if there
had been a mass poisoning incident. A steady stream of travellers staggered to
the loos and back, or made for the deck doors to heave overboard, hoping the
wind didn’t offer an unfortunate blowback. The scenes became steadily more
chaotic, and made wilder still by debris of optimistically purchased snacks
flying around like chaff: polystyrene cups, plastic bottles, sandwich wrappers.
The crew had bolted down and packed away anything vaguely dangerous. Almost as
if they had seen this before… Everything else skittered along the sticky carpet
tiles with each juddering smash of a bow wave. Toxic smells of regurgitated
junk food hung in the air like a plague.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Mrs A was prone on a three seater bench
at the back of the vessel, with a young Daughter No 1 clinging onto her with
grim determination. Mother-in-law Chris was pacing around the lounge, white as
a sheet. I had Daughter No 2 with me, no more than a babe in arms and unable to
vocalise her distress. Nevertheless, her wriggling and writhing made it plain
that she was in severe discomfort. I looked at Mrs A and indicated to the deck door.
She just about managed to acknowledge me, whilst choking back her breakfast.
Once outside, I managed to find a vacant bulkhead against which to brace
ourselves amongst all the other passengers hoping that fresh air would settle
their churning stomachs. By then, Daughter No 2 was crying and appeared in
pain. I had her head held against my collar bone and with a couple of quick
convulsions she threw up over my shoulder, back and trousers. Then immediately
fell into an exhausted sleep. I dare not move her for the rest of the trip.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">She was still out for the count when
we were summoned to the car deck approaching Rosslare. Chris took her from me, stripped
her, whipped on a new top and settled her into the car seat. The smelly
garments quickly tucked away in a Tesco bag. Daughter No 1 was on the back seat
too, apparently none the worse.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">I pulled off my soaking, vom-covered
t-shirt and trousers, and threw them in the carrier bag. But before I had
chance to unearth clean clothes from the boot, Mrs A was revving the engine and
making for gang plank. She could not wait to depart that sick boat, elbowing
the Zafira into pole departure position. I had just about crawled into the
front seat and slammed the door shut before we were negotiating avenues of
steel car-deck pillars and shell-shocked passengers. We exited the ship like
the Dukes of Hazard jumping a canyon in the General Lee. Well, that’s how it
felt, so keen was Mrs A to leave the experience behind.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">We drove through the streets of
Rosslare with me in the passenger seat trying to protect my modesty with
nothing more than a pair of y-fronts and an AA road map.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Unbelievably – I say that, but this
was Ireland, so, in fact, totally believably - the weather had broken sunny and
warm on the other side of the low-pressure blotch. Taking this as a cue, my
supportive family left my semi-naked self stranded in the car whilst they
jumped out at a shop to buy and then scoff those ice-creams we missed in Fishguard.
They brought me back a Zoom. It was not until their collective hilarity at my
predicament had ebbed, somewhere beyond a crawling Waterford traffic jam, that
we stopped at a garage so I could retrieve clean clothes from the boot.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Ho bloody ho!</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The return trip was a bit better and
we gave ourselves an opportunity to explore the Pembrokeshire coast from
elsewhere than underneath an angry weather system.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Arriving was not without some drama,
however. The ferry service was late departing Rosslare and managed to lose more
time on the crossing. Not weather related this time. Irritating nonetheless.
Darkness had descended by the time we navigated out of Fishguard harbour which
meant we had some trouble finding Aberporth. I don’t drive (thereby hang a
couple of tales for future posts), so I used to justify my space in the car by
providing a tip-top personal navigation service. Think Dave-Dave rather than
Tom-Tom. Although Google maps has put paid to my service in recent years, so I’ll
have to think of a new way to warrant my designated-drinker passenger status. But
in those days, all I had was an OS map and weak illumination from the glove
compartment bulb to find our route. A couple of wrong turnings did nothing for
the Dave-Dave subscription feedback and led to a good chunk of directional
doubt when the village steadfastly kept refusing to appear around the next
bend. The place was further up the coast than my glance at the map in the last
glow of daylight had suggested. </span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">We were past our arrival time at The
Ship Hotel and I guessed too late for dinner. We pulled into the car park and
the hotel manager was there to greet us. No words of explanation were necessary.
He already knew that the ferry had been delayed and rustled up some plates of
hot Spag Bol for us. We ate greedily in the otherwise empty dining room. The
Manager, who’s name I can’t remember now (there’s gratitude!), couldn’t have
done more.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Next morning was a little less
fraught and we pottered about over breakfast, sorting out the girls’ beach bags
and then took time to explore the place. Aberporth is only a small village
really. It sits on the southern edge of Cardigan Bay in Ceredigion, just beyond
the Pembrokeshire national park. For a small village, the place is well-endowed
with beaches. Two gorgeous coves sit in Aberporth Bay between the rocky
headlands of Trecregyn and Fathgarreg, split by a smaller rocky outcrop.</span></p><p class="BodyB"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLQSMvA4aMTwyefjt89fr1ZjTWWMgAytXFYuCgLXrQ05cVcWtjs0ic7sbDsdieGf4nHKvbuJhYtVViKujfZBy487GIfr6mFhGZTdsuk1eLBL1iDfclcJd-TPBLF2J90G5E0T7bz3nNUp21IwkPWpnUAxwvjOotIzUqW4NezKT5CbxzBwOQq4W37fgzRQ/s500/aberporth.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLQSMvA4aMTwyefjt89fr1ZjTWWMgAytXFYuCgLXrQ05cVcWtjs0ic7sbDsdieGf4nHKvbuJhYtVViKujfZBy487GIfr6mFhGZTdsuk1eLBL1iDfclcJd-TPBLF2J90G5E0T7bz3nNUp21IwkPWpnUAxwvjOotIzUqW4NezKT5CbxzBwOQq4W37fgzRQ/w400-h300/aberporth.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Even though the day was blustery,
the fleeting sunshine was enough to encourage families out on to the deeper,
more southerly of the two beaches. We picked our way between a gaggle of kids
wearing gaudy crocs who were splashing in the surf. Knots of Mums and Dads were
already laying out towels and erecting windbreaks. We joined them with our buckets
and spades.<p></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Over the outcrop, the other beach
was the site of various boat-related activities. Sailing dinghies, kayaks and
canoes were being readied by the shore.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">There was a tang in the air. The
village has its roots in the fishing industry. In the 17th and 18th century
Aberporth had a fleet of herring smacks plundering the stocks of Cardigan Bay.
Inevitably, the stocks became depleted and fishing declined. There remains some
crab and lobster fishing and this was the aroma hanging on the breeze. We could
see parked-up tractors on the expansive northerly bay that are used to launch
boats.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">We ended up chatting to a fisherman
who sold his own fish direct to the public and was from the long-standing
Davies family of fisherman based in Aberporth. He said that some days, crate
after crate of giant spider-crabs are landed on the beach, hauled out of
Cardigan Bay. The same fishermen would set off again and again from Aberporth
beach and return within two hours with full loads of crabs.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">There is something sustainably
comforting about the way fishing is done here. Crab and lobster are caught all
year round, but Spider Crab are only available from May to August. Our new
friend told us that in summer they fished with a handline for Mackerel, Sea
Bass and Pollock. In winter, Cardigan Bay Scallops were fished on ground that
had been used for forty years. They only sold what is caught locally and even
that was dependent on the weather. He said their business was still family
owned and run. Most produce was still sold from the house – and the rest from
the produce market in St Dogmaels.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">On our way home, we retraced a good
portion of the previous evening’s trip from Fishguard so that we could enjoy
the coast in daylight. I say ‘we’. The girls were fast asleep before we’d hit
the River Teifi at Cardigan. We crossed over the river and into St Dogmaels, paying
a bit more attention this time. Very pretty, colourful little place. I couldn’t
quite pick out the produce market from the road, but I did spot a bit of the
ruined abbey. We detoured up the estuary as far as the expansive (but empty) Poppit
Sands where dunes and mud flats joined the beach and Pembrokshire cliffs beyond,
just inside the national park. We turned south and east for the long journey
home. I was pleased simply to be wearing clothes…</span></p><p class="BodyB"><i>Series navigation: </i><i>Introductory post - <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/04/seaside-special-excursions-to-coast.html">Seaside Special</a></i></p><p class="BodyB"><i>Previous post - <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/08/seaside-special-bay-watch-south-wales.html">Bay Watch</a>, Cardiff and Swansea. </i></p><p class="BodyB"><i>Next post - <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/10/the-cambrian-line-ceredigion-and-gwynedd.html">The Cambrian Line</a></i></p>Davoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2854417785396611556.post-30719152108407158682022-08-30T17:36:00.008+01:002024-02-08T12:20:43.333+00:00Seaside Special - Bay Watch: South Wales<p>Near the end of June 2021 and the station car park at Berkhamsted was quiet for that time of day. Covid-19 was still gripping the country with the steely fingers of the new Delta variant. The 10.30am to Euston was empty and might have been an untimetabled ghost service that rail companies use to fulfil requirements of ancient transport legislation. </p><p>Heading out to Cardiff was a different story though. A train curiously packed with passengers wielding wheelie trolleys and ruck sacks. Foreign travel was still an amber or red list hazard, so airports wouldn’t be seeing much action; and the train didn’t call at any obvious tourist destinations. Then it clicked. England were playing Sri Lanka in an international T20 that evening in Cardiff. That would be the reason for all the sports tops as well, then.</p><p>The seat reservations policy of GWR was designed to comply with social distancing restrictions. It was a causing problems. A restless couple relocated to the seats behind me after being shunted from further up the carriage. They were bagged up to the hilt, but they and thought they had lost one of them. They weren’t cricket fans though. In fact the bloke had a passing resemblance to a young Gareth Malone, choir-meister extraordinaire. He jumped up and explored the area around their previous seats for the errant rucksack, but came back empty handed and shook his head. His partner was starting to sound anxious. ‘Did we leave it on the concourse? Did we pick it up from Burger King? I had it at the ticket office…!’. Then, ‘Oh wait! It’s on my back!’ I chuckled. Gareth looked relieved. Almost enough for a spontaneous carriage sing-a-long of ‘Sweet Caroline’? Maybe not. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhujiJ2UL2VQqRI4BRIS8WqzQv4O7ivZkUy5-4p0wrojfqBKkbfD-FRhAhA8VXp-MsOCX_9lKj-HFqLNojQ1XCpirBlqq-RBGZd4DFi6a-zVejqQ9e8_4A7eUgUa50svJRujDu7r5jFifULNdgpZZ4F-WaepPUDIGmywtdaePLdSrbzeaMh_tTDW-kz3Q/s2153/CardiffSwansea8.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1211" data-original-width="2153" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhujiJ2UL2VQqRI4BRIS8WqzQv4O7ivZkUy5-4p0wrojfqBKkbfD-FRhAhA8VXp-MsOCX_9lKj-HFqLNojQ1XCpirBlqq-RBGZd4DFi6a-zVejqQ9e8_4A7eUgUa50svJRujDu7r5jFifULNdgpZZ4F-WaepPUDIGmywtdaePLdSrbzeaMh_tTDW-kz3Q/w400-h225/CardiffSwansea8.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>This Cardiff trip was partly work related. I had a meeting planned with a theatre group based at the Wales Millennium Centre on Cardiff Bay. The building is a stunningly engineered arts complex and opened in phases between November 2004 and January 2009. I didn’t get to see inside sadly, courtesy of our ever-present virus, but my colleague James and I had a stroll around the knot of landmark buildings on the bay front and settled over a coffee at Cadwalladrs on Mermaid Quay. Quietly enjoying the old and the new in harmony. The striking Gothic, russet-bricked Pierhead building, once the focal point of this tidal dockland’s exportation of coal, has been re-invented as a conference and event venue. It’s part of the next-door glass and steel Senedd complex, home to the Welsh Assembly. The transparent building material and clear sight-lines emphasising open-decision making, no doubt. It was closed that day...</p><p>The bay is now a freshwater lake following the construction of the Cardiff Bay Barage over at Penarth and is studded with marinas, wetlands and nature reserves, offices and various shopping and leisure opportunities in amongst the preserved dock paraphernalia. One operating commercial dock remains in business at the very north eastern tip the bay, beyond the barrage (sounds like a 1960’s war movie with Richard Burton…)</p><p>The Wales Millennium Centre replaced an earlier project for the site, the Cardiff Bay Opera House which had a dramatic, radical, avant-garde design by Zaha Hadid. Controversially, the project failed to win funding from the Millennium Commission and the finances didn’t stack up. It was never built. This subsequent design did, eventually, attract Commission funding. However, it took so long to get approval that Cardiff Council had to buy the land. The previous owners were threatening to build a retail centre on the site. How lovely would that have been in such an important location. </p><p>Work meeting finished, I strode off westward to check out the other parts of the bay, only momentarily caught in verbal skirmish with of a bunch of lairy Cardiff ladies outside the Mount Stuart pub, already well-lubricated by mid-afternoon, sporting dayglo dresses wrapped around orange bodies and heavily made-up eyes that didn’t miss a trick, despite being shielded by thick, spidery lashes. </p><p>‘Here’s a looker for you Ceri, sugar daddy and no mistake! Show us your wad boyo! My Mam likes the little ones. Come over and buy us some shots!’ I managed a cheery ‘Afternoon ladies’ in tandem with my best cheesy smile. And scarpered. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT_6NB17Rjv2QuvgcdT0RgqO-NBNbe-yGPXj9YMFM9kdqBWvLJaAPiwGFYHtQfDbEdQDXOjBqpoq4ctOzxSQiP1Sz7xn6Mg5URQ8lpfPPCL-agBVXIfpbuVOd83G7OYolabfDQw3skkSeMlL07qTI-autkGKtHTxOf83j9CRJU7TkD1cWGJRvXmn4HZw/s1945/cardiffswansea11.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1945" data-original-width="1195" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT_6NB17Rjv2QuvgcdT0RgqO-NBNbe-yGPXj9YMFM9kdqBWvLJaAPiwGFYHtQfDbEdQDXOjBqpoq4ctOzxSQiP1Sz7xn6Mg5URQ8lpfPPCL-agBVXIfpbuVOd83G7OYolabfDQw3skkSeMlL07qTI-autkGKtHTxOf83j9CRJU7TkD1cWGJRvXmn4HZw/w246-h400/cardiffswansea11.jpg" width="246" /></a></div><p>I’d got my breath back by the time I passed the Graving Docks and then turned back towards the city centre through Butetown. This was a neglected, pretty rough area. So often regeneration only touches the public, obvious parts of a town and barely scratches the surface of estates that have known nothing but generational poverty. That was the feel around here. A lot of the housing in Butetown dated from a 1960’s estate design brief that emphasised cramped streets linked by dark alleys, cheap building materials, poor lighting and tiny outside spaces. I could see plenty of blocks that were in a poor state of repair. The open space that runs the spine of the area – Canal Park - was a bare, rubbish strewn stretch populated by knots of vaguely intimidating young people zipping about on bastardised bikes and older folks huddled round benches necking White Lightning. </p><p>Butetown feels cut off, surrounded by expensive new developments around the Bay – such as Atlantic Wharf, built on the reclaimed West Bute Dock. The main route from the city centre to the docks bypasses Butetown along a newly constructed four-lane boulevard to the east. The housing needs renewing. Plans are afoot and it is to be hoped they deliver a better environment than the last attempt. </p><p>The area has always been an integral part of the dockland and its fortunes closely tied to it. Formerly known as ‘Tiger Bay’ it was home to multi-national settlers who helped to build the docks, worked on the ships and serviced this industrial and maritime city. Alongside the red-light district and gambling dens, Tiger Bay has always been home to a rich mix of multi-racial communities and retained a powerful character of its own. Its most famous former resident is singer Shirley Bassey.</p><p>When the docks declined, so did Tiger Bay. This from Cardiff Docks archive: </p><p style="text-align: left;"><i> “By the 1880’s, Cardiff had transformed from one of the smallest towns in Wales to the largest and its port was handling more coal than any other port in the world. On the eve of the First World War in 1913, coal exports reached their peak at over 13 million tonnes. </i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i> After the Second World War, demand for coal slumped and international markets were lost as other countries developed their own steel industries. Trade was increasingly lost to container ports and by the 1960’s coal exports had virtually ceased.</i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i> By the early 1980’s Cardiff Bay had become a wasteland of derelict docks and mudflats. Its population suffered from social exclusion and had above average levels of unemployment.”</i></p><p>Mid-afternoon and I was back in central Cardiff and ready for the next instalment of Bay Watch, a short trip over to Whitmore Bay - possibly better known as Barry Island - for a flagrant homage to Gavin and Stacy. Lush. </p><p>The train meandered south west from Cardiff, eventually running adjacent to Barry Docks, built in the late Victorian period to relieve congestion at those in Cardiff. They are now both owned by the same company. Building the docks involved excavating the sound between Barry Island and the mainland: pumping out the water, constructing dams, locks, port buildings, rail heads and marshalling yards that meant Barry was technically no longer an island. </p><p>Most of the rail sidings and tracks have gone, buried beneath a housing estate and an Asda superstore, but enough remain to stir the hearts of pioneering rail enthusiasts up and down the country. Following the withdrawal of steam from Britain’s railways in the late 1950’s, many obsolete many locomotives were laid up here, ready to be chopped up in Woodham Brothers scrapyard. Dai Woodham had won a long term contract from British Rail for the disposal work. Over 297 locos arrived at the marshalling yard for scrappage. However, they became a magnet for the burgeoning rail preservation movement and over many years, groups and individuals negotiated purchases with Woodham Brothers and BR that led to 213 of the 297 locos being saved for restoration. The last one left this piece of hallowed industrial wasteland in 2013. </p><p>Barry Island is magnificent. You step off the train and in to half-closed, all-rundown Island pleasure park, feet crunching on pot-holed gravel past a sign that proclaims the fair’s existence since 1920 alongside a broken down lorry that may have been there since it opened. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz474wtc8dnlBLzIhSptXbuOh0roSNSdJS3-BnP3edM_g45IkhxiO1ysU012kLHhGN4-Oskk5K1qvOLknp6p0TKI7arY4zziQo4a6u3NXBw6AwYPtF4pwT5lDssEuKOCa55UpC2BfY8qe4v_NaJ8x_SDusXb8nWyAknT0umQQqU7jjOrXzh3cFozx17Q/s1402/Cardiffswansea10.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1402" data-original-width="1042" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz474wtc8dnlBLzIhSptXbuOh0roSNSdJS3-BnP3edM_g45IkhxiO1ysU012kLHhGN4-Oskk5K1qvOLknp6p0TKI7arY4zziQo4a6u3NXBw6AwYPtF4pwT5lDssEuKOCa55UpC2BfY8qe4v_NaJ8x_SDusXb8nWyAknT0umQQqU7jjOrXzh3cFozx17Q/w298-h400/Cardiffswansea10.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><p>Through the empty rides, slides and stalls and out onto the pristine lawned gardens that sweep down to the long, tidy (of course), prom. The beach is sandy, clean and well marshalled with lifeguards observing families dipping in the twinkling safe-swimming zone. Later I see members of a silver-surfer swimming club deliberately flouting the zone by splashing about in the spray under the cliffs towards the eastern end of the bay. Here the promenade ended in a series of well-kept beach huts, colonnades and open spaces. The concrete retaining wall of a zig-zag path up the cliff had been bejewelled with brightly coloured plastic shapes to spell out ‘Ynis Y Barri’ in four-foot lettering.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF0aQCfQlLfTzjtpbdHVZR0Pn7GwqMKvNYGSavtrLLa7-km3rQAkto5hK8LI2iqKMBct8gXZsCV-TJf-Q7RUi3MapnDNQ7B35Hp0YzvYuI2b10SkFWsy_6ClWPdYSUjMsFQQBNh3ExfY_2zyFbYNVHA6PiSwgf7yVQ19uBZjr7zJQzl9w8Co9DMMMhXg/s2085/CardiffSwansea6.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1173" data-original-width="2085" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF0aQCfQlLfTzjtpbdHVZR0Pn7GwqMKvNYGSavtrLLa7-km3rQAkto5hK8LI2iqKMBct8gXZsCV-TJf-Q7RUi3MapnDNQ7B35Hp0YzvYuI2b10SkFWsy_6ClWPdYSUjMsFQQBNh3ExfY_2zyFbYNVHA6PiSwgf7yVQ19uBZjr7zJQzl9w8Co9DMMMhXg/w400-h225/CardiffSwansea6.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Ambling along the cliff paths westwards, I arrived at the bit of Barry Island that most folks would recognise: the café, funfair and particularly the amusements at the far end of the prom where the fictional Nessa terrorises the punters. ‘Guess where I am then!’ I asked on the family WhatsApp over a photo of an advert for ‘Nessa’s Slots – come and see what’s occurrin’!’ Daughter No 2 replied with grinning emojis. Daughter No1, on the other hand, said ‘omg, I didn’t even realise it was a real place!’ I threaten to bring back a tea towel listing Smithy’s personal Indian take-away order (see below).</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1w1lCVLnPhUWDtArPeaTeBkv0hUA3F6W4XDAIAeWM-OCdtn1FF-D06keW5rJkCBJjo7T2JBYZmyilh4pJ8ohphyUlhCwIX4wEMcTeXxN71HMK6nOGbPq3BcMpcoxep6C6IKmm2ZTX0OeaAb-qMAQd9NZiyAEz-sG_uO11kY8QY6pHIDzQKiGIakNXzA/s1976/Cardiffswansea7.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1112" data-original-width="1976" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1w1lCVLnPhUWDtArPeaTeBkv0hUA3F6W4XDAIAeWM-OCdtn1FF-D06keW5rJkCBJjo7T2JBYZmyilh4pJ8ohphyUlhCwIX4wEMcTeXxN71HMK6nOGbPq3BcMpcoxep6C6IKmm2ZTX0OeaAb-qMAQd9NZiyAEz-sG_uO11kY8QY6pHIDzQKiGIakNXzA/w400-h225/Cardiffswansea7.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Talking of curries. Back in Cardiff I hooked up with Steve who had recently become engaged to a family friend and whom I hadn’t known long. (Their 70’s theme wedding party was a splendid glamtastic mash up, featured in the <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/08/seaside-special-ding-dong-avon-calling.html" target="_blank">previous episode</a> of this series.) So this was a great opportunity to chew the fat out of a rather fine spread of sub-continental dishes at Spice Quarter. The restaurant was built on the site of the former Brains Brewery. An ideal re-purposing. Filthy muck. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWAOiupe7-8MpZoUfZd35EdoY8gFkSqeO7zj1eCcfOVCKQtX5mW4Ph1rBfn214AGWPAvHlcIR1riIhJEMk7KspOyTExCCzwDRCM9RRB4i_F9JVXO2_xu7_7oHLMx5vZylCmVYHxPWi1Gu_FtzyM-3BsdsMC4WOOljOur1wmKsBAr-3EN5mYz0qSSD6LA/s1400/CardiffSwansea5.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1091" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWAOiupe7-8MpZoUfZd35EdoY8gFkSqeO7zj1eCcfOVCKQtX5mW4Ph1rBfn214AGWPAvHlcIR1riIhJEMk7KspOyTExCCzwDRCM9RRB4i_F9JVXO2_xu7_7oHLMx5vZylCmVYHxPWi1Gu_FtzyM-3BsdsMC4WOOljOur1wmKsBAr-3EN5mYz0qSSD6LA/s320/CardiffSwansea5.jpg" width="249" /></a></div><p>The adjacent area around Caroline Street was buzzing with late night bars and restaurants. Steve had moved from a small village near Newport to suburban Cardiff. He had taken well to city living and indeed Cardiff had plenty going for it. </p><p>Next morning I picked up the trail at Caroline Street and up St Mary’s Street as far as Cardiff Castle, admiring Victorian and Edwardian shopping arcades left and right: Morgan, Wyndhams and Royal were just three of the most charming. Where St Mary’s Street ran into High Street I couldn’t help but notice how inviting the boutique gin houses and speciality bars looked, even at 10.30am. There’s was time for a quick butchers’ through the imposing gates at Cardiff Castle and its timeline of architectural dabbling: 20th century reconstructed barbican and South Gate, Victorian Clock Tower and opulent Gothic revival house, Roman wall, and the Norman shell keep and banked earth defences. A fantastic hotchpotch of styles and trends set in superb grounds, much of the ambitious work carried out by the Earls of Bute who also gave their name to the area of dockland I’d visited the day before. </p><p>Back at the station, I bumped into a few of the cricket fans returning home after England had beaten Sri Lanka whilst I was necking ale and smashing up a curry. They told me the game had been a bit of damp squib amongst all the rain. I raised an eyebrow. I’d been in town for over 24 hours and hadn’t seen any bad weather. The curious micro-climate of Cardiff. The supporters headed east and I climbed aboard a quiet westbound service to Swansea. </p><p>Swansea city centre was not that much to speak of, to be fair, but walking over to Mumbles around the bay was an unalloyed joy. Why did no-one tell me how perfect this bay is? Sometimes you gotta get out there and find these things for yourself. I guess that’s the point of these posts. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbm4SI7_mAtdgpvrVuOzz16MLBorDAUqVeKVPFDSv-fZYtqoKphmef4jWs7XL2RsvxW4i3-AcxEeOw75FlsQLcPed7eLAY_Lh-S39goJ9JvKLTH5BZvBcXftrCOeLgCUeR8ovt_iBwAwGYghUWdjRVp_GheR3vYXBHwcEhWqml0_DpuaxrgEKZMr7b2Q/s1882/CardiffSwansea%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1184" data-original-width="1882" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbm4SI7_mAtdgpvrVuOzz16MLBorDAUqVeKVPFDSv-fZYtqoKphmef4jWs7XL2RsvxW4i3-AcxEeOw75FlsQLcPed7eLAY_Lh-S39goJ9JvKLTH5BZvBcXftrCOeLgCUeR8ovt_iBwAwGYghUWdjRVp_GheR3vYXBHwcEhWqml0_DpuaxrgEKZMr7b2Q/w400-h251/CardiffSwansea%201.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>If you look at the bay on a map, the shape resembles a surfers’ wave in profile. Even though the day was dull and visibility far from perfect, I could easily make out the steel works at Port Talbot, venting grey smoke into a cloudy sky, framed by blue-tinged hills behind. Mordor anyone? This marked the most obvious point at the start of the bay, forming the base of the surfer’s wave in my mind’s eye. Panning to the left I could make out Aberavon, the mouth of River Neath and then round to Swansea Docks on the cusp of the bay-wave. This is where I’d begun my walk that morning. I had joined the path beyond the Civic Centre which ran next to brightly decorated guest houses. One b&b, resplendent in post box red walls and white corner stones was called Devon View. I scoffed. Then looked to my left to make out the undulating profile of the <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/05/seaside-special-poets-corner-north-devon.html" target="_blank">Lynton and Lynmouth</a> coastline rising in misty greys over the horizon, which I’d mistaken for low cloud. I had stopped for a toasted ham and pepper ciabatta roll on the terrace of a bayside café and then carried on through the delightful Mumbles village up past the pier and onto Mumbles Head. Here I was recovering with a non-alcoholic fizzy pop. This is where the map bay-wave curled over and broke on the rocks of the promontory. In my imagination at least. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0yuXHCfTc1D0wLy4mWx_5b26Hyr18WLAeN5DMsiThE0nvZXmWz-FBZjK9VcJYFOeQqXyXVIPrSNUMNE8iAKXumkvx_PO1Jl37aMaU0HglgFV_qeKNEamxYaqGCuZLELtZ73m3D5zQYgwTuiRnHMxhbR5btQlCbpfWP4hJpOJbNfexelySh55Z5_OHHw/s1087/CardiffSwansea4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="622" data-original-width="1087" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0yuXHCfTc1D0wLy4mWx_5b26Hyr18WLAeN5DMsiThE0nvZXmWz-FBZjK9VcJYFOeQqXyXVIPrSNUMNE8iAKXumkvx_PO1Jl37aMaU0HglgFV_qeKNEamxYaqGCuZLELtZ73m3D5zQYgwTuiRnHMxhbR5btQlCbpfWP4hJpOJbNfexelySh55Z5_OHHw/w400-h229/CardiffSwansea4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Mumbles. No need to murmur. I’m saying it clearly: add this fine place to the list. I immediately created a Rightmove alert. Enough good looking pubs and eateries along the ‘Mumbles Mile’ to keep even the most thirsty and hungry in check; a smattering of culture and history courtesy of Dylan Thomas (the poet, not the race horse) and Oystermouth Castle; and that gorgeous stretch of rocky outcrop that forms two islets whose shape gives Mumbles its name – derived from the French mamelles for breasts. The headland also hosts the lighthouse and shields, on the south side the twin bays of Bracelet and Limeslade; and on east side the pier, the RNLI station and the boathouse. </p><p>The pier was a stunning bit of Victorian engineering that previously served as the terminus for a rail service from Swansea. Opened in 1907 as a horse-drawn service, it was the first regular railway passenger service in the World, carrying visitors from the city centre to the headland. By the time the axe fell, in yet another act of 60’s public transport vandalism, the service had become tram operated. I can’t think of a better way to arrive at this splendid location. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg13GdyaAfZ66Fp70trqVGD7vB-87GTp9qVkgMGLvefUImPTkATisQm34LqDKoWJbApvkYOYtcsz_hzvPe3tus5MYgAV98ARlkpEFaF47euAhd_c625A42IhreW97FmdyFQ3LdT1JQ15hepL-SmKOdQflEuCCugUwBECCpyCMjIdwILAOPTJ-0ynLPk2g/s1600/CardiffSwansea3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="952" data-original-width="1600" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg13GdyaAfZ66Fp70trqVGD7vB-87GTp9qVkgMGLvefUImPTkATisQm34LqDKoWJbApvkYOYtcsz_hzvPe3tus5MYgAV98ARlkpEFaF47euAhd_c625A42IhreW97FmdyFQ3LdT1JQ15hepL-SmKOdQflEuCCugUwBECCpyCMjIdwILAOPTJ-0ynLPk2g/w400-h238/CardiffSwansea3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>The town differed from other resorts I’ve seen on this tour because there was no sense of faded-glory or hastening decay about the place. Well-kept houses and shops, no obvious signs of run-down abandonment and streets so tidy even Nessa would have approved. But it was alarmingly quiet. As had been the walk over from Swansea. I boarded a bus back to town (in the long absence of the tram from the end of the pier) and put this down to the variable impact of Covid and the stuttering, irregular reopening and recovery of pretty much everything. A year later, as I write up this trip, those sentiments still ring true. </p><p><i style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Series navigation: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/04/seaside-special-excursions-to-coast.html">Intro and chapter guide</a></span></i></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Previous chapter: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/08/seaside-special-ding-dong-avon-calling.html">Ding-Dong,
Avon calling</a></i></span></p><p><i><span style="font-family: arial;">Next episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/09/seaside-special-tipping-point.html" target="_blank">Pembrokeshire</a></span></i></p><p><br /></p>Davoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2854417785396611556.post-9651549011876222262022-08-01T21:04:00.007+01:002022-08-03T16:43:16.751+01:00Seaside Special - Ding Dong: Avon Calling<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">These posts have so far all been presented according to the pattern of
the traditional pre-1974 county structure of England without too much fuss. The
geography of Local Government in England is a fractious mess (I’ve already had
one nerdy pop at this subject back in <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/10/seaside-special-sprawling-and-wittering.html" target="_blank">Sussex</a>). The old ceremonial
counties make sense for this sort of project. Only a small liberty was taken with
East Yorkshire which is technically a unitary authority, rather than a county.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">I wanted to include Bristol on these travels to mark the city’s influential
and sometimes controversial role as one of the major seaports of the British
Empire, together with some of the curious, charming and overlooked settlements
on each of its flanks. But how to categorise the area? What should I call it?
(Never mind what anarchists have to say about this. Labels are important.) Avon
would be the natural description as a former non-metropolitan county for this
part of west of England. However, it has ceased to be. It is an ex-county: a
brief administrative unit born in 1974 and killed off in 1996. The county was
named after the River Avon – makes sense – as the area’s dominant geographical feature
(excluding the Bristol Channel, of course). The unloved Humberside, which
existed for the same period, was conceived on a similar riparian concept.
However, the river in that case is a socking great estuary that needed the
(then) longest single span suspension bridge in the world to unite the two
banks. And it wasn’t even finished until 1981.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Avon was drawn from the former county boroughs of Bristol and Bath,
together with bits of Gloucestershire and Somerset to create a county of about
1 million souls. On abolition, the county area fell into four new unitary
authorities: Bath and North East Somerset, Bristol, North Somerset and South
Gloucestershire. Absolutely ridiculous. Taking my lead from a few institutions
who refuse to let Avon die - bodies such as the Avon Wildlife Trust, Avon Fire
and Rescue and Avon’s parliamentary constituency boundaries, this post will
keep the former county’s moniker alive.</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Bristol is a vibrant, attractive and thriving city, re-inventing itself after the decline of its port functions. I’ve visited Bristol over many years for pleasure: cricket at the County
Ground to see Gloucestershire thump Yorkshire when the idiosyncratic Jack Russell
ground out a gritty, unlovely ton in front of a few equally gritty and unlovely
visiting supporters; racing at Cheltenham when, in the absence of any nearby
accommodation, we found ourselves in the Premier Inn for a couple of nights,
together with a few beers in the hostelries around the city’s shiny Harbourside
development; gigs at Colston Hall for old school rock ‘n’ rollers like
Whitesnake, Magnum and Motorhead. The name Colston will crop up again in this piece.
</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">However, my first encounters with the city were for business purposes. In
the good old days of generously-funded arms-length quangos, I worked for the
Countryside Agency who had a south-west regional office in a former hotel overlooking
the spectacular Avon Gorge and the Clifton Bridge. Alas, the Agency and all its
enterprising policy and programme delivery, is gone. As is the lovely office.
Now returned to its original purpose, I gather. </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUqjjuL37dRvjx_l4FDBT2-BpX44XAtgYfAKyvw4Ooe4gjl9uwJ0Oy8iIg5nxYMwrKlf_6LdSHifedmikTvhpnSoyCtPE1oS5V22-ip8Nl4thMzhecJ61LCu70sofBQ6fgm4RiIiGfJL9WYbRJr166XDadxe8SHMQeIWqt_33GEVfBwVSDf-pbJSsYiQ/s880/clifton.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="506" data-original-width="880" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUqjjuL37dRvjx_l4FDBT2-BpX44XAtgYfAKyvw4Ooe4gjl9uwJ0Oy8iIg5nxYMwrKlf_6LdSHifedmikTvhpnSoyCtPE1oS5V22-ip8Nl4thMzhecJ61LCu70sofBQ6fgm4RiIiGfJL9WYbRJr166XDadxe8SHMQeIWqt_33GEVfBwVSDf-pbJSsYiQ/w400-h230/clifton.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Credit: VisitBristol</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">You can’t go far in Bristol without bumping into something created by or
celebrating Isambard Kingdom Brunel. The Clifton Suspension Bridge, gazed on so
admiringly whilst I should have been developing rural social exclusion policy, was
designed by that great Victorian engineer, although he never lived to see his
creation finished in 1864. The project was dogged with political and financial
difficulties, leading to a temporary abandonment of construction. Brunel’s
death at only 53 in 1859 acted as something of a galvanising force and the bridge
was completed as his memorial.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">A little up-river from Brunel’s bridge is his World-first
ironclad/propeller driven steamer, SS Great Britain, the largest liner afloat
when it was eventually launched in 1845, years late and over-budget. The ship
has had a remarkable journey since being built in dry dock off the River Avon that
takes in running aground off Northern Ireland, intermittent transatlantic
services, immigrant transports to Australia, being wrecked and scuttled in the
Falkland Islands and a philanthropic rescue that brought her back home to be
refurbished and converted in to a museum ship. This is arguably the most
profitable phase of the ship’s long history.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Bridges, ships and of course railways. Across town is Brunel’s eye-catching,
quirky Temple Meads mainline station. Built in mock-tudor style in 1840, the
façade remains, although it no longer forms part of the station infrastructure.
The addition of other lines led to congestion and the station was rebuilt a few
hundred yards up the hill in 1870 to accommodate three competing train
companies.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">All this talk of Victorian industry to serve a growing Empire inevitably
leads to the fact that much of the wealth of this maritime hub was gained through the slave
trade. For all the youthful, cosmopolitan and dynamic characteristics of the modern city, Bristol's coming-to-terms with its past has recently been seen in headline-attracting terms. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Bristol’s official involvement in the transatlantic trade started in
1698 when the London-based Royal African Company’s monopoly was ended. One
member of this Company was the merchant Edward Colston, who as well as a slave
trader was a significant benefactor to Bristol charities. That name again.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">But many Bristolians profited from the slave trade alongside and after Colston.
It dominated the city’s economy and seeped in to all aspects of business and
life. This comes from the Bristol Museums group:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Not only shipbuilders and slavers but also merchants,
tradespeople and manufacturers. Small investors could buy a share in a slaving
voyage and profits could be made at every point of the ‘triangular trade’ between
England, the ‘Guinea’ (West African) coast and the Caribbean.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Bristol ships supplied British colonies
with a wide range of goods for the plantations, including guns, agricultural
implements, foodstuffs, soap, candles, ladies’ boots and ‘Negro cloaths’ for
the enslaved.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Slave-produced Caribbean produce such as
sugar, rum, indigo and cocoa were brought to Bristol where sugar refining, tobacco
processing and chocolate manufacturing were important local industries.
Thousands of working people were employed in these processing industries.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The profits from the slave trade formed the basis of
Bristol’s first banks and literally laid the foundations for some of the city’s
finest Georgian architecture.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">The Black Lives Matter movement that became prominent during 2020 after
the murder of George Floyd feels like the most seismic political and social
movement to highlight and confront racism in my lifetime. It has raised the
awareness of ugly, unforgiveable incidents of police brutality and racially
motivated violence. It has caused a serious re-evaluation of our white-washed history,
of white privilege and of inherited prejudice. It has made me question things about
fairness and equity that I had previously taken for granted. Racism seems deep-rooted, complicated and often just below the surface of too much every day life. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd8N1mJjNgxuvN9-bNP5tjdfoPvBJsE3f9XBByqopJhwQHPzDxqCGa8klNXhNkzO5L8WQxateS8-dhW016KeB_VYH4f6pmJMdAbv8R_o5CJnhADKaNQf7n8TjWqx-6ANVRVLrNqbuh70fZApFxrqxfJyqKm3uEyjnroMYRScxDQYE_HX5nHEbvVHPvnw/s976/colston.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="549" data-original-width="976" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd8N1mJjNgxuvN9-bNP5tjdfoPvBJsE3f9XBByqopJhwQHPzDxqCGa8klNXhNkzO5L8WQxateS8-dhW016KeB_VYH4f6pmJMdAbv8R_o5CJnhADKaNQf7n8TjWqx-6ANVRVLrNqbuh70fZApFxrqxfJyqKm3uEyjnroMYRScxDQYE_HX5nHEbvVHPvnw/w400-h225/colston.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Credit: BBC</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">The protests that led to the toppling of Edward Colston’s statue from
its plinth in a Bristol public park caused both outrage and support. Colston
has become a touchstone for the debate about contextualising the actions of long-dead
individuals during the slave trade that at the time was legal and tacitly supported
or at least condoned by the Government and the Church. Colston was also a
benefactor to charities in Bristol and this apparent contradictory behaviour has
been cited by critics of the incident as proof of the need to maintain a
balanced view in what they see as the ‘rewriting of history’. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">However, it
emerges that Colston’s generosity was selective. A second plaque had been
planned by Bristol City Council for the plinth to better explain the trader’s
life. It was to read “Edward Colston played an active role in the enslavement
of over 84,000 Africans (including 12,000 children) of whom over 19,000 died en-route
to the Caribbean and America. Colston also invested in the Spanish slave trade
and in slave-produced sugar. As Tory MP for Bristol (1710–1713), he defended
the city's 'right' to trade in enslaved Africans. Bristolians who did not
subscribe to his religious and political beliefs were not permitted to benefit
from his charities.” The plaque was never installed.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Deep in to the 21<sup>st</sup> century we cannot be venerating and
celebrating slave traders. I might not have been at the front of the queue to
pull down the statue and tip it in to the harbour, but there is no reason to
mourn its loss. Other such memorials, busts and portraits should be stuck in a
museum and not honoured, or at least better described so that we can
understand what they and their paymasters did. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Moving on… Until this year, I had not ventured far beyond Bristol’s city
limits. I’m pleased to report that since June I’ve added visits to villages
both north-east and south-west of the regional capital.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The first occasion was in the company of a few old lags who knew the
area far better than me. We were celebrating the marriage of our friends Louise
and Steve who have connections to the area from way before Mrs A and I knew
them. For their party, they picked an estate on the banks of the River Severn
at Old Down with splendid views down the river to a bridge that IK Brunel had
nothing to do with: the graceful Second Severn Crossing, opened in 1996.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_CRPqDdqj3fwJmp8w2roblYqsmnfayAZOZTbmTnXzFE9BpaXlTzXODFRspDUd_SSno_WZ5PtB_dM51iofXZhEQnS_HFCZuiPSynXVxxc8PIeFOcYiN4DZVwq9n73Jqc4Vu-irhhMuzqNse48V6fL05-qJ8GvCQiXQRjqLV65x7Y0L0nE7DlZO-F9Cpw/s3324/Old%20Down%2017.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2430" data-original-width="3324" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_CRPqDdqj3fwJmp8w2roblYqsmnfayAZOZTbmTnXzFE9BpaXlTzXODFRspDUd_SSno_WZ5PtB_dM51iofXZhEQnS_HFCZuiPSynXVxxc8PIeFOcYiN4DZVwq9n73Jqc4Vu-irhhMuzqNse48V6fL05-qJ8GvCQiXQRjqLV65x7Y0L0nE7DlZO-F9Cpw/w400-h293/Old%20Down%2017.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">We were staying at The Anchor in nearby Oldbury, a fantastic, pretty
Theakstons inn with a gorgeous garden and a warm welcome. Yes, I’ve slipped
into review speak. I’m naturally hoping the owners read this and offer up a
couple of frothy beers in thanks. The sad part of this is – given our late check-in
close to the party get-go and a ridiculously late return after said event – we didn’t sample any ale. Not one pint. That may be the first time we’ve ever
stayed in a pub and not had a bevvy. Oldbury is upstream from Old Down and we
took a head-clearing ramble along the bank next morning and ticked off another river
crossing: the original Severn Bridge dating from 1966.</p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Louise and Steve’s party had been a blast. The 70’s disco theme was enthusiastically
embraced, more like bear-hugged and python-constricted, by all the guests who,
en-masse created a dangerous nylon/polyester fire hazard. Enough static
electricity to stem the current fuel crisis. And the colours! There’s a 70’s
museum somewhere with shirt-shaped holes in its lino and curtain collections.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpTuscgfp-s3nUUd1NpztgrQfPLr-LRgUqRGEGdIAX5PQcRzwD4jSqGZ0ylRj5lAlURNNUwriG0KjlHwmTUNItdj03ZVv0ZLRFTirI_TgveYeUBjHufCOQtGvdV2_Rp4F9IQKzfYUD6HK1RJm_AgCOQQFdaEY3oFFkNPPyYLgx8M65s0K1XAYjI3X2_w/s1436/Old%20Down%205.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1436" data-original-width="1025" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpTuscgfp-s3nUUd1NpztgrQfPLr-LRgUqRGEGdIAX5PQcRzwD4jSqGZ0ylRj5lAlURNNUwriG0KjlHwmTUNItdj03ZVv0ZLRFTirI_TgveYeUBjHufCOQtGvdV2_Rp4F9IQKzfYUD6HK1RJm_AgCOQQFdaEY3oFFkNPPyYLgx8M65s0K1XAYjI3X2_w/w285-h400/Old%20Down%205.jpg" width="285" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">Talking of 70’s, in July we popped over Clevedon on the other side of
Bristol, on our holiday-making way to Cornwall. The town appears to be caught
in a 70’s time trap. Though maybe more like the 1870’s than 1970’s. Attractive pier, wrought
iron-detailed bandstand, tidy begonia-stuffed flower beds in public parks, and Victorian-themed
tea rooms of a ‘Two Soups’ vintage. We stopped for coffee and sandwiches. The
prices were definitely modern however, and I briefly wondered if we’d paid for
a guest appearance by Julie Walters doing a Summer season. I did like the pier, as did John Betjeman, apparently. Very much a new entry in my top ten. We stopped short of looking in estate
agents’ windows though.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVlObT62NGpNrqPef1p8bJzT1ZrFjks2uGp09NkLABo53_ushEOUOjpTpSwQ1y_-MzYFk7dWFsMLz3tZGd8jBJ8P6ec71wf9CsqPqt_hNWXbuO4nSlLyErgnqxE1H_i2gzf05xKGNvNtwcMv11-RtwhChn8Iygjp6NvEGFhCuxx-WQZZp78Xz3Bjw93A/s4032/Clevedon%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVlObT62NGpNrqPef1p8bJzT1ZrFjks2uGp09NkLABo53_ushEOUOjpTpSwQ1y_-MzYFk7dWFsMLz3tZGd8jBJ8P6ec71wf9CsqPqt_hNWXbuO4nSlLyErgnqxE1H_i2gzf05xKGNvNtwcMv11-RtwhChn8Iygjp6NvEGFhCuxx-WQZZp78Xz3Bjw93A/w400-h300/Clevedon%201.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">Those unsubtle references to bridges in the blurb above should serve as
fair warning. They only head one way from this bank of the Severn Sea. Yep,
Wales next and all the juicy rugby/sheep/Gavin and Stacy stereotypes that she
has to offer.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>Previous installment: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/06/seaside-special-in-land-of-mangelwurzel.html" target="_blank">Somerset</a></i></p><p></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Davoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2854417785396611556.post-12847775885184537392022-06-21T15:03:00.005+01:002024-02-08T12:18:54.995+00:00Seaside Special - In the land of the mangelwurzel: Somerset <p><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjshVbVD-DSrYVmLEciFKVmmx7K-30etVc4sKvS0ch9_o8d-DHhN-HHNe7EIRdGkbmCIc85Z-XKRboxHChFAYqq5EZ31r74fxUu8np-rv_-WLuFpRUgNWEBk2iqdSTGJkFxcsBZCn5Ca2XN0e1z2RxI6ia-dmAzd9ATUxRHV-XhWwfQ9ab0zUsL-y7Iaw/s2048/Somerset%206-2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjshVbVD-DSrYVmLEciFKVmmx7K-30etVc4sKvS0ch9_o8d-DHhN-HHNe7EIRdGkbmCIc85Z-XKRboxHChFAYqq5EZ31r74fxUu8np-rv_-WLuFpRUgNWEBk2iqdSTGJkFxcsBZCn5Ca2XN0e1z2RxI6ia-dmAzd9ATUxRHV-XhWwfQ9ab0zUsL-y7Iaw/w400-h266/Somerset%206-2.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><br />I've done enough of these trips
to give a fair impression that when it comes to public transport, I know what
I’m doing. It’s an illusion. In Taunton I jumped aboard a service bus and asked
for a return to Watchet. 'To where?' said the driver with more than a hint of
fake bemusement, I thought. 'Watchet', I repeated firmly. Trying not to make it
sound like a threat, I quickly added 'on the road to Minehead?'</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif">'I know where it is, matey. You need a 28. This
is a 2A.’ Oh. Easy mistake to make when you're squinting at the front of an
on-coming vehicle and simply following the crowd at the bus stop. Baaaa. </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif">'There's one now.' He gestured at the double-decker
overtaking us. I sheepishly stepped down and out to wait another hour.</span><p></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Once settled on the correct service,
the journey up to Watchet was a swinging, pitching ride around the foothills of
the Quantocks. I admired stout, often steep slopes tufted with moorland bracken
and receding heather. The Quantocks website records about half-a-million visits
annually, mostly from people who live within sight of the hills. Mainly local
visitors, then. I guessed that competition from Exmoor, Dartmoor and The
Mendips gave explorers plenty of choice in this area. A bit like the way the
Forest of Bowland is quiet in comparison to the Dales, The Lakes and the coast in
the north west. Good places to know about for an under the radar trip.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The landscape flattened out
before Williton and soon the bus was descending steeply into Watchet. I climbed
out by the station for the West Somerset preservation steam railway which normally
runs from Bishop’s Lydeard, north-west of Taunton through to Minehead at the
top of Blue Anchor Bay. I had quite fancied a trip up the coast and past Dunster
Castle. However, there were no trains on Fridays outside the peak season. And
here I was on a Friday in early October the year before Covid-19 broke. There
would be a significant delay of the ‘unforeseen circumstances’ type before the
next Friday service steamed out of Watchet.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span color="windowtext" face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Instead of
encouraging my train obsession any further, I packed away my egg sandwiches and
ambled down to medieval harbour. Once the beating heat of town, the pulse of
the place would struggle towards a steady 60 bpm on that quiet afternoon. Watchet
first came to prominence in the Saxon period because of this safe anchorage and
was important enough to have its own mint, next door to the Bell Inn on the Esplanade
(where, inside, there is a serving hatch connecting the two).</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span color="windowtext" face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The mineral
rich landscape ensured the port prospered and by 1855 a new harbour was
commissioned to cope with the increase in iron ore trade. The Esplanade was
built at the same time. And the coming of two railway lines was the catalyst
for increased port activity that saw a peak of 1,100 shipping movements a year.
The West Somerset Mineral Railway ran down from the iron mines on the Brendon
Hills, and the West Somerset Railway (preserved as the heritage railway we have
already encountered) came up from the Bristol direction. Ships taking iron ore
across the Bristol Channel – known by locals with a touch of grandiosity as the
‘Severn Sea’ - to south Wales returned with coal, bricks and slate. Those
yellow bricks brought a distinctive note to many Watchet buildings.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span color="windowtext" face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">A few feet
of rusted railway track remained embedded on the solid, wide quay, ending
abruptly at a spur jutting out into the harbour. For a moment I was lost in a noisy,
filthy and long-departed world of mineral-heavy wagons lined up on the harbour awaiting
cranes to unload them into cargo steamers below. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span color="windowtext" face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The harbour
was now principally a marina for pleasure craft alongside a few working boats. I
was snapping pics and watching the tide gurgling back in to the marina through
the sluices in a wall that divided the two halves of the harbour when a wind blew
up from nowhere and horizontal rain zipped in from towering, filthy clouds
somewhere over Minehead. I stayed dry in the lee of the cast-iron lighthouse on
the western quay and noticed a plaque from 2012 unveiled by Princess Anne that commemorated
the 150th anniversary of the beacon.</span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPueAqCIwFxaqEZZt_xhrGDd1M-j1-c9ROWXh2ifCkT6T0IxQdyQu_3vcaUenY9UhMMbVApX4_IG_714bqkyu1odk3xYqrp0IaFRsLxqO-DERu-LfJY7benFa7jX40y1R50rhehIdj7_vd7kSErVsQKwXEXETt8hMhRyDS_U1X3BmM-If0aLe12yzSDA/s3358/Somerset%208-2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2471" data-original-width="3358" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPueAqCIwFxaqEZZt_xhrGDd1M-j1-c9ROWXh2ifCkT6T0IxQdyQu_3vcaUenY9UhMMbVApX4_IG_714bqkyu1odk3xYqrp0IaFRsLxqO-DERu-LfJY7benFa7jX40y1R50rhehIdj7_vd7kSErVsQKwXEXETt8hMhRyDS_U1X3BmM-If0aLe12yzSDA/w400-h294/Somerset%208-2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">A visit to
the little museum in the former Market House helped me plug some gaps in the
history of the port. The museum manager was a bit frosty when I spilled through
the door looking like a refugee from Glasto with my windswept demeanour,
suspect head wear and lugging a big old rucksack. But she began to soften when
I started asking her nerdy questions about the changing use of the harbour over
the years.</p><p></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span color="windowtext" face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">“After the
First World War, part of the harbour was leased by a scrap company.” She
pointed out a framed black and white photo on the wall of a Royal Navy ship.
“That’s HMS Fox”, she said. “It came here to be scrapped in 1923. It’s the
largest vessel ever to have entered the harbour.” The grainy image showed tugs
hanging off the Astraea-class cruiser like flies around a carcass, and I was staggered
that this hulk could navigate the tight entrance. Museum lady went on to
describe a slow decline at the harbour until commercial business ended around 2000.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span color="windowtext" face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I dropped a
few quid in the donation box on the way out and received a big smile. I am such
a local history tart.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span color="windowtext" face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Time for a
pint. The weather had eased enough for me to sit outside the Bell Inn and
contemplate an impressive statue of Samuel Coleridge's 'The Ancient Mariner' in
front of me. I mentioned in the <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/05/seaside-special-poets-corner-north-devon.html">Lynton</a> post that this fella would crop up
again. Here he is. The statue was a seven foot bronze of the ill-fated sailor who
stands with a noose around his neck and an albatross entwined around his legs.
I contemplated the emaciated figure with sticky-out ribs and a downcast face,
and reflected that the epic poem was one of the few that I really, properly liked.
But maybe that’s because Iron Maiden recorded an equally epic metal </span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">anthem of the same title, incorporating segments of the work that were read
by an actor whose voice had all the richness and treacly tone of Richard Burton
in his prime. Not to mention some stirring bass runs, biting guitar and complicated
double bass drum weaves from the band in their pomp. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgSaqR0I7GcqJFHSdReiUHwaUgvGcefb10rDHQUQK_X8KiJaaw40bJM8Ubq0x1T8cARAXf17VitnHNE2p9P1MoFaofMJmMZUVdXiIi-Rcn7_sAWMTQUVZQuVePaS5ZOTG5EpHsfEVcT7DQcKJhwpLUHazDx08_tsOrAzzM-DyZWYPsKfYWPgChZi9-AQ/s1280/somerset%2010.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgSaqR0I7GcqJFHSdReiUHwaUgvGcefb10rDHQUQK_X8KiJaaw40bJM8Ubq0x1T8cARAXf17VitnHNE2p9P1MoFaofMJmMZUVdXiIi-Rcn7_sAWMTQUVZQuVePaS5ZOTG5EpHsfEVcT7DQcKJhwpLUHazDx08_tsOrAzzM-DyZWYPsKfYWPgChZi9-AQ/w300-h400/somerset%2010.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></div><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Coleridge lived nearby and as
we have learned already on this tour, walked over the Quantocks from Lynton to
Watchet with his poet pal William Wordsworth. He was apparently enraptured by
the harbour (although that’s what they say in Lynton as well). The first lines
of the poem are reputed to have been written there at The Bell Inn. I raised my
glass to Coleridge and to Steve Harris and the Maiden boys too.</span></p><p></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">My time in the impressive, unplanned,
industrious little town finished with a walk over the eastern cliffs, pausing
at the former coastguard lookout at the top for a good view of the harbour’s
dominant and yet frequently inundated quays. JMW Turner once sketched the town
from this very spot. Over the other side of the cliff I was rewarded with an
equally stunning view of a full, wide and shallow rainbow settling over the
boulder strewn rock platform of a deserted Helwell Bay. I turned back and
caught a slap of rain on its way to reinforce the beautiful phenomenon over my
right shoulder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_GwEq5agWvyQ7X0OAZNvYzpkwsI1NDfG4nzm5RuO1rhmsMv-0t6Lsg09kCI6jTGDdfamAXHeZFlMNCPacPgHL07BmacNpNKKVmI9ROGanKYFIkSWr8CZwz2eJ5q34jwLVma93F_fDM1XZp3o1Gf_J326zqzX9aSi_DvIv57F3TEZmd_Xf4y2WUyPziQ/s4095/Somerset%207-2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2730" data-original-width="4095" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_GwEq5agWvyQ7X0OAZNvYzpkwsI1NDfG4nzm5RuO1rhmsMv-0t6Lsg09kCI6jTGDdfamAXHeZFlMNCPacPgHL07BmacNpNKKVmI9ROGanKYFIkSWr8CZwz2eJ5q34jwLVma93F_fDM1XZp3o1Gf_J326zqzX9aSi_DvIv57F3TEZmd_Xf4y2WUyPziQ/w400-h266/Somerset%207-2.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Almost exactly a year later,
Mrs A and I returned here with some mates and stayed on this cliff top in the coastguard
cottages to my left. Lockdown restrictions had progressively eased during the
Summer of 2020 and we squeezed in a cheeky weekend away during the October half
term only a few days before those lockdown shutters slammed down again. We came
for some R&R and ticked that box nicely, but Watchet was still spookily
quiet. Pubs closed, shops empty, streets deserted, rights-of-way blocked. We made
the best of it with good, home-cooked fare, polypins lugged with us from our
local Tring brewery and some coastal exploration further west. Dunster, the
town I’d missed on my initial visit was well worth the wait. A medieval village
preserved almost perfectly with a fine castle up the hill that gives on to
Exmoor <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>National Park.</span></p><p></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I had also visited </span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Somerset earlier
that crazy Covid Eat-Out-To-Help-Out Summer. I had found myself north-east of Watchet
at Burnham On Sea. I didn’t know the place, but was looking for an add-on to a
Bristol work trip and was attracted by pics of the lighthouse on the beach. Yes
I know, but sometimes you just get a feeling… I really didn’t know what to
expect. If I held any expectations, they were at the quaint and quiet end of
the spectrum. Burnham wasn’t really either of those.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The resort used to have a railway terminus right on
the sea front. It closed in 1966 and I walked into town from Highbridge station
where the Burnham spur used to join the Bristol to Taunton route. The walk was
less than two miles, so it’s a surprise the line lasted as long as it did. On
the other hand, such stations used to bring thousands of visitors to resorts
like this back in their heyday. The railway was the making of them.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Arriving on a Sunday night in August as day trippers
were packing up, the town had a buzz. A salt-of-the-earth seaside resort in the
middle of a decent spell of weather during a Summer when most holidaymakers
were staying in Britain. Burnham was benefitting.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Maybe it was a bit frayed around the edges. There were
a few empty shops and closed cafes, some likely to be a consequence of Covid-19
but hard to say how many. Precious few of the buildings held much architectural
merit, and there were rather more tattoo parlours and dodgy boozers that
strictly comfortable. But this was essentially an honest, small, affordable working
class family resort without the tack, tat and gaudy brashness of, say, Weston-Super-Mare
just up the coast. The seafront was a joy. Largely tidy, plenty of chippies and
acres of clean, usable sand.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">That sand, and the Bristol Channel, were the town’s
best asset. The Burnham Low lighthouse lived up tp its pictures on Flickr. Famous
for its position on the beach, it is held above the briny on nine wood and
metal legs. As the sun dipped behind this curious building, I was inevitably
snapping away in the company of a few other visitors.</span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfpa86_jm_VLhjNtxb5_JvOV6s4MmqIm9K3eKAzvp1aPyV2tophZbFgXHBEGJ2-mmtIY_A-xgwoQbiFpFC6IDKMIrSUpiwAmJWr1UDmMW00AlmRWOCxWrE0vsRB4pt5_N4W2AeaPfkgou3Hx452t5TpNKrGDgtXnvWYCLkghidiDg1wc9LnigY6FEmJQ/s4810/Somerset%209-2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4810" data-original-width="3207" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfpa86_jm_VLhjNtxb5_JvOV6s4MmqIm9K3eKAzvp1aPyV2tophZbFgXHBEGJ2-mmtIY_A-xgwoQbiFpFC6IDKMIrSUpiwAmJWr1UDmMW00AlmRWOCxWrE0vsRB4pt5_N4W2AeaPfkgou3Hx452t5TpNKrGDgtXnvWYCLkghidiDg1wc9LnigY6FEmJQ/w266-h400/Somerset%209-2.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">Lockdown has been a funny thing. I fell into
conversation with a couple from Derbyshire who should have been in Majorca
right then, but came to stay in a mobile home on the south of the bay after
that trip was cancelled. They weren’t moaning though. Well, they moaned a bit
about a two-and-half-hour delay on the M5 on the Friday night. But they loved
the beach and they had enjoyed a great stay. ‘No such thing as bad weather’,
said the bloke sporting a mahagony-tan, ‘just bad preparation, har-har!’ in an
echo of some long forgotten advert for Barbour jackets, or something. ‘Yep. Get
out and stay out, hehe,’ I said, echoing an equally distant advert for Nikwax
or some such. Honestly, we could have jousted TV ads all night, but sadly I had
some more sunset to photograph.</p><p></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And there were plenty of top photos to be had. Another
photographer with a fancy tripod and chunky camera had driven over from South
Wales for the evening with his wife and kids. I was marvelling at the view
whilst he was packing up his kit and muttering that the sunset was a bit
disappointing. Ten minutes later, the sky was filled with wispy alto-stratus underlit
by the most vibrant apricot glow silhouetting the nine-legged lighthouse. I chuckled
smugly and went back for more snaps.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Dog owners ruled Burnham. At least they did on the
stretch of sand north of the pier beyond the ‘Dogs Are Banned’ signs every 50
yards. The beach was absolutely crawling with hounds of any pure and cross-bred
variety you’d care to mention. One owner miscued a tennis-ball throw for her Labrador
and the object headed directly for me, picking up a bit of extra zip from the
puddles left behind by the retreating tide. My football skills have never been
much to speak of, but somehow I deftly lobbed the ball up off my right instep and
followed with a left foot volley that sent it flying back to the rather
startled owner. The dog stopped in mid-tongue-lolling stride, executed a
perfect 180 turn and sped back after the ball, sending a neat spray of wet sand
in my direction. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Alongside signs banishing dogs from the bits of the
beach in Summer, there were much more stark warning signs advising people to
stay clear of the mud at low tide. These warnings were not taken lightly by the
locals. Over the sea wall, I could see three kids slithering down the mud
embankment of the strangely named Brue Pill, a small river that empties into
the River Perrett at the southern end of Burnham. A woman on the esplanade
shouted to her husband to tell them to get out. But he was pre-occupied with
packing up a kite. The manager of the pub I was staying in later said that
someone had died out in the Channel the previous Summer.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">By the time I had strolled a little way upstream and
back, the kids had swum across the river and were absolutely caked in sloppy mud
on the far bank. I passed another local on the sea wall who was concerned
enough to be describing the scene in reasonably animated tones to someone who,
judging by her responses, worked on the lifeboats or in the coastguards. I
didn’t hang around to see the situation’s resolution. The kids were totally oblivious
and were having an absolute blast in what appeared to be a Tough Mudder event
they had designed entirely for themselves.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The pub I was staying in was busy. Gary and Kelly, the
managers, were friendly and working bloody hard. They had been busy for the
previous three weeks and had seen benefits from relaxed quarantine rules. Praise
for dishy Richi and his et out campaign was fulsome in those parts. Gary said
the restaurant was booked solid the next day from noon til 8pm. They offered to
squeeze me in somewhere and I was glad to see they were looking after
residents, but I already had fish and chips on the seafront in mind. Another
round of man-with-food vs hungry-herring-gulls was on the cards.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I woke up early the next morning and was distracted by
the traffic. Every four-wheel drive in the county seemed to be hitched up to
caravans in order to drive past my window at 7.30am. Later, walking to Brean
Down, I spotted where they were all headed. A string of massive camping and
caravan parks sprawled back from the north end of the beach; and were surrounded
by even larger mobile home sites with names like ‘Channel View Holiday Park’
and ‘Happy Days Touring Park’.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Later in the day, I came back to Burnham by service
bus, which was an open-top double decker. I was grinning like a kid with the
wind in my face and tugging at my face mask, suddenly transported back to Scarborough’s
Marine Drive on the open top buses between the North and South bays. Except the
face mask, obviously. Anyway, the bus route was on a road set back from the beach
and the top deck view had me goggling at the scale of the mobile homes and
caravans along this stretch of coast, punctuated by a not inconsiderable theme
park, replete with ferris wheel, go-kart track and log flume. A massive and faintly
scary string of developments. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I had missed much of these park on the walk north
earlier that day. They were hidden from the beach behind attractive sand dunes.
For the first three or four miles out of Burnham I had only a few dog walkers (naturally)
and joggers for company on the vast beach. The River Perret was away to my left
occupying a small part of the Bristol Channel. This part of the coast has the
second highest tidal range anywhere in the world. The sand was firm and flat. As
testament to that, I read that an American B17 Flying Fortress had crash landed
on the beach in 1943. All the air crew survived. One of its engines was
discovered 50 years later.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">There are other, more conventional wrecks in the
channel. Just off Berrow, protected by cloying mud and shifting sands, the SS
Nornen was slowly being claimed by the sea. Bones of the hull wrecked in 1897
can be seen at low tide. The ship ran aground in a fierce gale and Burnham’s
lifeboat was despatched to make a scrambled rescue of the Nornen’s ten crew (and
dog). The site was covered by the incoming tide that morning and there was no
evidence of the wreck.</span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw3-ptx5irp6Gp1ntYz2xrEpgexOq0gpt4wrC94yuDrlsFXTdHxOWFAmRFe8G6gKfRbgKC7m7tWfx9XPEl3WThkC2FnaIYECTjgYMfWdPIvwIZWSuoJHVI50mQ8fuGlUpcUMYaadMxxTWoE9lzPI3lJ3RX9JAk7n51G6gTg1YUyovnWNONA9Pj10je_w/s2048/Somerset%204-2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw3-ptx5irp6Gp1ntYz2xrEpgexOq0gpt4wrC94yuDrlsFXTdHxOWFAmRFe8G6gKfRbgKC7m7tWfx9XPEl3WThkC2FnaIYECTjgYMfWdPIvwIZWSuoJHVI50mQ8fuGlUpcUMYaadMxxTWoE9lzPI3lJ3RX9JAk7n51G6gTg1YUyovnWNONA9Pj10je_w/w266-h400/Somerset%204-2.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">The sand was comfortable underfoot. Firm amd moist. Only a small
strip adjacent to the dunes was the dry, rippled stuff above the high tide line. When I hit Berrow and later Brean, there were cars parked on
the hard packed sand. Where did they think this was? Daytona Beach?</p><p></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I was heading for Brean Down. I could see its ghostly
outline at the top end of the bay, partly obscured by murk and mist. The environment
began to change as I approached that end of the bay. Too many cars had
compacted the sand into something closer to a concrete road. Unattractive black
silt the shade of engine oil covered much of the surface, having been washed up
from the foot of the Down. There were no dunes anymore to shield casual passers-by
from the holiday parks and after an eight-mile yomp, I began to feel despondent.
Restoration was found in a pee, a frothy coffee and a cheese pasty, all obtained
from the National Trust café via socially distanced queuing.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Brean Down completed the resurrection. Despite a
thigh-straining zig-zag climb up steps with implausibly high risers dug into
the side of the cliff, the view was uplifting. The ascent was only 300-odd
feet, but the startling feature of the Down is its 1½ mile projection into the
Bristol Channel, giving a remarkable feeling of being cast adrift in the sea on
a knife-edge of rock. Its exposure given literal presence by the trees blown into the shapes of cycling helmets by the prevailing south-westerleys.</span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhyOW_AHX4JG22P5ahkObo4I4GdvVqtK22i93R5m0dgYwk5BdOo5QSy8NKHpKSgjUDVXxD3MLYuwWDGH2jVCfNwImqe66-1bdg_SkNoE6L6bI9WWBAH-WpVp3gVjJsNmVgS1rTgR57KfL_aaImjjhgeMQDCOi30aJ_-KJj3xSzpZNGVQU7evY2rG_dGQ/s2048/Somerset%203-2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhyOW_AHX4JG22P5ahkObo4I4GdvVqtK22i93R5m0dgYwk5BdOo5QSy8NKHpKSgjUDVXxD3MLYuwWDGH2jVCfNwImqe66-1bdg_SkNoE6L6bI9WWBAH-WpVp3gVjJsNmVgS1rTgR57KfL_aaImjjhgeMQDCOi30aJ_-KJj3xSzpZNGVQU7evY2rG_dGQ/w400-h266/Somerset%203-2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_2Q1JTNgCOw9j7m6bfNxD0yFYB8Ngefs7n7yTRFZ4oLUxHbGai5Rld0dxt_1qzdWWHyV8lFj-5yfcXC371QW5kURNCK3dViPN_nnzgtTki_zSi0UKgf3jjgkJZE0jnyFrV2Dx4QzNHDNS7WJrn7aaRDzgT_gFjSzaC9BmIi0YML_mRs8NF9xMyiz6cQ/s2048/Somerset%202-2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1520" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_2Q1JTNgCOw9j7m6bfNxD0yFYB8Ngefs7n7yTRFZ4oLUxHbGai5Rld0dxt_1qzdWWHyV8lFj-5yfcXC371QW5kURNCK3dViPN_nnzgtTki_zSi0UKgf3jjgkJZE0jnyFrV2Dx4QzNHDNS7WJrn7aaRDzgT_gFjSzaC9BmIi0YML_mRs8NF9xMyiz6cQ/w298-h400/Somerset%202-2.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">The Down is a continuation of the Mendip Hills that
run like a limestone spine through west Somerset. The site has been occupied
since the late Bronze Age. The most recent structure was a fort built at the
western tip originally to repel Napoleonic France in the late 18</span><sup style="text-align: left;">th</sup><span style="text-align: left;">
Century that was then re-tooled and extended in WWII with coastal gun batteries
and anti-aircraft positions. I was fascinated by two rusty metal rails that
exited the fort at the base and headed down the promontory ending near the
forward searchlight post. They were used for testing seaborne bouncing bombs. Explosives
were launched down the track on a trolley before hitting a ramp which
catapulted them into the sea. The experiments were abandoned when one trolley
hurtled at such speed that it caught fire, prematurely detonating the device
just outside the fort.</span></div><p></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Back in in Burnham that night, I fulfilled my personal
promise to sit by the lifeboat jetty and scoff fish and chips watching the
sunset. My tea was purchased from the busy Esplanade café which clearly enjoyed
a buoyant reputation. A framed photo montage on the wall entitled ‘Celebrities
that have visited the Esplanade fish bar’ had Tommy Banner from The Wurzels as
its centrepiece. Tinkering with his squeeze box. Ahem. In between sarcastic
chuckles that he might also have his handprints on Hollywood Boulevard, my
google search revealed that the band still has a significant cult following in
these parts, having recently released music with British Sea Power, been
managed by The Stranglers’ team and numbering Bill Bailey amongst their fans. OK,
I get the point…</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Anyway, the fish and chips were absolutely worth
Tommy’s endorsement. I polished them off whilst humming ‘I’ve Got A Brand New
Combine Harvester’ and keeping a nervous eye on the line of herring gulls to my
left, clearly contemplating a frontal assault. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6TuKG56yXD_yRKMEa4DjHZNh8Vs2LItD3f0cmviwLhG-FeMa5gBixxAdF_ZD8jqlN2skEiCKQYjI2dEv_WwiFwRWfei7p-gUTsQzYM-JNtLLB471KEviLV896gPn_PBXL5ZIDX7v_XqGyrcK6MHC90s9lyXJmjx46VBHycUb0XfsUtcPC-DBlmzMMYA/s2048/Somerset%205-2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1463" data-original-width="2048" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6TuKG56yXD_yRKMEa4DjHZNh8Vs2LItD3f0cmviwLhG-FeMa5gBixxAdF_ZD8jqlN2skEiCKQYjI2dEv_WwiFwRWfei7p-gUTsQzYM-JNtLLB471KEviLV896gPn_PBXL5ZIDX7v_XqGyrcK6MHC90s9lyXJmjx46VBHycUb0XfsUtcPC-DBlmzMMYA/w400-h286/Somerset%205-2.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The Somerset coast isn’t somewhere I’d been until those
trips in 2019 and 2020. I have a dim memory of a week in Weston-Super-Mare when
I was about ten. However, these memories revolve around staying up late in the
caravan park bar to watch some God-awful spangly cabaret act (definitely not
The Wurzels) and winning about 38 pence in tuppenny bits from the coin
waterfalls in seafront arcades.</span></p><p></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I’ve become a bit of a fan of the area. Glimpses of
tough, hard-edged coastline mix with stretches of wide beach, broken up by understated
towns and estuaries with livid currents that require detours of many miles
inland to cross them. The experience has whetted my appetite to return and peel
back a few more layers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><i><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">Series navigation: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/04/seaside-special-excursions-to-coast.html">Intro and chapter guide</a></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Previous post: North Devon - </span><a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/05/seaside-special-poets-corner-north-devon.html">Poet’s
corner</a></p></i></span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Next episode: </span><a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/08/seaside-special-ding-dong-avon-calling.html">Ding-Dong,
Avon calling</a></i></span></div>Davoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2854417785396611556.post-13666362694378720302022-05-02T22:29:00.004+01:002024-02-08T12:14:20.923+00:00Seaside Special - Poets' Corner: North Devon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv7ZTB6xTFAa3uBmP2yl5lXfyDwLT4wXxwU6dyzFhyDMs-1cYEK-oSJrz94RFCaE_ouY3HYJ9P8MdxE5ibCj1EvE1BdmZuUxQMwJJquNY62FnEmSgSn5tFzluqvObm7bTCe4n6z5xnqTJEks_dJmoBjFvbdq-KzZabg3s4y0CjNfkkV1rceWDFi4tXqA/s4881/DSCF1473.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2165" data-original-width="4881" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv7ZTB6xTFAa3uBmP2yl5lXfyDwLT4wXxwU6dyzFhyDMs-1cYEK-oSJrz94RFCaE_ouY3HYJ9P8MdxE5ibCj1EvE1BdmZuUxQMwJJquNY62FnEmSgSn5tFzluqvObm7bTCe4n6z5xnqTJEks_dJmoBjFvbdq-KzZabg3s4y0CjNfkkV1rceWDFi4tXqA/w400-h178/DSCF1473.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Departing Exeter St David’s railway station I continue to bump in to the legacy of that man Paul Theroux on these trips. Back in 1982 on his ‘The Kingdom by the Sea’ round-Britain yomp, our mentor took the Exeter To Barnstaple branch line, where conversations with passengers were about the Falklands War. The conflict is still the topic of discussion today as we mark forty years since HMS Invincible sailed down The Solent accompanied by a flotilla of support vessels and a ticket to save Thatcher’s premiership. Without over-stretching the history-repeating-itself observation, the Russian-Ukrainian war is currently doing the same for Boris Johnson. </p><p>Theroux seemed to enjoy his journey between Exeter and Barnstaple, but was far from optimistic about the line’s chances of survival. I’m chuffed to say (as if in some way I’m responsible) that it is still open and busy with regular services, despite his doom-laden predictions. </p><p>The railway infrastructure has changed so much since the last quarter of the 20th Century. Not many people would have predicted the growth in passenger numbers and the surge in community-led rail partnerships that are encouraging branch lines to thrive - and in some cases expand – up and down the country. All this despite one of the most flawed and costly privatisation models ever dreamed up. </p><p>That said, the Exeter-Barnstaple route felt like a throwback. Beyond Eggesford heading north - roughly half-way - the journey is single-track and necessitates the use of a ‘token system’. This was the first time outside a preservation railway that I’d seen this safety mechanism used. A driver is required to be in possession of a token before entering a two-way section of single-track. There is only one token, thus ensuring only one train is on the section at any one time. In a digital age, this is a reassuringly physical Golden Age of Steam solution first used in 1849. </p><p>The track winds a sinuous trail through the most spectacular bits of north Devon hills beside the River Taw into Barnstaple, where the estuary opens out into Bideford Bay. Barnstaple is a curious town. ‘Neither nowt nor summat’, as my Mam would say. I had a coffee in the town museum, newly housed in a cleaned and restored wharf building facing a tidy square. The view north took in the estuary and Long Bridge, a medieval stone crossing of 16 arches that is one of the oldest of its kind in the country. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh36GAPCK4jwcPD5GTAUq5kOpE7mc71e3gS36LeG2ena7g2ycyJPirslaf4QtQZ-Hd9Yp0-q8qJ_vrVLcDaItB22kcvqn1k13PDJpNcnlHzsD3aBgs13qx-275XQqGzJeAPomx3eSyF1DVo1rde-hpZbwEHK0YvoTeqY8AQcI-ECeaiWSCWu-hcIOgMiw/s3500/20220126_133532.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2333" data-original-width="3500" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh36GAPCK4jwcPD5GTAUq5kOpE7mc71e3gS36LeG2ena7g2ycyJPirslaf4QtQZ-Hd9Yp0-q8qJ_vrVLcDaItB22kcvqn1k13PDJpNcnlHzsD3aBgs13qx-275XQqGzJeAPomx3eSyF1DVo1rde-hpZbwEHK0YvoTeqY8AQcI-ECeaiWSCWu-hcIOgMiw/w400-h266/20220126_133532.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>The path upstream took me as far as Rock Park, soaking up the pleasant January sunshine, where I ambitiously hoped the name indicated a shrine to heavy metal. An Iron Maiden climbing wall or a Judas Priest roundabout maybe? No, of course not. The open space was named after William Rock, a Victorian philanthropist and town benefactor who donated the land and paid for ruined cottages and industrial buildings to be cleared away. The closest I came to a celebration of my favourite music genre was spotting a scaffolder on the roof of an adjacent building refurb gyrating to a God-awful grime rap track on his over-loud builder’s radio (is there any other kind?) that made his safety harness move in unspeakable ways. I felt quite sick.</p><p>Back in the town centre, I waited for the bus to Lynton on the north Devon coast. The bus station had rather more young people hanging around than you might expect: all dyed hair and combat trousers, but not quite pulling off the surf bum look. You need to be a bit further west for that to stick. </p><p>Very shrewdly, I took a seat over the rear axle of the bus, stepped up higher than those at the front, remembered how Devon lanes are always flanked by high sided hedges blocking out all those cracking views from low level car windows. The plan worked. This elevated position had me gazing down the Yeo Valley and over moorland towards Parracombe. Until a post van turned out of a blind corner, forcing our driver to break hard and swerve, projecting me forward, backside off the seat, grabbing at the air. We came to a juddering halt inches away from the garden wall of a house on the corner. ‘Everyone alright?’ shouted the driver, observing my discombobulation his rear view mirror. We pulled away and I caught the name of the abode: Well Close Cottage. Indeed. </p><p>Parracombe, whilst we are on the subject of tight squeezes, is the most difficult set of tiny streets I've ever seen a bus negotiate. Particularly around the bottle neck outside the good looking pub (The Fox and Goose for future reference). I dreaded to think what chaos would ensue trying to navigate this in Summer traffic. </p><p>When planning this trip, I stumbled upon the website of the Lynton and Barnstaple preservation railway. How had I missed this route, I mused, seeing my outing to the coast take on a new dimension. Only a little further digging was needed to unearth a little deception on the part of the railway that runs for only a mile or so on a small part of restored moorland narrow-gauge track a few miles outside Lynton. The name of the Trust reflected its ambition rather than its actualité. This was just the start of their restoration journey. My bus route criss-crossed bits of the trackbed and railway infrastructure across the moor, including an impressive viaduct at Chelfham. Good luck to them. What a spectacular rescue this would be. </p><p>Much as I love seaside towns out of season, Lynton really stretched the limits for minimum service requirements. Don't get me wrong. The town was everything I hoped for from its cliff top location, stacked with grand Edwardian villas and fine hotels overlooking Lynmouth Bay hundreds of feet below. The church was a real gem with superb views over to Eastern beach and Wind Hill. I scoffed a Londis meal deal in its graveyard, noting that Percy Byshe Shelley, Coleridge and Wordsworth had all been there before me, clearly inspired by the view from this spot. Their dining arrangements remain unrecorded. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3bL3Lki6l8-ckbZKtC23JHnwBFX2HmrlFhhPYmrY7OqltNuEw6_jlmT0D1owiB8yN8elEZdy9oqOes3zmhDvkXJ9QwjSs9JnYSHJao7v-GmaCsvH2Yi7X4IdUocsHMNBto_LRy1hBQLXTF1Ej6QvJXeyVKPIzWlgGMBzRV99hyekLzKCo4q-rWZ-igA/s2206/20220126_152632.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2206" data-original-width="2206" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3bL3Lki6l8-ckbZKtC23JHnwBFX2HmrlFhhPYmrY7OqltNuEw6_jlmT0D1owiB8yN8elEZdy9oqOes3zmhDvkXJ9QwjSs9JnYSHJao7v-GmaCsvH2Yi7X4IdUocsHMNBto_LRy1hBQLXTF1Ej6QvJXeyVKPIzWlgGMBzRV99hyekLzKCo4q-rWZ-igA/w400-h400/20220126_152632.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Lynton's old town had switchback hillside lanes chock full of galleries, tearooms, bric-a-brac emporia and cute looking pubs. Some of them were even open when I arrived in the early afternoon. But all were shut by 4pm. </p><p>My hotel for the night was not offering an evening meal. I knew this in advance, so no complaints about that. I was, though, hoping/expecting/anticipating that one of the pubs or restaurants would offer me something at night. But no/rien/nada. Kate, the hotel manager, was very apologetic. It being January and all, she pointed out. She thought something might be open in the village below. There was a connection down the sheer cliff face via the 125 year old cliff funicular. But it was closed until February for maintenance. </p><p>In fact Lynmouth was always my preferred option. I wanted to explore the seaside village in daylight, particularly as the weather had broken reasonably clear after days and days of undefined, seamless, blanket grey cloud. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2rFHZALU41vq1YahsMpjFnyOVsqjC3cbVF5PXquFmYcoBAIpmXU8GbHMsEkvYlJHNZkL-sY7X7bgmcX0J6pnq9WvmFM3snYRPh_IXAQhZHe5W3D8KfkadT_IxGsBQZuJfKlm1gbamo121N-f77w5y-2GX-JJw_gJ2_bwWsnRBFmpALiKO3abAQv4-aw/s6060/DSCF1480.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4040" data-original-width="6060" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2rFHZALU41vq1YahsMpjFnyOVsqjC3cbVF5PXquFmYcoBAIpmXU8GbHMsEkvYlJHNZkL-sY7X7bgmcX0J6pnq9WvmFM3snYRPh_IXAQhZHe5W3D8KfkadT_IxGsBQZuJfKlm1gbamo121N-f77w5y-2GX-JJw_gJ2_bwWsnRBFmpALiKO3abAQv4-aw/w400-h266/DSCF1480.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>The knee-creaking zig-zag descent of 500 feet to the seafront was dotted with hand-written, laminated poems attached to trees and railings. In celebration of the poets that had been inspired by this corner of Devon, visitors and residents alike had written their own verses and rhymes in annual competitions; and which were now displayed on this Poets Walk. </p><p></p><p>Charming as they were, I resolved to tackle the punishing path back up to my hotel only once. Either after I'd found a pub to eat in. Or in time to stroll out to Londis for a pot noodle.</p><p>Lynmouth, although smaller than its cliff-top neighbour, did indeed offer food options. My first stop was a pub called the Ancient Mariner. Coleridge again. Or Iron Maiden again, depending in your cultural references. We'll get more of this further along the coast in Somerset. </p><p>The hostelry had a number of saving graces: Exmoor Gold on draft, a very fine steak burger meal and possibly best of all, an eclectic, diverse music playlist. I ate and drank to tracks from The Cure's early goth phase, obscure material by The Cocteau Twins whom you never ever hear in mainstream pubs, Kingmaker, 10,000 Maniacs, The Pixies, and on. Brilliant and unexpected. I had to ask the bar manager who had put this classic piece of late 80s indie music together. He had no idea what I was on about. Kids eh? </p><p>Taking a turn around the harbour, I paused by the Flood Memorial Hall. On these trips around the coast, there are often recurring themes. Flooding is absolutely one of them. Having first written about the inundation of 1953 in Lincolnshire, then Canvey Island, and more recently, the Boscastle flood of 2004, here I was in January 2022 reading about another story of devastation wrought in a pleasant, quiet seaside resort. A downpour on 15 August 1952 saw nine inches of rain fall on Exmoor in 24 hours. Water cascaded off the moor down the East and West Lyn rivers which were swollen even before the storm. Trees were uprooted and formed dams behind bridges, creating walls of water that carried huge boulders into the village. The flooding claimed 34 lives. </p><p>What sets this apart from other disasters is the fascinating conspiracy theory that has swirled around ever since. In essence, it is that the storm was caused by experiments to artificially create rain. During August 1952, North Devon experienced 250 times the normal rainfall for the month. In 2001, a BBC investigation discovered that classified documents on secret experiments to seed clouds and create rain had gone missing, alongside evidence from RAF logbooks. There’s also personal testimony: survivors have apparently told how the air smelled of sulphur on the afternoon of the floods, and that the rain was so hard, it hurt people's faces. </p><p>Strolling up the beguilingly calm and beautiful East Lyn valley (along the Coleridge Way long-distance path, naturally) it was terrifying to imagine these narrow and steep-sided valleys funnelling tonnes of rainwater and deadly debris onto the village below. There would have been nowhere to hide. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxCF9juv-ewKksKa6wr92C_6LDr6seVdf3gOYaJceau96VWEv_uU5hOIE1yZ8LDY-UspICEDfJXXVuVdc4ZYzR6xrbRXgkZakMDdekAhjXdaeinD6v2CvcIJHTlsjgDK5abtsS1AKuFJ152xd-2D0MlyCDozlu4-u_IXqFzZjrdAz5hwKXNqcurpt62w/s5207/DSCF1485.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5207" data-original-width="3471" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxCF9juv-ewKksKa6wr92C_6LDr6seVdf3gOYaJceau96VWEv_uU5hOIE1yZ8LDY-UspICEDfJXXVuVdc4ZYzR6xrbRXgkZakMDdekAhjXdaeinD6v2CvcIJHTlsjgDK5abtsS1AKuFJ152xd-2D0MlyCDozlu4-u_IXqFzZjrdAz5hwKXNqcurpt62w/w266-h400/DSCF1485.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><p>Back by the harbour I was distracted by lights on the horizon and I was surprised to see Port Talbot steel works and various small towns glinting in a multi coloured display of industrial, maritime and residential neon across the Bristol Channel. Although the day had been fairly clear, there had been no hint if this view a few hours earlier. </p><p>A few atmospheric snaps were taken for posterity and then I decided it would be rude not to call in to The Rising Sun, the only other open pub in the village. Given that they had gone to the effort and all that. The first thing to say is that the playlist was not in the same league as the Ancient Mariner’s down the road. But Dire Straits, Bruce Springsteen and commercial era Clash would have to do. And like the earlier pub, the atmosphere here was relaxed, friendly and welcoming. Both venues had been busy enough. Let that be a lesson to their shirking cousins up the hill. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmSztUHvr0TzHpxcFwXQuu4q923xKB1lYNVEKriNdbzJDnhZ6zNnQKRcoueFXOFGpjUG4rMr_pai9Um25rYMJ2iMsx8LpE6bx4sEL-SqXhIjuG25Xim-2uBG3dsn1R92ts6cz07Uf-vDU9zrjaTPIevgQnJsid3QnQfPKgbs_Z94Jc9orOudvEzyK0VQ/s2882/20220126_192729.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1921" data-original-width="2882" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmSztUHvr0TzHpxcFwXQuu4q923xKB1lYNVEKriNdbzJDnhZ6zNnQKRcoueFXOFGpjUG4rMr_pai9Um25rYMJ2iMsx8LpE6bx4sEL-SqXhIjuG25Xim-2uBG3dsn1R92ts6cz07Uf-vDU9zrjaTPIevgQnJsid3QnQfPKgbs_Z94Jc9orOudvEzyK0VQ/w400-h266/20220126_192729.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Next morning I joined the path directly outside my hotel towards the Valley of Rocks half a mile distant. Kate, the hotel manager had told me how beautiful was this part of the coastline, yet I was still unprepared for the spectacular landscape. After emerging from lush woodland and entering the valley through a kissing gate, I was met by a feral goat half way up a limestone outcrop returning my bewildered gaze. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOMyBdxKgwLJuTiGZ68ErmTZRSyYvM9t1QbmotuTHFlSz3KBR8PPHe8ja6hm6wWnPw6uQj6Q5MD84Hs18tkkW1ayktguZ-ITQxrEeaywGkEoVwzIUUaEYaEIn5652pOblb7g7OKTag-5F1v5QBPP9EJpJws4xyn0jVm3GYgXmFY_pGo4EKvt-F6-_tLA/s3636/20220127_102608.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3636" data-original-width="2727" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOMyBdxKgwLJuTiGZ68ErmTZRSyYvM9t1QbmotuTHFlSz3KBR8PPHe8ja6hm6wWnPw6uQj6Q5MD84Hs18tkkW1ayktguZ-ITQxrEeaywGkEoVwzIUUaEYaEIn5652pOblb7g7OKTag-5F1v5QBPP9EJpJws4xyn0jVm3GYgXmFY_pGo4EKvt-F6-_tLA/s320/20220127_102608.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>The Valley of Rocks is a U-shaped dry valley running parallel to the sea and is well known (I discovered later) for these brown and white goats roaming free over jagged cliff edges. During the Ice Age the ice sheet prevented the East Lyn River from reaching the sea on its normal route and was diverted westwards. When the ice sheet retreated the river was able to resume its original path, leaving this valley riverless. The area is littered with striking rock formations, impossibly balanced ledges and peaks, caves, sink holes and smooth valley walls. Kate had told me that she could see animal shapes in some of her favourite configurations.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimMU7XZKGYRqb4JO3QJgZICA8SDRrUiWlhgcnHhycAcI6rLTcdkPr2adnhcqKW7WXpOL93pAvgCTFqyKFY6Cc7zWAa6sT79dVtOHfBO3dBkWw4AhgZkpakXkYTZfjmLrtJQro4dt5hgaXJUNDoNt-u5VN7tV2eZ5MYRpR7ewCZJXDFUxvcWGHnCAvfrg/s4032/20220127_104622.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimMU7XZKGYRqb4JO3QJgZICA8SDRrUiWlhgcnHhycAcI6rLTcdkPr2adnhcqKW7WXpOL93pAvgCTFqyKFY6Cc7zWAa6sT79dVtOHfBO3dBkWw4AhgZkpakXkYTZfjmLrtJQro4dt5hgaXJUNDoNt-u5VN7tV2eZ5MYRpR7ewCZJXDFUxvcWGHnCAvfrg/w320-h240/20220127_104622.jpg" width="320" /></a><br /></div><p>At that early hour, I had the place to myself. Gradually the weather closed in and drizzle leaked from low clouds, wrapping me ever more tightly in to the landscape. Even amongst the murk, the colours cut through. The tawny browns of bracken, depending greens of rhododendron, yellow of the early flowering gorse, and the shades of white lichens that had colonized the Devonian slabs to give a fair impression of winter camouflage on a Soviet era Armoured Personnel Carrier. Actually, maybe the poet Robert Southey, who visited here in 1799, puts it a little better than me: ‘covered with huge stones … the very bones and skeletons of the earth; rock reeling upon rock, stone piled upon stone, a huge terrific mass’.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhMCxkFI0o-7SwTgzyBbM6ejMonhYHURhAeBD_nYphmBhk5D-yte3kDRgY9eLxKwBsqqnJd6xKz7p9DRctQu_Dc0lE1-mSclUxpxS1bmsW5pchZl4Vg4_nDH2-FBXyOJgoeeDqdmDtaY3kIcepyCg24VQoNGGibnQVBMu0i7R7-_qPHCHflvyYfPM8Xg/s3741/20220127_114332.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2806" data-original-width="3741" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhMCxkFI0o-7SwTgzyBbM6ejMonhYHURhAeBD_nYphmBhk5D-yte3kDRgY9eLxKwBsqqnJd6xKz7p9DRctQu_Dc0lE1-mSclUxpxS1bmsW5pchZl4Vg4_nDH2-FBXyOJgoeeDqdmDtaY3kIcepyCg24VQoNGGibnQVBMu0i7R7-_qPHCHflvyYfPM8Xg/s320/20220127_114332.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>At the end of the valley, a single track lane entered the grounds of Lee Abbey and ascended to higher ground. The gloom lifted just long enough to give a sneaky, rewarding view down the coastline towards Lee Bay, before swallowing it up again. I turned round and headed back to Lynton, with my head in the clouds. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5KSIhbbMiJkRSmKgeNHY5MWARa50oqqaovyOQxTsQ-rZRfaKI06sz0iSN0a9a6lMVqS8HgVmobFj38E9v0i0V3hwXDlmbq9eGNUrHmAXNvVgQOmK5Y-jynGpcJMbsohAM7DjUrYTpNM58DNE_A_sFmnWrT7qYTIpgx4u-vrYnTjhrzBQUsRNACRtdBg/s1887/20220127_111048.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1415" data-original-width="1887" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5KSIhbbMiJkRSmKgeNHY5MWARa50oqqaovyOQxTsQ-rZRfaKI06sz0iSN0a9a6lMVqS8HgVmobFj38E9v0i0V3hwXDlmbq9eGNUrHmAXNvVgQOmK5Y-jynGpcJMbsohAM7DjUrYTpNM58DNE_A_sFmnWrT7qYTIpgx4u-vrYnTjhrzBQUsRNACRtdBg/w400-h300/20220127_111048.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>The town was busier than the previous evening. It could hardly be quieter. Wednesday seemed like the new Monday round here. Everything kicked off again on Thursdays when there would have been plenty of eating options. Another night’s stay was so tempting. Sitting in Charlie’s Coffee Place, gently seduced by the Scandinavian wood and neon vibe, I realised I had barely scratched the surface of Lynton and Lynmouth. Plans had been made though, and restraint won the day. The bus over the moor whisked me back to Barnstaple and I idly wondered how busy the towns would be when high summer sun was hitting the sea, compared to the south Devon hotspots, or Ilfracombe and Bude further west on this coast. With that, the cloud broke and the late afternoon was filled with sunshine. I think I made the wrong decision.</p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><i>Series navigation: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/04/seaside-special-excursions-to-coast.html">Intro and chapter guide</a></i></p></span><p></p><p><i><span style="font-family: arial;">Previous episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/03/seaside-special-atlantic-highway-north.html" target="_blank">The Atlantic Highway, North Cornwall</a> </span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-family: arial;">Next episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/06/seaside-special-in-land-of-mangelwurzel.html" target="_blank">In the land of the mangelwurzel - Somerset</a></span></i></p><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Davoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2854417785396611556.post-39835885783599768712022-03-25T14:38:00.006+00:002024-02-08T12:13:19.500+00:00Seaside Special - The Atlantic Highway: North Cornwall<p>The magnificently monikered Atlantic Highway invites almost as many Grand Tour images as last chapter’s <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/02/seaside-special-night-riviera-south.html">The Night Riviera</a>. The best section of the A39 – as it is known in everyday terms – creates a north-east/south-west axis between Blue Anchor Bay in Somerset and some of the more remote bits of Cornwall down to its junction with the A30 near Newquay. The route became the spine of an excellent trip last Summer to North Cornwall, as well as both the north Devon and Somerset episodes that follows this one. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCAGTCxB2kcERvfZKRoV4C05sam2_eVc7oRDFZ1xUtWfajpq86Hb_lxmrqilt4paXr7iNj1xIlmEr0JKz6daoEWwxfTmx31rJxieUNHRMeQHZ23Xw7apF21HKArsmlPQxn5hp3C8hBBKxFbpn4jjOcL-Dj0r7GHvpHNpRY1TXkEulETYYx_xs-pcJ7dA/s6047/DSCF0918.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4031" data-original-width="6047" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCAGTCxB2kcERvfZKRoV4C05sam2_eVc7oRDFZ1xUtWfajpq86Hb_lxmrqilt4paXr7iNj1xIlmEr0JKz6daoEWwxfTmx31rJxieUNHRMeQHZ23Xw7apF21HKArsmlPQxn5hp3C8hBBKxFbpn4jjOcL-Dj0r7GHvpHNpRY1TXkEulETYYx_xs-pcJ7dA/w400-h266/DSCF0918.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>The Cornwall trip started off with a tightly-wound five-leg public transport journey that merely emphasises the inaccessibility of that part of the country. When my 07.30am departure from Berko became hamstrung at Harrow and Wealdstone, I sensed that the area might remain inaccessible to me a little longer. A last-second decision saw me abandon the Euston-bound train there to jump the adjacent Bakerloo line by the width of a sliding door. We crawled through suburban north and west London, and I finally clambering out of the busiest covid-times tube I’d ridden onto a Paddington concourse thronging with masked-up travellers with the briefest of moments to catch the Exeter departure. Later, the Newton Abbot train was almost terminally becalmed on the eerie Somerset Levels. Thankfully the connecting Bodmin Parkway service was also running late. Swings and roundabouts. </p><p>In between stressful interchanges, there were some wonderful views to enjoy. I know this is a Cornwall post. And I’ve waxed on about the south Devon stretch already. Nevertheless, every time my train hits the Exe estuary and navigates the inlets and cliffs, I get a pang of joy. All the way to Teignmouth and then inland up the Teign estuary my nose was pressed hard against the window. </p><p>The Bodmin train took a route I’d not travelled before. At Plymouth I was intrigued to see a trio of empty, almost ghostly cruise ships moored out to sea, looking like a little collection of Dubai skyscrapers flipped through 90 degrees. Coronavirus had put cruise holidays on ice overnight. Pictures of the Diamond Princess’s transformation into a toxic pandemic petri-dish at sea still loomed over the industry. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyIW98pf4nEYIJpqkdCsToCm9SdPYMOR2v8XBssHEFBupK3nrQdwdcSyZYzPzcM6pQ70ZOyp5waPm0TXEvKCd2B5Lhs9T3cWDqsqlD7hkqh5Al37G8yf8y92a6lKvQnPk7H41jc18Bq73sKXwpDWhiXBuxazA0UdCzKv5mIa1JPtjqHynccgm9h2NdqQ/s808/Cornwall%2025.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="483" data-original-width="808" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyIW98pf4nEYIJpqkdCsToCm9SdPYMOR2v8XBssHEFBupK3nrQdwdcSyZYzPzcM6pQ70ZOyp5waPm0TXEvKCd2B5Lhs9T3cWDqsqlD7hkqh5Al37G8yf8y92a6lKvQnPk7H41jc18Bq73sKXwpDWhiXBuxazA0UdCzKv5mIa1JPtjqHynccgm9h2NdqQ/s320/Cornwall%2025.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Then over the magnificent Tamar on the high level bridge at Saltash, each bank lined with yachts and pleasure craft tied up to boardwalks, followed by a few more estuary crossings round the complicated waterways of Plymouth’s hinterland. Eventually we squirmed inland through narrow valleys and over undulating farmland. A dog, panting under his owner’s table across the aisle from me threw up on the floor. Even that didn’t spoil the mood. Thank God for face masks. </p><p>The bus journey from Bodmin Parkway was always going to be tortuous. A No 10 through-route exists, but only really if you are travelling in the morning, or on non-school days, or prepared to break your journey for an hour at Wadebridge. It is in that town, under a mid-afternoon downpour, that I cracked. After many hours on public transport I resorted to a taxi for the final 10 miles to port Isaac. This was a good decision. Not only was the driver a horse racing fan who’s brother-in-law was the semi-legendary, now-retired Middleham trainer George Moore, but he was also a keen photographer and directed me to some good vantage points. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjizJ5vIXi5rukXcOKQbu-m1Uwy0rqEN_imQ-Fu0VxsfwhUqYeVXdwBIYYLMyK8wYCCLtItgnJTaoxXmbyuxFELMYGFwh00szTtsMklwEkzgQswk7txpMVjMH9RqB_0DszlLTFhAeC-CR1yebhXuykMn9fWjF72f639gp5x5_bVQEH5KCABAMeLzy574Q/s6064/DSCF0940.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4043" data-original-width="6064" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjizJ5vIXi5rukXcOKQbu-m1Uwy0rqEN_imQ-Fu0VxsfwhUqYeVXdwBIYYLMyK8wYCCLtItgnJTaoxXmbyuxFELMYGFwh00szTtsMklwEkzgQswk7txpMVjMH9RqB_0DszlLTFhAeC-CR1yebhXuykMn9fWjF72f639gp5x5_bVQEH5KCABAMeLzy574Q/w400-h266/DSCF0940.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>And I explored them all…in between dodging horizontal hail blown in a spiteful north-easterly out of towering clouds zipping across the widescreen sky. Sheltering at the bottom of, Rose Hill, one of the narrowest (and most attractive) footpaths in the village (and there are many), the little bullets of ice still managed to find exposed parts of flesh. These interruptions didn’t last long though and it was amusing to see people blown sideways and umbrellas ripped from grasps by gusts that were given added impetus by the funnelling qualities of various alleyways and lanes. None of this would have been a surprise to the locals. This was June after all…</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPvi4joBb4B6KAYw0UeHD-8X6CSqZVcmcjPpmBMtWv0VSgDzFuRud4_CoLTUwF8BiQbQcImg-2EQ6x_xcrovrEzbsnErACE8I9QIZqOlv94cVZ8qdglXX3HiQb_ZAO0sjFEzqXadPlRAHdCeLnUnrPsa1yrre5HbEVJP3P1g7aWSTUeYjaSH0Zd7xCKA/s6216/DSCF0898.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4144" data-original-width="6216" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPvi4joBb4B6KAYw0UeHD-8X6CSqZVcmcjPpmBMtWv0VSgDzFuRud4_CoLTUwF8BiQbQcImg-2EQ6x_xcrovrEzbsnErACE8I9QIZqOlv94cVZ8qdglXX3HiQb_ZAO0sjFEzqXadPlRAHdCeLnUnrPsa1yrre5HbEVJP3P1g7aWSTUeYjaSH0Zd7xCKA/w400-h266/DSCF0898.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Dog walkers ruled in Port Isaac. My medium-sized mongrel would have been quite at home here. I met a couple of women herding a gaggle of Westies spread across the entire width of Fore Street, despite them being attached to diamante encrusted leads. I was chatting to the first woman as we were admiring the view and she shouted to her companion with a smile that she’d like my camera. The reply came back swiftly that it would be ‘just another excuse to dawdle’. I shouted back that my wife says the same when I’m forever stopping to take shots. ‘She’s not my wife!’ protested the second woman and then grinned to her dawdling friend, ‘Come along Fionnuala, don’t be making friends!’ </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnHyPEWiNrBFQgbhsJuux1wIlFADdyeZN3fgjr4moi-Og6NI9eFTsrZQWdLHdaRn-uw3zVNPd8rNQWG8Kzoib-Eo7pwBxsMuQK5Bg7b754V-j_IUW59vhMvUQGWEwL5fyMMN-l6VbTQafulbwc6ppw9rZviZOubq3WGh8nix23F_iLyBwHOi2PwBYcYw/s2076/Cornwall%2022.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1009" data-original-width="2076" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnHyPEWiNrBFQgbhsJuux1wIlFADdyeZN3fgjr4moi-Og6NI9eFTsrZQWdLHdaRn-uw3zVNPd8rNQWG8Kzoib-Eo7pwBxsMuQK5Bg7b754V-j_IUW59vhMvUQGWEwL5fyMMN-l6VbTQafulbwc6ppw9rZviZOubq3WGh8nix23F_iLyBwHOi2PwBYcYw/w400-h195/Cornwall%2022.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>Later in the day I spotted them down by the tiny harbour where I was outside the Mote Bar, sampling my first Doom Bar of the trip. They strolled past, still with dogs, but not recognising me. They had changed outfits. Fionnuala, tall and thin, was sporting a fine pair of white and gold plimsolls, whilst her smaller, more rotund friend tiptoed towards the sea in natty silver sliders. </p><p>Before dinner I’d walked up the southern flank of the hills enclosing Port Isaac, past the house belonging to Doc Martin in the tv series of the same name, round the headland and down to Pine Haven. The views back over the fishing village and as far as shimmering Tintagel Head made the climb easily worth the effort. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxCKe8-7W4SbkvDDXgcj_Rh_p8mp7UEllhOa78PaIuhpBfyCMtluBLrgr3cFQdd6iFCoIKf0gC5jCgBd7NfMOvURXBB84i5HScmDfq4IFVieBN6tY33wDlIbjjHn5O97NUVr7Y1XdmjxWm-qFpQ8zr7CCUW7KsXu4dh0rcVjiSxPMWZviZD3a-5owVYA/s3701/DSCF0915.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2644" data-original-width="3701" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxCKe8-7W4SbkvDDXgcj_Rh_p8mp7UEllhOa78PaIuhpBfyCMtluBLrgr3cFQdd6iFCoIKf0gC5jCgBd7NfMOvURXBB84i5HScmDfq4IFVieBN6tY33wDlIbjjHn5O97NUVr7Y1XdmjxWm-qFpQ8zr7CCUW7KsXu4dh0rcVjiSxPMWZviZD3a-5owVYA/w400-h286/DSCF0915.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-GQrKkK_KNfKI8oE8_SIhnHMqa4oui8rB1FhScSsH5av3BNQkJ3YwgwEdMut0t1trFSpxnyxOtBFG8XKdpV4UJih1CsW0o3bRd1_kCBdFK3Fk2cAdNOdB5hRe0JdtaACQld2nk03gYFnMmFpBueAdc273ia5IyNkv_Q6pgNyVxde3RhgbAJWJuba6dA/s5957/DSCF0929.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3971" data-original-width="5957" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-GQrKkK_KNfKI8oE8_SIhnHMqa4oui8rB1FhScSsH5av3BNQkJ3YwgwEdMut0t1trFSpxnyxOtBFG8XKdpV4UJih1CsW0o3bRd1_kCBdFK3Fk2cAdNOdB5hRe0JdtaACQld2nk03gYFnMmFpBueAdc273ia5IyNkv_Q6pgNyVxde3RhgbAJWJuba6dA/w400-h266/DSCF0929.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Away to the west lay more of north Cornwall’s jewels in the shape of Port Quin, Polzeath and the coast’s rock star, Padstow. I wouldn’t have time to visit them on that trip. I was headed north-east the next morning to meet up with my mate Ad. But first, a cauldron of moules mariniere awaited me in The Slipway Hotel, followed by a few sunset shots. In between the stinging showers, the skies had been clear and sharp. The evening did not disappoint. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTc38kjqL9xj88RizQNQblrGfBLX_rVWj4dsg7ZLhQ8z7IS7wM2Ibg1RmVMUoDfMCVNil6BgmkclrQEHnVUO03l1KCygxFArJiPauRPyChu-UsKHwa-bUhCiRzsu1PWAL22f9hGVNeq-MoW9zGgBX5m80F5hS79648CBGVcMNhOUModirUA9c0EtqbOQ/s6052/DSCF0960.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4035" data-original-width="6052" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTc38kjqL9xj88RizQNQblrGfBLX_rVWj4dsg7ZLhQ8z7IS7wM2Ibg1RmVMUoDfMCVNil6BgmkclrQEHnVUO03l1KCygxFArJiPauRPyChu-UsKHwa-bUhCiRzsu1PWAL22f9hGVNeq-MoW9zGgBX5m80F5hS79648CBGVcMNhOUModirUA9c0EtqbOQ/w400-h266/DSCF0960.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAYSeWaEXRsBmavWnyZI3AWc459nBbRkIEI6ZgpzhRSXKAbNArxO752M9IUrx7YS8VTkLsYOFPgDW4nknuHbv6AaXiQbVjARDgdKsWLcqTmKfSrUUUXFUsEueyVPImUaC6ngyHYeZ2tXizlAnHJ2VIyLgL4YRXcP3Y8C3tPKGSaSfW1FEvparu3gZvug/s5938/DSCF0967.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3959" data-original-width="5938" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAYSeWaEXRsBmavWnyZI3AWc459nBbRkIEI6ZgpzhRSXKAbNArxO752M9IUrx7YS8VTkLsYOFPgDW4nknuHbv6AaXiQbVjARDgdKsWLcqTmKfSrUUUXFUsEueyVPImUaC6ngyHYeZ2tXizlAnHJ2VIyLgL4YRXcP3Y8C3tPKGSaSfW1FEvparu3gZvug/w400-h266/DSCF0967.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Covid restrictions were still very much in force around the village. I had tried to grab a pint in the small, multi-roomed Golden Lion during one of the earlier rain breaks, but a safe-spaced table could not be found. After dark, once the day-trippers had departed, I had more success and was ushered to a spot in the small front bar where I joined casual conversation with the four other paying customers and the bar manager. Topics ranged through the slow post-covid tourist trade and the lack of Wi-Fi there at the bottom of the village which meant we all had to talk to each other. Clearly I hadn’t quite mastered this skill, because when asking to settle up I was instead presented with another beer. Oh well. The Tribute was a lively brew here. A creamy head and a nutty flavour, like real ale used to be before IPA got reinvented as some kind of sour USA West Coast mash. </p><p>The comment about slow trade was intriguing. Once I’d had my fill of Tribute, I wandered the tiny interlocking lanes around the harbour and found them thrillingly dark and quiet. There was music and chat from inside the pubs and hotels shoe-horned around the village, but not much else to encroach on the peace. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDD4qSW49sB2CjP8i_pDSKfVjqzzlAEWaOIZE3JvdDwn5Nw_yryc1AzqrWZunBppkyy5bCOIYmFnh5rqY1qQBQ6uYAa1tn_iA01Ia4ZuDBRiTnyDQQR-v1Ct14gjROF2kGFRDsJSIQdKF8bS_YfDkaPAsWCCvrhW5YtQocMFbgR8mY5IzI0fzUmYwPmg/s3640/DSCF0980.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2374" data-original-width="3640" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDD4qSW49sB2CjP8i_pDSKfVjqzzlAEWaOIZE3JvdDwn5Nw_yryc1AzqrWZunBppkyy5bCOIYmFnh5rqY1qQBQ6uYAa1tn_iA01Ia4ZuDBRiTnyDQQR-v1Ct14gjROF2kGFRDsJSIQdKF8bS_YfDkaPAsWCCvrhW5YtQocMFbgR8mY5IzI0fzUmYwPmg/w400-h261/DSCF0980.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>The full English at The Slipway was almost as good as the previous evening’s steaming mussels. I lingered over one last harbour view from my balconied room and then struck out on one of the most lung-bursting, thigh-stinging, wisdom-testing hikes I’ve ever undertaken. </p><p>I knew Port Isaac to Boscastle would be a fair step. Just over 13 miles, according to my research, but along the well-defined SW Coast Path and with some rewarding outlooks. A challenging enough route, I mused, but OK for an experienced walker such as myself (conjuring up untrustworthy memories of the London to Brighton walk). Had my research been a little less cursory, I might have seen the descriptors ‘severe’, ‘difficult’ and ‘strenuous’ which should have made me think twice. </p><p>In fairness, the weather turned what would have been a good yomp in to an epic exertion. The rain started earlier than forecast as a steady drizzle at Port Gaverne graduating to persistent downpours by Pigeons Cove. My old fashioned rucksack with three days of kit stashed inside hung increasingly deadweight off my shoulders, soaking up liquid faster than Guinness drinkers at the Cheltenham Festival. </p><p>None of this takes anything away from the experience of being up close and personal with the wild north Cornwall coast. Fantastically named caves, coves, sea views, valleys and streams came and went on the route from Port Gaverne to Tregardock and Trebarwith Sands. I scrambled up, sank into and variously blew hot and cold around Castle Rock (the main headland), Cartway Cove, Tresungers Point and Rams Hole. A rickety boardwalk across marshy ground took me near the cave of St Illickswell Gug and then on to Bounds Cliff, across fields to Ranie Point and down the valley at the chasm of Barret's Zawn. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh04jys5FtNeUe1r-gLVe24g4xlPyJeURCd1HxXquy_vI6swBYWMcv5cSxW9PNhhyauOZRdxrNkbOkIPhXII4p5VNQ9OUqQoIIZfdaO2H54-SlbfFAUNCfd7tWDdZnU4PieOqZ2VqoI-JU5fC1rpT0r-L0kYL8IwF4aFfmSCdslJzNGXWX6B_5rg2jWDw/s1284/Cornwall%2012.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1284" data-original-width="1027" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh04jys5FtNeUe1r-gLVe24g4xlPyJeURCd1HxXquy_vI6swBYWMcv5cSxW9PNhhyauOZRdxrNkbOkIPhXII4p5VNQ9OUqQoIIZfdaO2H54-SlbfFAUNCfd7tWDdZnU4PieOqZ2VqoI-JU5fC1rpT0r-L0kYL8IwF4aFfmSCdslJzNGXWX6B_5rg2jWDw/s320/Cornwall%2012.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><p>The path across cliff tops afforded the best views but also obscured the number of back-to-back gulleys and valleys between me and my immediate target of Tintagel where I had vaguely arranged to meet Ad. Climbing up to Delabole Point and back down into Dinnabroad Valley, I can’t deny a sense of dispiriting frustration as another climb immediately presented itself up to the National Trust owned Dannonchapel. </p><p>I commend the SW Coast Path as a route that never ducks the issue. Not once did that thin strip of mud and shingle head inland to bypass a gap. Ravines came one after another as I surmounted one steep-sided bank only to plunge back down another. The irony is that if the path hadn’t been such a (well-maintained) helter-skelter of body-breaking climbs it wouldn't get close enough to so many soul-filling seascapes and mesmerising wave action. Sometimes you have to get deep down and dirty with the environment to extract the best experiences. That's what I kept telling myself anyway as I screamed 'Oh for fuck’s sake!’ when another ridiculous ascent swung in to view. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0v9plfPRacFSnupgbLn0zTZtk39En5Gbr3n1qvMpdgT0aAQ539Gi4_bmVh0KdKyT0OR_q9D8lrhlUxCN65TrcnoYA83tt40kzQQx-bWYP2dmxXM2B1u0p4pupDhqTB8C77LSjVxqBPT1fIn2kuiulaYIysr-nfaKAVhsct7PROhlxrUvwo8edJf9Z8Q/s1918/Cornwall%2011.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1079" data-original-width="1918" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0v9plfPRacFSnupgbLn0zTZtk39En5Gbr3n1qvMpdgT0aAQ539Gi4_bmVh0KdKyT0OR_q9D8lrhlUxCN65TrcnoYA83tt40kzQQx-bWYP2dmxXM2B1u0p4pupDhqTB8C77LSjVxqBPT1fIn2kuiulaYIysr-nfaKAVhsct7PROhlxrUvwo8edJf9Z8Q/w400-h225/Cornwall%2011.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>High above Tregardock Beach and Trebarwith Sands I was taking a break and managed to catch a single tremulous bar of phone signal. About 10 messages from Ad popped across my rain splattered screen. I was just about to answer one, giving my approximate location and a potential meet up point, when I heard ‘Alright then Dave!’ I don’t know how he had done it, but Ad had stumbled upon me in the middle of nowhere, preceded by his bounding Alsatian dog, Albus. </p><p>Ad had moved down from Raynes Park earlier in the year to set up a holiday cottage business above Boscastle. He’d taken the bus over to the Sands and worked his way back down the coast path ‘til he found me. He said ‘The plan was fool-proof unless you veered off the coast path!’ All the more remarkable when you consider that Ad is visually impaired (and that I’m not your regulation fool). </p><p>We struck out for Tintagel. Albus leading the way. Or sometimes bringing up the rear. Or maybe under our feet. I should have strapped my Fitbit to his off-fore leg. My stats would have been through the roof.</p><p>Tregardock Beach was a little hidden gem. A gorgeous golden sandy beach backed by imposing cliffs at low tide, it disappeared completely at high tide under waves pounding the Devonian rock. The isolation of some of the wild places on this coastline gave them the greedy appeal of secrets to be kept from the tourist masses. Trebarwith Strand and its good looking pub, The Port William, was another.</p><p>Much of the coastline here and on towards Tintagel had been the site of slate quarries. The Cornwall Calling website describes quarrying in the area from the late 1400's through to the last closure in 1937.</p><p>We peered over the cliff edge to see angular remnants of chiselled rock above slate waste creating blow holes and eddies for the incessant grey waves. The drops were sheer. In 1886, three men were killed when the rock they were drilling, snapped off and took them into the sea below.</p><p>Cornwall Calling again: ‘Slate was taken to Tintagel Cove. A boat would be moored below the cliffs, and a derrick perched on the cliff edge would be used to load slate. A wharf was also constructed at Penhallic Point where the cliff edge was cut back to form a 100ft vertical face. Ships would lie against this cliff in the natural deep-water berth, and the slate would be lowered by crane.’</p><p>There wasn’t time to sightsee around Tintagel Castle. And I’m not sure the English Heritage officer wanted to let two bedraggled humans and a shaggy-wet Alsatian onto her island anyway. Nevertheless, the castle and headland had dominated the horizon ever since I left Port Isaac on this walk several hours (weeks?) earlier. Even up close the headland struck me as one of those potentially overhyped landmarks that actually lived up to expectations. It was staggeringly monumental even in that rain-soaked guise. </p><p>The push from Tintagel to Boscastle was really hard. Further, wetter and more vertical than either Ad or I had anticipated. Two of the ravines: Bossiney Haven and Rocky Valley were properly treacherous. The rain by then was so hard it was running off the cliffs and down the paths like open sewers carved into the sedimentaries. Flint slabs had been wedged into the slopes on some sections to create steps, but over time their planes had shifted and added to the hazardous experience. I can only remember once before feeling actually concerned about any walk I’d ever undertaken. That was on the Five Sisters of Kintail where the sheer drops of over 3,000 feet adjacent to the path gave me vertigo. Here the fall might have been less severe, but the risk of it actually happening felt more real. </p><p>And yet, and yet… At the top of both sides of Rocky Valley, we stopped to take in the special views. That tension again between risks and rewards; between wild beauty and inaccessibility. </p><p>I did topple over a couple of times where the paths had become nothing more than mud slides. My partially-sighted mate did not falter once. Take from that what you will. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTqmagX0Bx0RveVJoYSaHFXCdGIbLwtPknjFVkib9InwpUFfqQtYEW8TyHOsx_Ud-10TiMcnFkoZQGAi0sVRITcz0NyzrdJvSFVZhfV01-1YsT-0Gyu-vYOEq5eR4LTYBA_7kQ0IiqZy3vX83hiK_cYPrPX9Zq6eQPgXmi1C0gptcqEXkNXzMG3NbcCw/s1635/Cornwall%206.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1635" data-original-width="1100" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTqmagX0Bx0RveVJoYSaHFXCdGIbLwtPknjFVkib9InwpUFfqQtYEW8TyHOsx_Ud-10TiMcnFkoZQGAi0sVRITcz0NyzrdJvSFVZhfV01-1YsT-0Gyu-vYOEq5eR4LTYBA_7kQ0IiqZy3vX83hiK_cYPrPX9Zq6eQPgXmi1C0gptcqEXkNXzMG3NbcCw/s320/Cornwall%206.jpg" width="215" /></a></div><p></p><p>The path lurched east and we dropped into the narrow estuary where Mill Leat disgorges into Boscastle Harbour. My head was filled with images of the flash flood in 2004 that tore through this valley and destroyed or damaged over 100 village structures. We passed the Harbour Light tea rooms, originally a three-hundred year old building that was smashed up in the flood by a car being flushed down the valley. The shop was rebuilt from the ground-up to its original design.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV58WqxCzk6r6qqE4W1eQXGliO4xusqZsfR7r3y9siLhIANStGloTe5kDhsSOR3WHoEGlS-YtNUS51qocfq4aGqHmFfmmTeor6b0bbVJU-gs8PozKB7RjRGtBMwIjSEQ9KYVIevuXtuRGiKfYMffnq7Hipf8-nOz2BoaKve6izxf7wQ7N2zOjtfJAlKw/s1440/boscastle%201.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1440" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV58WqxCzk6r6qqE4W1eQXGliO4xusqZsfR7r3y9siLhIANStGloTe5kDhsSOR3WHoEGlS-YtNUS51qocfq4aGqHmFfmmTeor6b0bbVJU-gs8PozKB7RjRGtBMwIjSEQ9KYVIevuXtuRGiKfYMffnq7Hipf8-nOz2BoaKve6izxf7wQ7N2zOjtfJAlKw/w400-h225/boscastle%201.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Courtesy Polrunny Farm Cottages</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>All the while we were ticking off impossible ravines and cliff navigations, Ad kept whispering about the final hill out of Boscastle up to his new gaff. All the while I thought it couldn't be as bad as those which we had stoically overcome. He was right though. That relentless mile-and-a-half steepness through the lovely village of Boscastle and up the ridge was tough because it came so close to our final destination. The lane criss-crossed a tributary of the Mill Leat and again I imagined the terrifying force of a flood screaming down those steep roads. Indeed I must have stopped about half a dozen times to ponder such happenings. Nothing at all to do with giving my burning thighs some brief respite. </p><p>Following his relocation to the south west, Ad and his partner Mel were now the proud owners of Polrunny Farm sited where the land begins to level out above the village. The site had a splendid aspect almost due north down the Jordan Valley and over Boscastle into the Atlantic. From the breakfast garden out front it was pretty much next stop Pembrokeshire, somewhere way over the horizon. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-63pFQ7-uEeSmgG0oGvsNfmwCbiFY2a6_9aDpNhIeNtnzMEbBTncOO1bPPVar4yLs-1K_mfiAKXchhAcSvz_IvxbzGQDchzOGQXyYrbrPUH0hLGoj9TucHJ3RbFC3RjdcVD4xLbcvpB1Eb2oyLciiK3LKLq5sXTSH8ES1vqjEj1Td_ERV0bX__eBBQQ/s1440/polrunny%201.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1440" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-63pFQ7-uEeSmgG0oGvsNfmwCbiFY2a6_9aDpNhIeNtnzMEbBTncOO1bPPVar4yLs-1K_mfiAKXchhAcSvz_IvxbzGQDchzOGQXyYrbrPUH0hLGoj9TucHJ3RbFC3RjdcVD4xLbcvpB1Eb2oyLciiK3LKLq5sXTSH8ES1vqjEj1Td_ERV0bX__eBBQQ/w400-h225/polrunny%201.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Courtesy Polrunny Farm Cottages</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I couldn’t deny a little envy at Ad’s set up, despite all the hard work it entailed. Breaking free of the 9-5 commuter grind is one thing, but to do so in such a fantastic location is quite another. Phil and Kirsty would be impressed. And I can’t recommend the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/PolrunnyFarm/?ref=page_internal">cottages</a> more highly. Especially the shower, under which I steamed for a good 20 minutes until I’d washed away the physical residue of north Cornwall’s elemental environment. Ad never mentioned how long it took him to clear the grit out of the plug hole.</p><p>After donning some dry-ish clothes found in a Tesco bag lurking at the bottom of my rucksack, we headed down the hill to find some grub. The Napoleon Inn was now Ad’s local. Another cause of mild envy. Decent food, good ale and, that night at least, sea shanties. The Boscastle Buoys are a local group riding the wave of a renewed interest in male harmony groups, led most notably by The Fishermen’s Friends. This lot were excellent. The landlord told us that he’d had to get a special licence, in those dark Covid times, for a public performance and, technically at least, no standing was allowed. To get a view and a proper listen from our back room, we undertook a few more trips to the bar and to the loo than might have been strictly necessary. The beers had a temporary restorative effect on my aching limbs and I managed the walk back up to Polrunny without stopping. </p><p>Ad showed me round Boscastle the next morning. ‘This is where I go gigging’ he declared. ‘Oh, I was gonna ask about the music scene’, I replied, looking around for a venue. Ad chuckled and pointed to some boats tied up by the harbour. They were gigs belonging to the Boscastle and Crackington Pilot Gig Club. Ad and Mel had recently joined the club to race these 32 foot long, six-oared rowing boats out on to the open sea. Traditionally used for pilotage, harbour work and as lifeboats, they looked narrow, precarious and hard work to me. Good luck to them. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrncGsFAyzNSKwvvC67NHgZ2d3OweVZd4ErH7YdtaWQFPQDPS9D9Pz2ebDIKz1GFKvA38egvIJMWrpDfIQjDkYfAjWAYTwpKNl37xsDqn_bzE1JAUiexskLXhO8zLGqIUZeHH1RfPv6MJ3ei04BXj1tv_PeTIPzBnya0tgGzbiqobZnkrCaQyTIjTEdQ/s1071/Cornwall%205.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="803" data-original-width="1071" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrncGsFAyzNSKwvvC67NHgZ2d3OweVZd4ErH7YdtaWQFPQDPS9D9Pz2ebDIKz1GFKvA38egvIJMWrpDfIQjDkYfAjWAYTwpKNl37xsDqn_bzE1JAUiexskLXhO8zLGqIUZeHH1RfPv6MJ3ei04BXj1tv_PeTIPzBnya0tgGzbiqobZnkrCaQyTIjTEdQ/w400-h300/Cornwall%205.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Boscastle had plenty going for it aside from the sea and boating activities. There was a grounded, practical air about its shops, pubs and cafes that avoided some of the more charmless tourist guff of other towns and villages around the Cornish coast. Walking down from Polrunny Farm to the harbour, I was struck by bits of genuine community life, like the busy-ness round the school and nursery and even the number of people Ad fell into conversation with down the road. He always was a gobby sort though. (Insert cheesy grin emoji.) </p><p>I left Ad and Albus at the bus stop on the bridge and climbed aboard the No 95 service to Bude, reflecting on an eventful couple of days and a top catch up with an old mate. </p><p>Back on and off the Atlantic Highway, A39. The bus was busy and wove between the main road and various villages on the coast. Crackington Haven was popular with the passengers and I could see why. The bus descended a tight lane from sandstone uploads that reached a narrow cove revealing a pub, some cafes and a sandy beach at low tide. The cove is hemmed in by some of the highest cliffs in Cornwall. Having picked up a few more passengers, the bus departed by an even more hair-raising route up to Coxford and thence back to the A39.</p><p>Widemouth Bay was the opposite. As the name suggests, its long, open bay of soft sand was backed by gently sloping hills on which the modern village was grouped: bungalows, hotels and beach shops. The bus followed the coast as development increased steadily on the approach to my final stop on this tour, Bude. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKBw61BAuEKGK5DNbgpum0FhWssc6qx1fAPofL-Dl-mhKWu0HOeUPID0eXRZt-zBz9oa9r5nxPU91WBHWAYBSzckl8Rcbwd1W2gbLY3ByOaPPZktvFZan8dgurygN2HCf9x3NDo7xJKyfvKRi1c9uUBG446N0pNZpORdyLOBwXbCCOK7uH6zar9DoxhA/s1792/Cornwall%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1008" data-original-width="1792" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKBw61BAuEKGK5DNbgpum0FhWssc6qx1fAPofL-Dl-mhKWu0HOeUPID0eXRZt-zBz9oa9r5nxPU91WBHWAYBSzckl8Rcbwd1W2gbLY3ByOaPPZktvFZan8dgurygN2HCf9x3NDo7xJKyfvKRi1c9uUBG446N0pNZpORdyLOBwXbCCOK7uH6zar9DoxhA/w400-h225/Cornwall%201.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYws8SxHEvwxWTV0joNZxd6AZhWVv-6Mq70wTzfRnosQmmgGs_73yc3ahbK47--iYy0T9fB6C-Um10A6AnnU5LPmdlBygX9ZI026RWOHIExzcR7A67_-sKuSU8y1r_-2i5E-d0zYyBv6LO4RpU8cwL1uB6GYLpmLZpxg91oATBXS6hnoJsg1LgDzkuYA/s6016/DSCF0991.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6016" data-original-width="4011" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYws8SxHEvwxWTV0joNZxd6AZhWVv-6Mq70wTzfRnosQmmgGs_73yc3ahbK47--iYy0T9fB6C-Um10A6AnnU5LPmdlBygX9ZI026RWOHIExzcR7A67_-sKuSU8y1r_-2i5E-d0zYyBv6LO4RpU8cwL1uB6GYLpmLZpxg91oATBXS6hnoJsg1LgDzkuYA/w266-h400/DSCF0991.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><p>Bude. Put it on the list. Lovely open beach, dramatic headlands, rock pools, rambling countryside, and a smuggling and sea-trading heritage. These are undeniably top quality geographic and historical bones about which to hang the flesh of a fine seaside town. Now I’m gonna sound like a Visit Cornwall advert. But it’s hard to deny the appeal of a settlement large enough for decent facilities, independent shops, an amazing café on the beach where I gorged on an enormous fry-up; but small enough to feel relaxed, laid back and not overrun with Newquay-type giant bronzed surfers whose entire purpose in life is to make me feel inadequate. </p><p>In Bude I felt adequate. I can think of no higher praise!</p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #444444;"><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Series navigation: </span><a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/04/seaside-special-excursions-to-coast.html" style="font-style: italic;">Intro and chapter guide</a></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><i>Previous episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/02/seaside-special-night-riviera-south.html" target="_blank">South-West Cornwall</a> </i></p></span><p><i>Next episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/05/seaside-special-poets-corner-north-devon.html" target="_blank">Poets' Corner: North Devon</a></i></p><p><br /></p>Davoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2854417785396611556.post-49552108876326160672022-02-16T21:46:00.013+00:002024-02-08T12:11:53.320+00:00Seaside Special - The Night Riviera: South West Cornwall<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">The Night Riviera. Sounds seductive doesn’t it? A gloriously titled sleeper
service that evokes flashes of the golden era of rail travel. When block-art
posters depicting speeding, streamlined express trains skirting palm-fringed
bays promised a rendezvous with steamers docking from somewhere exotic.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The reality? Well, this pre-Covid service did hang on to some semblance of
adventure. But only if you booked a cabin. Travelling overnight in the seats is a mistake.
As my trip to Perth later on in these missives will make abundantly clear. (Although
that journey was earlier in actual time, these being clockwise rather than chronological
chronicles. If you see what I mean.)</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Turning up in the First Class lounge adjacent to Platform 1 at Paddington
gave me a brief moment of Imposter Syndrome. (‘Free coffee? Wow, thank you!’) The
train arrived hauled by an olive green GWR loco and I betrayed the same First
Class rookie keen-ness by jumping into the lounge car on the train with
sidelong glances at the comfy couch and swivel chairs and bar stools that
undermined my nonchalance. A bottle of Doom Bar served to be in my plush double
seat soon helped me settle.</span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"></p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgBMmzaEqqHkDeb0vFRY0K1d7SkzAaq2gOtajInojHMFF_-hWj72KvHyLIdlhSvGzzkSUFU30mmHhOJXhMBqf42OC2bZpwRx0078866DD51oEQAue7mgzMbfhlK82QtrHHWjYzhTJkUqp8FSVkeTcymBRWymK6HJU9XniMShy9mHtC6qqXb9ZaNyNr36w=s3764" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1725" data-original-width="3764" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgBMmzaEqqHkDeb0vFRY0K1d7SkzAaq2gOtajInojHMFF_-hWj72KvHyLIdlhSvGzzkSUFU30mmHhOJXhMBqf42OC2bZpwRx0078866DD51oEQAue7mgzMbfhlK82QtrHHWjYzhTJkUqp8FSVkeTcymBRWymK6HJU9XniMShy9mHtC6qqXb9ZaNyNr36w=w640-h294" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span>St Michael's Mount from Penzance through the murk</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">Penzance, end of the line, was my destination. I had been there once
before. Sometime around my second year at college, my mates and I discovered
youth-hostelling as a cheap means of short breaks in glorious countryside with
ready access to decent pubs. Our initial sortie to Cumbria was an overwhelming
success. The cost of the expedition for a bunch of perpetually skint students
was made cheaper still by a British Rail initiative that pegged fares at either
£5 or £10 anywhere in the country for possessors of a young persons’ railcard
for the entire month of February. They ran this wonderful enterprise for a
couple of years or so. It was a roaring success. Every train across the entire
month was absolutely heaving with students skittering around the country.
Getting anywhere involved standing for hours in the smelly vestibule of the
smoking carriage astride ruck sacks and invariably under someone’s armpit. Not
that any of us were moaning. This was a deal that seems unthinkable in today’s
disjointed, financially flawed conundrum of a privatised railway network.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">We were bitten by the Youth Hostelling bug. We got away on trips as often
as we could, even in the 11 months without a crazy British Rail offer. The
Cornwall break was one of the more adventurous, simply because of the distances
involved. I was with my college mates Lee, Pat, Clive, Tony and Jerry as we
moved slowly from the Penzance youth hostel westwards via foot, pub and
eventually bus. The St Just youth hostel sat outside the town in the Cot
Valley, close to the coast. Very dramatic. The place is still there, now
rechristened Land’s End Hostel and, in common with the overhaul the movement
received in the early part of this century, now has a bar, family rooms and
mixed dorms. I gather that morning chores, like cleaning the urinals with a
toothbrush and cutting the lawn with nail scissors are no longer required
either. St Just was a pretty little town and had a couple of decent boozers on
the main square. Though we had to sup up in decent time to get back to the
hostel before the doors were locked at 10pm sharp. That’s another draconian rule
that has been ditched.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The juxtaposition of hostels, pubs and vaguely taxing walks between them
was always crucial to the success of a youth hostel trip. Tensions inevitably
arose around the definition of the term ‘vaguely taxing’. Lee, Clive and Jerry
were by far the most ambitious. They would cajole us slackers into gradients
more steep and distances more extreme than our comfort zones demanded. The very
idea of jumping on a bus, or Heaven fore-fend, a taxi ride would be scoffed at.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">That particular trip saw the first stages of the unravelling of the group
for precisely these reasons. The difficult choices between more gentle walks
combined with public transport versus<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>testing
hikes with no realistic pub breaks produced a schism. There were terse words at
Land’s End precipitated by a cream tea stop that was clearly a tourist action too
far for the hard core ramblers. The actual words<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘you have sold out!’ were bandied about
before three of them stomped off into a storm force wind heading out on the
north coast of Cornwall. The remainder of us peered after them, took photos of
the amusing sign post at the cliff edge (‘John O’Groats 680 miles’ etc) and bought
some tat. There were to be no more group Youth Hostel trips.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Reminiscing about the cream tea reminds me of a story I heard a few years
later that Paul Weller and Eric Clapton were planning a short Devon and
Cornwall tour together, but plans foundered when they couldn’t agree whether Jam
or Cream should go on first... Ahem.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">My trip on the Night Riviera
terminated at Penzance bang on time at 7.55am. Passengers dispersed in various
directions from the station and seemed to melt away into the post-dawn October mizzle. The
town was very quiet as I wandered along the harbour road in search of a plan. Penzance
didn’t feel like </span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="border: none; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">a destination at all,
despite the railway terminus. It was more like a jumping off point for more
obvious tourist spots like Land’s End, St Ives, Padstow, Newquay and the many
rugged fishing coves in between. The harbour and boatyard on my left was the
headquarters for the Scilly Shipping Company. Another departure point. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="border: none; color: #444444; font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I found
a little gem of a pub called The Longboat Inn that served a delicious early
morning cup of coffee and took my bag in to left luggage for the morning. If I
had wanted a bedroom, an hour of internet time or even a film in the state-of-the-art
cinema room, they were all handily available too.<br />
<br />
Other opportunities may or may not have been offered. Whilst staring intently
at my map, working out the morning’s walk, I became aware of a dead ringer for the
outrageous Dawn Sutcliffe out of Gavin and Stacy, complete with gaudy earnings
and shimmery blouse, looking my way. She was singing ‘Son Of A Preacher Man’ and
winked at me as she opened the door to the bedrooms. I was waiting for a hand
to emerge from the other side of the door and beckon me upstairs. Get a grip,
man! Too much caffeine, and it was only 8.30am.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="border: none; color: #444444; font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The
stroll towards Newlyn took me along Penzance’s promenade, on which for company
I had dog walkers and, of course, joggers. Everyone I saw was wearing shorts.
Hardly anyone in Cornwall wears long trousers, it’s a well-known fact. The prom
was largely unremarkable at that end of town. The view across Mount Bay and
towards St Michael’s Mount would have been magnificent had they not been
obscured by low cloud and drizzle. This part of Penzance appeared drab, though my
perception was undoubtedly influenced by the murky weather.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="border: none; color: #444444; font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Newlyn,
on the other hand, had some purpose and substance about it. Proper trawlers
painted black and orange were making for open water beyond the red and white
harbour lighthouse, giving the overwhelmingly grey aspect some welcome dabs of
colour. The town was home to one of the largest fishing fleets in the country.
No surprise then that the air was filled with the salty reek of fresh fish. My
nostrils were assaulted as soon as I crossed the stone foot bridge over the
racing Newlyn Coombe river. In fact the lively harbour-side market, the source
of the rich smell, was already winding down its morning business. The process
of buying, decanting and shipping out the fruits of the sea had been completed
and oil-skinned workers were flushing down the barrels, counters and floors.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="border: none; color: #444444; font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Some
of the produce had been distributed no further than the other side of the road.
I strolled past fishmongers serving their first customers of the day. Their
shops jostled for business alongside port pubs, cafes and trawler equipment
suppliers, crowded along a unique piece of the SW Coastal Path through the
oldest part of the town.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="border: none; color: #444444; font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The
working harbour had proved attractive to the famous Newlyn School art colony in
the 1880’s. Predating the St Ives movement, over 25 artists had based
themselves here for 20 or 30 years seeking to paint in a pure environment that emphasised
natural light. Cheap living and the availability of inexpensive models appeared
to be other drivers. The tradition lives on. A present-day Newlyn School of Art
was formed in 2011 with Arts Council funding providing art courses sited close
to the original Newlyn colony school.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhEV7Yp2bB6lsc34TcZbj41BHlrK2bAqVsUaFLh07tWjuITQqn_XmfZ1w9hU18KKKxznx8zQgOoO-LQBB3gXMK2zhF2BNS5zHcwIiFay-cCTihwy3wdIjepCk9BuPgcce7DcL8Gi-G-JVyICDW2FzcKcsmq7lsY6h0Fo8T3s3SPodV_wML3xVBnu1UJew=s4802" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3602" data-original-width="4802" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhEV7Yp2bB6lsc34TcZbj41BHlrK2bAqVsUaFLh07tWjuITQqn_XmfZ1w9hU18KKKxznx8zQgOoO-LQBB3gXMK2zhF2BNS5zHcwIiFay-cCTihwy3wdIjepCk9BuPgcce7DcL8Gi-G-JVyICDW2FzcKcsmq7lsY6h0Fo8T3s3SPodV_wML3xVBnu1UJew=w400-h300" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Newlyn</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><div>I was
busting for a pee after all that coffee at The Longboat. The first lavs I
passed were closed and up for sale. Someone had scrawled ‘pricks’ in vibrant pink
spray paint on the sale sign. I assumed this was those bloody artists serving
up both a comment on the public convenience closure policy of Penzance Council as
well as a generalised observation about their function.</div></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="border: none; color: #444444; font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">
The murk had lifted somewhat and better still, my bladder held out until
arriving in the achingly beautiful Mousehole. Once relieved, I was better able
to admire the pleasantly sloping harbour, framed by hills behind and Mount Bay
to the front, with stone-built fishermens’ cottages packed tightly from the
water’s edge and piled up the escarpment. Whilst quiet when I first arrived,
the tourist minibuses and cars soon arrived. I realised that all this beauty
has a price. I was stung for £9.35 for a coffee and a pasty in a tiny
harbourside café-cum-gallery. The estate agents next door had even smaller one-bedroomed cottages with sea views priced up at £379k. Almost London prices. <br />
<br />How many locals could afford either? Indeed how many locals lived here? I
wondered what it would be like on a bleak Tuesday morning in February.
And then answered my own question: probably quite similar. Mousehole was no
longer the fishing community of a century ago that eked out a frugal living at
the mercy of tides, depressions and Spanish raiding parties. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, the tourist numbers kept the place
buzzing year round, swollen by artists and creatives. And facilities to serve
them. The table next to me in the pricey café/gallery was occupied by art
students and the village had as many craft shops as there were genuine fishing
boats in the harbour.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgagvO0IL_jl1hy2ldEwkXOXHRgmHs0fOR47ZHT4nSb2rtsuEmBx03Qccy_r2jGdwtFExyFmTSv5gYQlusxTsOHmRANMR7Qoj-KngGVMuAPxwtiYzBw1qkRLa7lv28i4r1l0ClGMMlO6vaaLYDWZgxdqnet986RlI_3zFOdgOuUXgv01n3W5Y9KJFBKTg=s4896" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgagvO0IL_jl1hy2ldEwkXOXHRgmHs0fOR47ZHT4nSb2rtsuEmBx03Qccy_r2jGdwtFExyFmTSv5gYQlusxTsOHmRANMR7Qoj-KngGVMuAPxwtiYzBw1qkRLa7lv28i4r1l0ClGMMlO6vaaLYDWZgxdqnet986RlI_3zFOdgOuUXgv01n3W5Y9KJFBKTg=w300-h400" width="300" /></span></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">But
plenty of evidence of an indigenous population as well. A plaque on the quayside
marked the 100</span><sup>th</sup><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> anniversary of the Mousehole Male Voice Choir and
still going strong. Membership is 80-strong, drawn from all over west Cornwall and
comprises labourers to head teachers, council employees to painters and decorators.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEifdR4hGvyYmJbwtbJZQlKrmv831Oy-dlVKd3TAK64rAYfSJYu_XzI84_t5ljsFw_KVNee5mHgh_946sZD-Km9LALCrpnjrlE5JwUOJu5YuVPNsbIK4x75aI-39hqbPIwE-itJfVQ50DRQPPn74whMua0rtoGNEqKl3NZK5lII7eCfoQk67RWZOPM4jLw=s4896" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEifdR4hGvyYmJbwtbJZQlKrmv831Oy-dlVKd3TAK64rAYfSJYu_XzI84_t5ljsFw_KVNee5mHgh_946sZD-Km9LALCrpnjrlE5JwUOJu5YuVPNsbIK4x75aI-39hqbPIwE-itJfVQ50DRQPPn74whMua0rtoGNEqKl3NZK5lII7eCfoQk67RWZOPM4jLw=w400-h300" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Mousehole</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Back
along the coast, Newlyn had been transformed since my early morning traverse from
Penzance. On my return trip there was much less activity in the harbour and at the
fish market. Instead the shops and restaurants were all brimming with
customers. With fish at the heart of it all. I liked Newlyn. An honest and not
unlovely town on a great piece of coastline. </span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="border: none; color: #444444; font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">
Back at the Longboat Inn, I retrieved my pack, being careful to avert my gaze
from the door to the bedrooms, and set out for my next stop in Falmouth. The train
meandered inland where the light and low cloud that had cloaked St Michael’s
Mount in the Bay had become thick, wet mist. I jumped out at Truro for the
connecting service, sniffed the dank air and felt my expectations subside.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="border: none; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The
train descended steadily to the coast and Penryn Estuary appeared below the embankment.
A long marina had yachts berthed centre-stream, overlooked by low-rise,
balconied apartment blocks of student accommodation. Both Falmouth University
and Exeter University had freshly-built campuses here, prompting a thriving
estuary culture and</span> <span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="border: none; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">the creation of a new station on the branch
line. One of Daughter No 1’s friends had come here to study design and
absolutely loved the experience. I probably shared expensive café space with
some of these students this morning.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="border: none; color: #444444; font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The
afternoon was all about heritage. I took the coast road up from Falmouth Docks
station with the hope of a glimpse of the docks themselves on the way up to
Pendennis Castle. There they were in full operational glory. Amongst various
gantries, cranes, warehouses and workshops, the eye was drawn to a long, black
and red flat-topped tanker berthed in Queen Elizabeth No 2 dock that dwarfed
every other vessel in view. Good to see the complex busy, given the number of
derelict, repurposed or redeveloped docks and wharves I’ve seen up and down the
coast on these trips.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="border: none; color: #444444; font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The
Falmouth Docks do have geography on their side though. Always a good thing. Alongside
Sydney and Rio de Janeiro, the Falmouth and Carrick Roads harbour is amongst
the five largest natural harbours in the World. So is Poole, just a couple of
counties or so further east. Geography also helped establish an early boom for
the docks when the Royal Mail chose the site as its packet station, From here,
ships could safely carry mail to and from all points of the globe, protected
from malevolent westerlies by the Lizard peninsula.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="border: none; color: #444444; font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">In
World War I, the haven was taken over by the Admiralty who built a new dock specifically
for repairs to ships damaged by submarine warfare. Repair became a strategically
important role which was invested in and expanded after the war. Ship, boat and
yacht repairs remain a fundamental part of the docks’ current offer.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The rest of the headland is
basically the foundation rock for the enormous Pendennis Castle. Which is a bit
ironic as I spent a frustrating and fruitless 45 minutes walking around its
circumference in the wrong direction looking for the entrance.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiUkPWbbz3PKnbUNT8TWczYN52g3-FofnTgKYYpXEK-qX54Hyg7EFd-aWXOyF8HS27f2ZlD-DEBy-Ms-TI3kfcjk4cmim7FqXwXhynzaG1FpKoCcnyT7JCVkoROX2EGt1S4SwRS7EEvPg33jzc_fe9aC8zC9ohSguGHnvgdL_llQZkBiJuzcX1DzsK-PA=s660" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="465" data-original-width="660" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiUkPWbbz3PKnbUNT8TWczYN52g3-FofnTgKYYpXEK-qX54Hyg7EFd-aWXOyF8HS27f2ZlD-DEBy-Ms-TI3kfcjk4cmim7FqXwXhynzaG1FpKoCcnyT7JCVkoROX2EGt1S4SwRS7EEvPg33jzc_fe9aC8zC9ohSguGHnvgdL_llQZkBiJuzcX1DzsK-PA=w400-h281" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">Credit: Visit Cornwall</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;">I made a point of pleading
with the reception staff to let me drop off my backpack whilst went exploring,
though they were a little reluctant at first. My shoulders were feeling like
someone had planted a few nuggets of headland granite in my pack.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">In one respect, Pendennis Castle is a pretty straightforward. It was not
much more than a gun platform (with a few added bells and whistles) designed to
sink shipping in the estuaries beneath it. That was the castle’s job for 400
years, from its original construction in Henry VIII’s reign right up to WWII. A
pretty straightforward job description. Previous applicants need not apply.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Castles like this also brought out my war-mongering inner-child, a result
of having read far too many copies of Victor (‘for boys’) comics between the
ages of 7 and 10. Of course I’m able to keep these heinous feelings in check,
but who could resist charging down the underground tunnel to Half Moon Battery right
out the front of the promontory and air-pounding the six-inch Mark 24 guns at imaginary
German E-Boats caught in the glare of the searchlights on the 17<sup>th</sup>
century keep sneakily slinking up the estuary on a secret mission? Eh? No-one,
that’s who.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">My last call was outside the castle walls at Crab Quay, scrambling over
the remains of the block house trying to get photos that presented something
other than grey and murk. </span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVn1satB16P-IhBYv-7K0hWQowKyWBrdAfomUvbjLAKPwwEQAaOep2O0jOhODunbc0LVmaz2-AUZCnrTeNB5NYqNSo2ac_ISwzA14LCbz9_Z3vPn6cH_x5JpZzJ-kWQ32WF8mCK-1IgmMaiuCc5go2jeSDgzVwgGSPrj6UrLjjesEhyzcJBaJFv6rhYg=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVn1satB16P-IhBYv-7K0hWQowKyWBrdAfomUvbjLAKPwwEQAaOep2O0jOhODunbc0LVmaz2-AUZCnrTeNB5NYqNSo2ac_ISwzA14LCbz9_Z3vPn6cH_x5JpZzJ-kWQ32WF8mCK-1IgmMaiuCc5go2jeSDgzVwgGSPrj6UrLjjesEhyzcJBaJFv6rhYg=w300-h400" width="300" /></span></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">There were complicated views of the many estuaries
that met here. The rivers Fal, Penryn and Percuil all broiled off the rocks
beneath me. I could make out St Mawes on the opposite headland. The town’s castle,
sitting above the harbour surrendered to the Parliamentarians during the Civil
War before Thomas Fairfax’s army had even reached the peninsula. Pendennis
chose to hold out and endured a three month siege, before succumbing.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">To the south the whitewashed lighthouse of St Anthony Head flashed quite
distinctly against the monochrome. In front of me, the concrete bollard on
Black Rock, a hazard found right in the middle of the channel, looked particularly
treacherous. Grey seals could often be seen
basking on the rocks at the foot of the bollard. None that day
though, discouraged by the steely waves crashing around their erstwhile perch.</span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhqDdoK6LUT1kEIhAqTfN49BXX8rCbC0sLaMxm1iHtt9hYkBSXOWtShcCBpiFpqWxV9df1b0_lEyArwsjnCSToq6smLsP6k_86nm5_87HCLi6RkMYFFZbJHemzyKrr9qZOgc8yTc6YJvsFZgDJ9N7_2FIYMnbqqnkWgw5wIoeSF6obDp9MF8O3tYOKg8A=s4896" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhqDdoK6LUT1kEIhAqTfN49BXX8rCbC0sLaMxm1iHtt9hYkBSXOWtShcCBpiFpqWxV9df1b0_lEyArwsjnCSToq6smLsP6k_86nm5_87HCLi6RkMYFFZbJHemzyKrr9qZOgc8yTc6YJvsFZgDJ9N7_2FIYMnbqqnkWgw5wIoeSF6obDp9MF8O3tYOKg8A=w400-h300" width="400" /></span></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #444444;"><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I packed away my camera and walked around the west side of the headland
for a view over Falmouth town before heading back to the station. Next stop on the train would
be Ivybridge, covered in reverse chronological order by the previous <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/02/seaside-special-mother-natures.html">episode</a>. The next chapter in this series picks up the clockwise theme: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/03/seaside-special-atlantic-highway-north.html" target="_blank">Cornwall''s Atlantic Highway</a>. (Do keep up!) </span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Series navigation: </span><a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/04/seaside-special-excursions-to-coast.html" style="font-style: italic;">Intro and chapter guide</a></p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #444444; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Davoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2854417785396611556.post-56248922102503349062022-02-04T21:26:00.003+00:002022-03-25T16:10:19.932+00:00Seaside Special - Mother Nature’s playground: South Devon<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Ah, Devon. Here’s another
excuse to dip a toe in the calming waters of nostalgia. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhMXxnajnWUJbWfAmIF8DHys9vsF-t7sUjxKBx10gOxE59dz0Z-L_IYdb7o6RTxPjxom7t2Q1Ph50YmazklKbnLv0G4HB7w_2wAKsMCALRpK4p_iQ9bgfQiXRZ9lOlzo3b9cTpaWPiqa4u0aoYhTTZ0gvGnDxg3v2z9LVGdMyojKgxfembdzwYgI1wDGw=s4871" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3653" data-original-width="4871" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhMXxnajnWUJbWfAmIF8DHys9vsF-t7sUjxKBx10gOxE59dz0Z-L_IYdb7o6RTxPjxom7t2Q1Ph50YmazklKbnLv0G4HB7w_2wAKsMCALRpK4p_iQ9bgfQiXRZ9lOlzo3b9cTpaWPiqa4u0aoYhTTZ0gvGnDxg3v2z9LVGdMyojKgxfembdzwYgI1wDGw=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p>The English Riviera was
our family holiday destination on repeat play during the early 80’s. Like
Weymouth and the jumping-off point for the Channel Islands in the previous
episode, Paignton represented full value for my Dad’s British Rail family pass.
We would hop on a cross-country express at York and let the train take the
strain for the next 320 miles, scoffing my Mum’s potted meat sarnies and playing
endless games of travel Mastermind.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Paignton seemed to suit us
all with its understated blend of seaside attractions. I remember loving the
aircraft museum, Dad was happy with the steam railway, Mum had a fair crack at
winning a giant bear on the bingo and Bruv backed a horse at a Newton Abbot
evening meeting that got stuck astride the final fence when clear in the lead. All
the ingredients for a perfect Summer holiday.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Over the years, South Devon
has had a more permanent pull on some of our friends who, not content with mere
holidays, have taken the plunge to relocate here. Having mates dotted along the
coastal hinterland is always a bonus when it comes to local knowledge for, say,
finding superb fish and chips in The Start Bay Inn at Torcross, or teasing the breakers
of a quiet high summer beach at Gara Rock. Or, on one memorable occasion, directing
me to Exeter A&E where one eye saw Sol Campbell on a grainy telly nod in a
header for England against Sweden in the 2002 World Cup, whilst the other was
being treated for a batch of corneal ulcers. Ouch.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">One of those relocating
mates has appeared in these posts previously. Roo moved to Devon years ago and is now retired. The Holy Grail. Mind you, he was always a lazy
git when it came to actual work, so in some ways the change in circumstances has not been that simple to detect. I called on him whilst on the way back from Cornwall
(a forthcoming episode) in 2018 and stayed overnight with him in Ivybridge,
a few miles east of Plymouth.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">He was by then putting his
newly established status as a man of leisure to good use. I became equally envious
of his proximity to the magnificent south Devon coastline. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Joined by the lovely Mandy, we meandered across the cliffs and inlets between Ayrmer Cove, Bigbury-on-Se</span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">a and Burgh Island. Mandy’s
knowledge of flora, fauna and landscape was outstanding, having previously led
guided walks around the area. So here comes the geology spot again. Oh schist,
I hear you say. Spot on. Slabs and slabs of it, formed as spectacular angular layers
of cliff. Sharp and grey uplifted slices of rock sticking out at 45 degrees like
the broken blades of knives on a giant scale. A knife block in reverse. </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjiycqUbRhaCrLqqxlqPpQiE-UX4m_0kmv171nZ_4QOXjtsW2J_vPMhKcN-eXnlQf4EW6bWzwt2vDifaJN5jt9adA3Vfe-0P3jnrRrfzbwPjQN4AbJjiG7kWrOoEErSLjq-nCl4KzR4e8fYaa-YeAbNL0eKtHHAUlJVATwEC6VAztYGfbBmCVOLJOfZoQ=s4795" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3596" data-original-width="4795" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjiycqUbRhaCrLqqxlqPpQiE-UX4m_0kmv171nZ_4QOXjtsW2J_vPMhKcN-eXnlQf4EW6bWzwt2vDifaJN5jt9adA3Vfe-0P3jnrRrfzbwPjQN4AbJjiG7kWrOoEErSLjq-nCl4KzR4e8fYaa-YeAbNL0eKtHHAUlJVATwEC6VAztYGfbBmCVOLJOfZoQ=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">There was time for a sit and a sandwich at Challaborough Beach. This was
where Roo’s son Joe came surfing; and where he himself does, but only on
calm days when the dangerous rip current is behaving itself. On
that day, there was no surfing to be seen at all. Too still. The beach was populated
by dog walkers – mainly spaniels for some reason – and a few sea fishermen
sitting close to the waterline and casting into the gentle froth.</span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Burgh Island Hotel is another entry on my increasingly unrealistic wish list. </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Cut off at high tide, there’s a little tractor and
trailer that takes visitors across the shimmering sands from Bigbury to the
island, where the art deco hotel dominates with its own harbour, extensive
grounds and lodges; and where glamour, luxury and opulence are on gilded tap. Agathe Christie wrote two books on the island. </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Does this sound like an advert? Well I’m happy to
take a free night or two as a bung if you are reading this, Mr and Mrs Burgh? (As
I write, a midweek night in February would set you back £505. </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif">There is only one eye-wateringly
expensive weekend date available between now and June).</span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvbjsq5_A9ECwZ5r9S50n4yX0Ay3t4kOX-I8E4_zK-zw8x4mc1V3j3Gf3GPrna3g33Xwh9JyTbZdLQqQIz4DnyWFQZ1KfuwUU4NgPUBsn5O7XNa6ZEU6aqkXwig4DnF8I1VgGAzz9IVoHFSFbZDU8cqQfA8Ot-PqyO8qh3TuWfutrGgJviOYtMzYCdng=s4896" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvbjsq5_A9ECwZ5r9S50n4yX0Ay3t4kOX-I8E4_zK-zw8x4mc1V3j3Gf3GPrna3g33Xwh9JyTbZdLQqQIz4DnyWFQZ1KfuwUU4NgPUBsn5O7XNa6ZEU6aqkXwig4DnF8I1VgGAzz9IVoHFSFbZDU8cqQfA8Ot-PqyO8qh3TuWfutrGgJviOYtMzYCdng=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">On the train home, the late afternoon sun picked out the sea cutting up
around Torbay with an onshore breeze provoking tiny white crests of surf. Around
the next estuary, Exmouth was gleaming across
the water in the Autumn sunshine backed by red Devonian Sandstone cliffs. The
estuary looked so good I decided to visit.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">But it took another year for the trip to happen. Life takes over. And
there were other trips to make as well. Eventually I found time for a</span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> brief retreat from the noise, clutter and aggravation of the commuting
hamster wheel. I’d been working in Kentish Town during 2019 when knife crime
was accelerating and the capital was seeing more deaths amongst under-25s than
any time in the last 10 years. There had been fatal stabbing outside two of the
organisations I worked for within three months. Desperate for the families and
for the communities.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Lympstone, my chosen bolt-hole
for a couple of nights on that Exe estuary glimpsed from across the water, provided
an antidote of calm. No-one in the vicinity was mugged or knifed in the three
days I was there. I barely heard a voice raised in agitation or impatience. I
didn’t even spot a single 4x4 parked across the pavement.</span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgl8RYunoRa9Eitg7ZIhsgbacECnj5oR96M1FS2tkcgSXjOMjUAZASx3QgRy5ZXefUBLSAVoQXsWhd96zF2kyX2vG4Ql207fHdID-gdOucVQLlhHAigZyAZM1gjTsCyDwR4jMKqNNsMEpb6n7QwgAVZ-lmhzlIl5WqVyfXUVE91fpS81t5rx9qjHsQngA=s4896" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgl8RYunoRa9Eitg7ZIhsgbacECnj5oR96M1FS2tkcgSXjOMjUAZASx3QgRy5ZXefUBLSAVoQXsWhd96zF2kyX2vG4Ql207fHdID-gdOucVQLlhHAigZyAZM1gjTsCyDwR4jMKqNNsMEpb6n7QwgAVZ-lmhzlIl5WqVyfXUVE91fpS81t5rx9qjHsQngA=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">There’s always a frisson of
excitement when I’m bearing down on my next destination. These days there is so much information
available to suss out locations before arrival, be it Google Earth, TripAdvisor,
OS online and even – how 20<sup>th</sup> Century – guidebooks and paper maps. But you can never know everything. Judiciously
cropped photos, inaccurate opening times, noisy neighbours, jaundiced reviews...
Indeed what would be the point? Anticipation is everything. And if expectations
sometimes exceed reality, well that’s ok too. I’m thinking Bognor here.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">For these reasons, I had an
open mind about Lympstone. I had done my research and the place seemed to tick
most of the boxes on my wishlist. And this time, reality matched up to expectation.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">From a couple of miles up
the line, I was getting good vibes. The two carriage branch line service had
left Exeter to crawl through the city’s surprisingly extensive suburbia and then
dormitory settlements separated by leafy woodlands, before a couple of twists
of the rails brought us out into full view of the estuary.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The stop before my
destination was Lympstone Commando. This must be the best named station I've ever
called at. To be fair, these two platforms were not really part of the public
rail network because they only served the home of the Royal Marines training
centre. Large red signs above the station name along the platform made this
very clear. ‘Do not alight unless you have business with the centre’.
Eight-foot chain link fencing, sentry boxes and an abundance of camouflage
rammed home the point. I put my camera away, just in case.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The village of Lympstone
itself was very genteel in comparison. ‘Devon village of the year 2007’
exclaimed a sign by the station, inferring a very different intent to one I’d
just seen up the line. I took my camera out again.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">After I’d settled in to the
airbnb with estuary views (tick) I succumbed to the inevitable<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and pottered around the foreshore at low tide
giving myself up to the sunset, the water and the quiet. If I was ever to appear
on Ken Bruce’s excellent Radio 2 Popmaster quiz and he asked me, as he surely
would, ‘So Dave, tell me a little bit about yourself. What do you like to do
when you’re not dodging knife attacks in Kentish Town?’ I’d say, ‘Well, Ken,
what I really like to do is potter. It’s a very underestimated activity and I
find I’m rather good at it.’ Lympstone was the most fantastic village for this
kind of activity. An abundance of twisting narrow alleys, some that ended at
the water, others that snaked inland. On the foreshore, dwellings seemed to be crammed
into the tiniest, most geometrically challenging of spaces. All with some kind
of vantage point out on to the estuary: gardens, balconies, terraces, windows,
sheds.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I finally stopped taking
photos from every angle, viewpoint and ledge. I finally stopped to breathe in
and unexpectedly, involuntarily, felt my soul fill up. As easy as that. Like a
hand-pulled real ale into my empty pint pot.</span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghIxj19EUClqmRBSNLQDqkLdpZHmUDtO27YQptnzB8CsVGh_dR3f6qXFNOZdbZWjrde_Fr1a7acxxEguEsGaYiHveG4ZkFhKUI1h2clgo27eeOWpLquXe9R4J6RuDu3CzHsIOSEj5Bz4mz8vKhXKsiKTMH_835l79LAfpMQCrNjQXOQ2jHxzDvOZJDaA=s3550" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3550" data-original-width="2605" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghIxj19EUClqmRBSNLQDqkLdpZHmUDtO27YQptnzB8CsVGh_dR3f6qXFNOZdbZWjrde_Fr1a7acxxEguEsGaYiHveG4ZkFhKUI1h2clgo27eeOWpLquXe9R4J6RuDu3CzHsIOSEj5Bz4mz8vKhXKsiKTMH_835l79LAfpMQCrNjQXOQ2jHxzDvOZJDaA=w294-h400" width="294" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">There was a bit more
pottering of the mind to be had, if not the body. Stood on the harbour wall and
looking back at the cottages along the estuary, I could make out a series of
poles in the half-light, drilled into the sludge. Some upright, others leaning and
all haphazardly connected by wires. An abandoned wartime flagpole signalling
system I pondered as I navigated my way back to my berth?</p></span><p></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Up early next morning for a
coffee and pastry at Susannah’s, I noted those wires were actually clothes
lines for the cottages, now hung with colourful t shirts, big pants and wet
suits. The overactive imagination of a tired mind, eh? Susannah’s cafe used to
be the post office but was very busy in its new guise, serving a few visitors who
were still around even in the second week of October. And locals too, judging
by the conversations, mostly centred on the road works up the lane causing
tailbacks into Exmouth.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Looking out the window, I
could see that a former bank was now a private house and at least two other
holiday lets betrayed earlier uses as pubs. That’s not to say the place was
without life – it was certainly no empty chocolate box of second homes and day
trippers. Both pubs were busy, the posh restaurant up the hill was booked out, the
Costcutter opened all hours, kids and parents walked to school down the roads, and
there was regular train service.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">It was to that railway I
headed next. The Avocet Line. In common with nearly all rural branch lines, the
Exeter-Exmouth route had been rebranded. A black and white depiction of the
wader’s head and signature curved bill, with wings outstretched as if to make a
courtesy, adorned all the information boards. The service was well used and at
this earlyish hour, a collection of shoppers, commuters and visitors
disembarked at Exmouth.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I pootled about the town,
getting my bearings and feeling a little underwhelmed. The walk from the
station took me behind some industrial units and marine businesses sprawling
their rusting paraphernalia along the shore. I made my way to the marina which
was another of those identikit redevelopment jobs that seemed to draw on Alpine
chalets as inspiration for the flats that surrounded yachts below, with barely
a nod to the town’s former port function. The sunlit glimpses of the town those
many months before from across the estuary had promised so much more. The town
was perfectly functional and accommodating, but I’d let my mind run away with
the idea of something a little more picturesque.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I leant across the railings
and looked over the lovely beach where a group of five or six red-life-jacketed
middle aged men and women were learning the basics of paddle-boarding by
splashing about in the light surf. Management awayday, I scoffed before admitting
that it looked like top entertainment. Water sports appeared to be a growing
interest in these parts, judging by the adverts for kite-surfing, water-skiing,
para-gliding and boat hire.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">On the other side of the
marina, a passenger ferry was moored up against the harbour wall, embarking for
Starcross. I hopped aboard for a perambulating route across the estuary
avoiding boat wrecks, spits of land and the odd sandbank populated with basking
seals.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Up on the fore deck I was
chatting to a Danish couple who were also admiring the sunbathing seals. They
were in the midst of tackling the South West Coast Path, aided by stuffed
backpacks. I met quite a few groups undertaking this marathon venture in
researching these blogs. This couple were easy going and relaxed to the point
of not knowing where they might be staying that night. Their tightly wound
packs did not include tents or sleeping bags. I was full of admiration for this
because I’m not sure I’ve got the nerve. I like a bit of a plan.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">We parted company on the
Starcross jetty. We were all going south, but I picked up the train again and
they struck out on foot. The rails hug the coast along this section of line and
act as a barrier between the houses at Starcross and the estuary. There are
only a few crossing points. The southbound platform is actually built out from
the coast over the water. Looking down over the fence is a tad unnerving. This
is, of course, just one small part of Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s remarkable south
Devon railway engineering project. The line hits the coast adjacent to Powderham
Sands about 5 miles north of this spot and sticks rigidly to the water’s edge
across bridges, embankments and through red sandstone cliffs through Dawlish,
Teignmouth and up the Teign estuary as far as Newton Abbot. I’ve ridden this
line so many times and never get bored of it. The train ducking in and out of tunnels
to give glimpse of the bays or turning through headland bends to give sweeping
views in either direction. No funfair ride comes close.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">It's a fragile beauty
though. In February 2014 a massive storm hit Devon and Cornwall overnight and quite
literally deposited chunks of this mainline connection into the briny at
Dawlish. The storm had breached a wall between the sea and the railway line,
washing it away, together with 80 metres of track, platforms at Dawlish railway
station and sections of the coastal path.</span> <span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">News bulletins carried
pictures of the railway hanging like a rope bridge over a chasm where the
embankment used to be.</span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZaywWh4b_JiQ914J9-G3ci0dIyHm5UQpswbSaSiCcahJjmp0rMI7QRZwOvaeppR5Ndn4fKFTJUXjaBTBYFExj23yARC_tb7YRDcs6hpn4NSLobOMSedSu1kQ7zgGJtNJr6vX8g4Qf9aTA-hOEPbeEuAb2_bwEjy4GaCU8UNHUjRNTZz8prBeyNGBCWQ=s978" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="515" data-original-width="978" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZaywWh4b_JiQ914J9-G3ci0dIyHm5UQpswbSaSiCcahJjmp0rMI7QRZwOvaeppR5Ndn4fKFTJUXjaBTBYFExj23yARC_tb7YRDcs6hpn4NSLobOMSedSu1kQ7zgGJtNJr6vX8g4Qf9aTA-hOEPbeEuAb2_bwEjy4GaCU8UNHUjRNTZz8prBeyNGBCWQ=w400-h211" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">BBC image</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span><p></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">Another storm on 14 February
caused a breach of the temporary sea defences which had been constructed from welded-together
shipping containers. And then on 4 March, just around the coast near
Teignmouth, a controlled operation resulted in 20,000 tonnes of material being
washed down from the cliff over the railway following another landslip. I was
fascinated by this operation and read later on the Network Rail site that this part
of the recovery plan alone involved using a high pressure water cannon, fire
hoses, helicopter-borne water bombs, specialist roped access team and ‘spider’
excavators. Engineering can be so damn sexy!</p><p></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">In total, a team of over 300
took eight weeks to repair more than four miles of line. Such is the strategic
importance of this mainline connection that costs to the economy were estimated
at £1.2 billion.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Further work at Teignmouth
was required in 2018 following another landslip. Network Rail is committed to maintaining
the current railway route and as a result, there are plans for a new, higher
and wider seawall in front of the existing wall at the resort. The delicate
balance between natural elements and community sustainability is visceral here.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">There’s a lot worth
defending. Teignmouth gave me some of the picturesque qualities I found wanting
in Exmouth. The train line ducks in-land after the station to follow the Teign
estuary and as such forms the northern edge of a triangular spit of land
surrounded by sea on two sides. The Esplanade on one side has the sea beach and
Teignmouth Pier with amusement arcade and rides, and just behind the other side
has the rather fine Den Crescent and its central Assembly Rooms. Laid out in
1826 this group survives relatively unchanged from its heyday. </span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_xkJXMXHhswkTRqpAA_vN_XJHHWE1blt_fooEIrYroDsktHPDXnRUtPAMTFiStyEnowsR6vbC2xEKArKUxhMuHHXMrCvVDI3Su97qcv-I65fWBRUILrA5G1QhiJfChMwGQkoSX3DehI6patlHAj5GdM21hE4UKd_Frn749FHkUj9foBmbsi_FqjXWBw=s4537" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3430" data-original-width="4537" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_xkJXMXHhswkTRqpAA_vN_XJHHWE1blt_fooEIrYroDsktHPDXnRUtPAMTFiStyEnowsR6vbC2xEKArKUxhMuHHXMrCvVDI3Su97qcv-I65fWBRUILrA5G1QhiJfChMwGQkoSX3DehI6patlHAj5GdM21hE4UKd_Frn749FHkUj9foBmbsi_FqjXWBw=w400-h303" width="400" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">The spit wraps round
into the estuary where there is a river beach, known as the Back Beach. I found
a pub - The Ship Inn of course - serving
Cornwall’s fine Proper Job ale and in some warming Autumn sunshine, admiring
yachts and pleasure craft hard up against their moorings. Following the line
round the bend, the Old Quay was prominent in my eye line, built to ship granite
from Dartmoor for the rebuilding of London Bridge. All this was neatly framed by
a view up the estuary to Dartmoor. Yep, tick those boxes. Add it to the list. But
don’t tell Mrs A. Oh, too late.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgXuaG_xSI4_xj6tcVq3lnVegPSr883TyT02B_xO4wMp--rYxKRmRjEFYByL5OQCSiUFL6KNUqWLX6IfGg6z9atsezvQZJCkIFSJ1_CeoYCNH_OGjbKvlG-cDwKg5CvfzyaGGpiePEVjx7ezbutyTzo8N0l2QEnCevvcxXrPRq8G41Qgt29ft7cTkIKiA=s4500" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3375" data-original-width="4500" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgXuaG_xSI4_xj6tcVq3lnVegPSr883TyT02B_xO4wMp--rYxKRmRjEFYByL5OQCSiUFL6KNUqWLX6IfGg6z9atsezvQZJCkIFSJ1_CeoYCNH_OGjbKvlG-cDwKg5CvfzyaGGpiePEVjx7ezbutyTzo8N0l2QEnCevvcxXrPRq8G41Qgt29ft7cTkIKiA=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">Back at Starcross, I was
dodging a shower by the jetty waiting for the last ferry of the day back to
Exmouth. The clouds blew over to reveal pockets of late afternoon blue sky and between
them contrived to conjure up a rainbow. Once again Exmouth was seen to best
effect from its opposite bank, as before bathed in golden sunlight, and this
time capped by a meteorological arch of the full light spectrum caught in water
droplets.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Later I was to be seen
tucking into a Thai curry in Lympstone’s Globe Inn, accompanied by a pint of
Tribute, and feeling very smug about my few days of bolt-holing in south Devon.
The daily grind would still be there when I came up for air. But it seemed reassuringly
distant. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></p><p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><i>Next episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/02/seaside-special-night-riviera-south.html">The Night Riviera to Penzance</a></i></span></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><br /></p>
<p class="BodyB" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Davoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2854417785396611556.post-72700426248032548462021-12-22T12:00:00.006+00:002024-02-08T12:07:43.193+00:00Seaside Special - Physical Geography: Dorset<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Even by the outstandingly high
standards set by the rest of this glorious coastline of ours, Dorset is
special. As a snotty-nosed schoolboy sat in a cavernous, drafty classroom I can
still picture my inspirational geography teacher Mr Douglas in the throes of a
misty-eyed eulogy about Durdle Door, Lulworth Cove and Chisel Beach.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I have a lot for which to thank Mr
Douglas. His genuine enthusiasm for the subject marked him out amongst his
peers, most of whom were more motivated by clock-watching and time-marking. He
was the difference between me leaving school at 18 as an immature,
directionless waistrel, and me leaving university at 21 as a debt-laden immature
directionless waistrel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In many ways Ken Douglas was ahead
of his time. I can remember him raging against the wanton destruction of the
environment and the folly of building six-lane motorways across bits of rural
England long before Swampy and his cohorts took to trees to protect East London
from the M11 link road in the 90’s. In one lesson he told us quite casually
that the weekend before he had been driving across the Moors and had flashed
lights and hooted horns at a car in front of him until it had pulled over. He marched
up to the unsuspecting occupants – cutting quite the figure as a lithe,
long-striding six-footer with a huge nose and hawk-like eyes – and leant in through
their window to present a pithy lecture about the disgrace of the act they had
just committed: lobbing a load of rubbish out of the car onto the heather. Bravo.
</span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">He was right about Dorset. It is a
whole term's worth of coastal erosion theory packed into one ambling field trip,
running from Poole's enormous natural harbour, across to Studland’s fluffy beaches
and along the Jurassic Coast to Weymouth: sea stacks, caves, horseshoe bays,
fossils, sedimentary deposits, longshore drift. Heck, there's probably even an
oxbow lake somewhere nearby.</span></p><p class="BodyB"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8mW7b8N4jcQ0CBzbFsPh47Ym5HlYMTmhTczKz5l9zYf0RYzhrcWj2I3J4z2NckcV9zWKDkEEJ-D1n_pUiS5ahZ5Sg63KL8bRx6fqow0n5YyBgD4EuEWz9Yvtuvl3D3k3cyZAHsZe6fmQJG35_zD_hHFUOXIkA93Q0Zp_bAAqaRE3D2ylyzW7JTiwVRw=s3831" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2554" data-original-width="3831" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8mW7b8N4jcQ0CBzbFsPh47Ym5HlYMTmhTczKz5l9zYf0RYzhrcWj2I3J4z2NckcV9zWKDkEEJ-D1n_pUiS5ahZ5Sg63KL8bRx6fqow0n5YyBgD4EuEWz9Yvtuvl3D3k3cyZAHsZe6fmQJG35_zD_hHFUOXIkA93Q0Zp_bAAqaRE3D2ylyzW7JTiwVRw=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I've been lucky enough to stay in
and explore the area a good few times. The first trip was back in the days
before kids - just - when myself and a heavily pregnant Mrs A rented a thatched
cottage at the end of a dusty track behind Wareham. The place had a cosy bird
hide nestled at the bottom of the garden that looked out on to Poole Harbour. I
had honestly not imagined until that moment how much pleasure could be derived
from immersing oneself entirely in nature. That holiday was the first time I
had seen hares, red deer and long-eared owls. From the hide, I learned about dippers,
gulls and a host of wading birds named in honour of the colour of their legs, and all
in full view in the shallows before us. </div><p></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">By contrast, we've also stayed as an
extended family in the tourist hub of Swanage. That's not a complaint. The
capital of the Isle of Purbeck has a bit more diversity and buzz about it than
some of those God's waiting rooms on the East Anglian coast. Here, young people
are seen openly in public, doing outrageous things like frolicking in the surf
and patronising amusement arcades. There's plenty of traditional chortles to be had for the older generation too...</span></p><p class="BodyB"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj_1bUFXtbu-S9HaMBxcWqKkquj64Sgz8jrEL1KmJ8s3qsTj4-VDkVy8ILWYDe_5M-sM-OEDQXKzVXBt6eEjY4XE4R2GRs5GRTOBZzCbbJACsY3ZtRaPQc_vR31i5Z9MRVTLRGNRFosee0XbSIjIwBhECZKJh1QN-H-drBPEq4i0CBGfTqIiUxVoCqy4Q=s3888" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="3888" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj_1bUFXtbu-S9HaMBxcWqKkquj64Sgz8jrEL1KmJ8s3qsTj4-VDkVy8ILWYDe_5M-sM-OEDQXKzVXBt6eEjY4XE4R2GRs5GRTOBZzCbbJACsY3ZtRaPQc_vR31i5Z9MRVTLRGNRFosee0XbSIjIwBhECZKJh1QN-H-drBPEq4i0CBGfTqIiUxVoCqy4Q=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></div><p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The Victorian right-angled pier in
Swanage is a fine example of the 80-odd similar structures that remain alive around
the shorelines of Britain. From a high watermark of 150 in the middle of the
20th century, piers have become an endangered species. Saving and restoring them has
become a bit of a national pastime. There are some innovative solutions to the
problem. Further round the coast in Hastings, a community owned business has
been set up and is now raising money to refurbish the town's pier. In Swanage,
I had been involved in a Government sponsored funding initiative about five
years earlier called Rural Challenge. </span></p><p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Various local projects had to
compete against each other to win the cash to complete their project. It was a
bit like Dragon's Den for countryside regeneration. </span>Except instead of Peter Jones and
his tech investment track record or Deborah Meaden’s green business portfolio, community
entrepreneurs had to deal with grey-suited faceless bureaucrats... like me.
There wasn't much scope to deviate from the set questions, though I did sneak in this: "I'm going to the Cheltenham Festival next week. Why should I
invest in you and not Rooster Booster in the Champion Hurdle?"</p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Anyway, the good people of Swanage
had been successful in their funding pitch and had bagged £1m to restore the
pier. (Rooster Booster went on the win the Champion Hurdle and I'm still not sure we made the right decision.) O</span>n this stay in Swanage I undertook a furtive site visit and checked that
Her Majesty's resources had been disbursed appropriately. Whilst I’m happy to
report that public sector money had been well spent (indeed I found a circular
green and silver disc bearing our logo attesting to the fact), it appeared that
the structure was once again in a perilous state. Over 40 of the timber piles
supporting the boardwalk had fallen into critical condition, putting the Grade
II Listed structure at risk. Again. It is now owned by the Swanage Pier Trust
which needed to raise £100,000 to safeguard its future.</p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Part of their campaign was based on
selling brass plaques with personal dedications at £125 a pop. This were fixed
to planks in three lines across the crumbling pier, dog-legging out over the
bay. Over 10,000 had been purchased at the time of our visit. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some were polished and marked in memorium by
bunches of flowers. Others were less well cared for and had become dulled by
the salt air. Amongst the simple remembrances, raw sentiment and charmless
football allegiances, there lurked a few cryptic comments that hinted at untold
stories and flashes of humour expressed in even less characters than your
standard Twitter missive. “Got Your Dosh. Bollocks to you, matey” declared one
revengeful plaque; “Lainey. We are OK, it’s the rest of them we need to worry
about” warned another, and most curiously “40 pigs ate the wood”. No, I’ve no
idea.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In comparison with the geological
wonders further west, Old Harry Rocks off the headland above Swanage wouldn’t
have raised the pulse of my old Geography teacher. And yet, viewed from Ballard
Down, the chalk stumps and stacks that form the easternmost point of the
Jurassic Coast are full of dramatic impact. Geology rocks, (as I’ve said in
possibly every post in the series so far). </span></p><p class="BodyB"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi4ChsEarL56EHIK_b3yzlw4d2gd8fAzNOWkaF4EQSQTyu78A20gb-_5i7r4iVUkn2CIDOEB2bI9iw59PWrZC230n7x6HHpwGzvF-QL6kaRAr5rN_WqY1s-1EGLAulSOdYveTK_I60gBgUOP5-k95GQMePCx9zi4ApLiW3FlxikmnxkJO-OFfMePxigLA=s3888" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3888" data-original-width="2592" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi4ChsEarL56EHIK_b3yzlw4d2gd8fAzNOWkaF4EQSQTyu78A20gb-_5i7r4iVUkn2CIDOEB2bI9iw59PWrZC230n7x6HHpwGzvF-QL6kaRAr5rN_WqY1s-1EGLAulSOdYveTK_I60gBgUOP5-k95GQMePCx9zi4ApLiW3FlxikmnxkJO-OFfMePxigLA=w266-h400" width="266" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="BodyB">The scenic stuff abounded from up
there on the Down and screamed for attention. Studland Bay’s soft, deep,
dune-backed, sometime-naturist, National Trust-protected beach was a wonderful
thing to behold. The distant, shimmering multi-million properties of Sandbanks
across the water formed an exclusive, impressive backdrop. As we descending towards
Studland village, the foreground became filled with the almost equally
impressive sight of the Bankes Arms pub, brewery and eatery, whose beer garden
sits on the South West Coast Path.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This path is the longest national trail in England and links all those beautiful places
on the Jurassic Coast from Poole Harbour west. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><p class="BodyB"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiYJcjDcRW86oksAp-XKzIrZagbltrkVuzpuSvc-Mc-1FcDuVyVgdlyWMoHPXZb965auSNw-uD-75tExYlnkonSq1myd_24jvZFxhRZvuuAeirS5pi47fcGRk093gS1M3_wIdbIzdu5w1qDfEn5Tge1WwZj2d0FJ4VVfD_qwHi2kylI1UcfT53Lj86Zog=s3617" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3617" data-original-width="2411" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiYJcjDcRW86oksAp-XKzIrZagbltrkVuzpuSvc-Mc-1FcDuVyVgdlyWMoHPXZb965auSNw-uD-75tExYlnkonSq1myd_24jvZFxhRZvuuAeirS5pi47fcGRk093gS1M3_wIdbIzdu5w1qDfEn5Tge1WwZj2d0FJ4VVfD_qwHi2kylI1UcfT53Lj86Zog=w266-h400" width="266" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="BodyB">At the point where it approaches the stunning Worbarrow Bay, a worthwhile diversion (only if the MOD is compliant) is Tyneham, tucked into a fold of the valley just east of the bay and surrounding cliffs. It is what the guide books like to
call a 'ghost village'. </p></span><p></p><p class="BodyB"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">The villagers were turfed out in 1944 to make way for
D-Day preparations because it adjoins the Lulworth firing ranges sweeping along
this part of the coast. The story goes that the villagers had expected to return
after the war. However, the MOD hung on to the sites. The valley was
compulsorily purchased in 1952, including the firing ranges above the 102
houses that comprise the village. They are still in use today. Visits to
Tyneham are only possible at times when the air is absent of the hum of live
ammunition zipping overhead. Mostly, that means weekends. The same goes for
this stunning section of the SW Coast Path, where there is no obvious or
useable diversion.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Limited access was finally
negotiated by the families of displaced villagers under the campaign slogan
‘Tyneham Died for D-Day’. Decades of arguments had ensued though, and this
partial victory was only won in the 1990's. The campaigners original wish of
reclaiming their village for good never happened.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Our self-guided tour around the decaying
settlement was an odd experience unlike tours of other deserted villages
because the occupants here left so recently – still just about within living
memory. The school remained intact and was dressed up in a permanent snapshot
of primary education circa 1944. A bit like an open-air museum at somewhere
like Beamish, but pinching yourself to remember this was a real place. There
was also an exhibition in the church. All managed by the MOD as a tourism
sideline.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">Talking of within-living-memory, I took a few recollection-jolts when we revisited Weymouth later on. The port was
the departure point for some of our best holidays as kids to the Channel Islands. My Dad was employed by British Rail all his
working life. One of the hard-won staff benefits the militant rail unions negotiated
was 20-odd free travel days for employees' families across the network each
year. In the 1970’s this also extended to Sealink, the nationalised operation's ferry
subsidiary.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">Dad, being an honest Yorkshireman with an
unshakeable sense of value, used to take us on holidays that could be defined
as ‘the furthest for the least’. The train from Malton in north Yorkshire (our
nearest post-Beeching station) to Weymouth where we would connect with the
ferry to Guernsey and Jersey was a perfect example.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">In those days, the train branched off the approach to Weymouth station and rumbled along the banks of the Backwater and
through the town to Weymouth Quay. My bruv and I pressed our noses up at the
carriage window as it clanked and crawled a laborious route through the busy
heart of town on unfenced tram-like rails seemingly inches away from shoppers,
vehicles and terraced houses. The train pulled up at the Quay in spitting distance of the berthed
blue-hulled ferries with red funnels adorned with the distinctive British Rail
logos. Marvellous service.</span></p><p class="BodyB"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjxTe447t8gu0vWR8yLsTPIzYykBXJ_yU3nMj3vB106iA3JkXsNs5X6xm32Bw6AVEfW-EYkZmx5C1XIFg7lvHGoHBNT9iN613H1XGW7LLBn17LZp5nBgKLEXONxC7IPcC-o398H5oMPCxqbU3dwOx_2dOhwOCzuFlsoL5sDC8F4OZXzgKdE3vpZC-y_lQ=s278" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="181" data-original-width="278" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjxTe447t8gu0vWR8yLsTPIzYykBXJ_yU3nMj3vB106iA3JkXsNs5X6xm32Bw6AVEfW-EYkZmx5C1XIFg7lvHGoHBNT9iN613H1XGW7LLBn17LZp5nBgKLEXONxC7IPcC-o398H5oMPCxqbU3dwOx_2dOhwOCzuFlsoL5sDC8F4OZXzgKdE3vpZC-y_lQ=w400-h260" width="400" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="BodyB">Many years had elapsed before this return visit.
The intervening years had seen Sealink sold off first to Sea Containers and
then to Stena Line. The ‘Sealink’ name disappeared from their fleet in 1996. Weymouth Quay railway station hadn’t been used since 1987, though I was delighted
to see that the tracks of the branch line were still embedded in the road. </p></span><p></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">The town itself was suffering the same
faded-gloryitis that afflicts many seaside resorts. Brewers Quay, once the
pride and joy of the harbour-front has been empty and decaying for years. Now
bought by a developer, the site awaits the unreliable fate of the planners’ progress.
The fishing harbour was still busy though and we stopped for a coffee as an excuse
to sit and watch the low-key activity on the pleasure craft and working boats
beneath us. Despite the town’s tacky charm, outdated attractions and closed rail
link, I still liked Weymouth.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">Even more years later, I returned to the area to
explore a bit more of the South West Coast Path. In between bouts of inconvenient work
anyway. I’d come to Bridport to run a seminar on charity collaboration (the gigs
just get better and better don’t they?). It was also my birthday. And Brian, my
work buddy, happened to live in Bridport. I stayed with him and his wife
Sue, where we ate organically farmed pork and tarte-tatin made with home grown
apples. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">Bridport is about two miles from the coast. The
‘port’ bit of its name refers to a trading post rather than a coastal berth for
boats. It was a good, solid town, acting as a market hub in distinctly rural
area. The town was defined by its four flat-topped hills, two rivers and
floodplain around which development had infilled. The architecture was typical
of market towns: a few grand civic buildings and churches surrounded by shops
and houses dating from the medieval period right up to their present in a
pleasing hotchpotch. </span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">The place felt socially mixed, and more culturally
diverse than many towns in these West Country parts. There was a whiff of the
alternative about it. More watered down than the hippy-fuelled commune-like
towns of Totnes or Stroud. But the presence of a Bohemian edge could be
detected in the independent shops, folk-art culture and in the vibrant local
action/campaigning groups. Notting Hill on Sea, some called it.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">Later, Brian dropped me down to West Bay, the
location for Broadchurch, that popular murder mystery drama from off the telly.
He pointed out the best chippy in town before heading back up to Bridport,
leaving me to explore.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">The chippy was in amongst a little gathering of
food huts overlooking West Bay’s pretty harbour, full of small pleasure craft
bobbing on the incoming tide. I caused no little consternation by ordering my
fish and chips from ‘Harbour Lights’ and then inadvertently sitting at a table
reserved for ‘Snack Shack’. “Could you sit at Harbour Lights’ tables please?” The
proprietor was fidgety and wouldn’t look me in the eyes. I wasn’t even sure he
was talking to me at first, but I eventually got the message.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">I shuffled off the picnic bench with my
polystyrene cup of coffee and sat somewhere else in the knot of tables on
the patio area. That was wrong too. ‘Reserved for Rachels’ said the spray paint
on the table top. The next one I tried was only for ‘JBs’. I was getting a
little anxious. A couple sat with a cone of chips underneath the ‘Snack Shack’
canopy helpfully pointed me to the other side of the wall, beyond the patio on
the lip of the harbour. I felt like quoting Douglas Adams in <i>The
Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy</i>: The plans were on display "…in the bottom
of a locked filing cabinet stuck in a disused lavatory with a sign on the door
saying ‘Beware of the Leopard’ ".</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">I had to shoo a mean looking Herring Gull off
the table before I could sit down. My food arrived. The cod was obviously a
distant relation of Moby Dick. God knows how the vendor had got the whale over
to my table without it toppling off the summit of an alpine-like pile of chips.</span></p><p class="BodyB"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHzvLZsLgrVXtlkqWquGG_P0xywrpSiMaS5I1jqXVh3E3UIUV9Z5uk2OhbBIQd3QCssItnPPx_hEQ4yNvXFAW0AKgTEZeP-x0TnwR1hOWfP_Z5mUTUBgxlEjeOPoBFvABPnPZooUxC8xOO0Oy7eQWAgg-1nRfyyKG21f-9pLsA945rTKtSS3Tqd408hA=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHzvLZsLgrVXtlkqWquGG_P0xywrpSiMaS5I1jqXVh3E3UIUV9Z5uk2OhbBIQd3QCssItnPPx_hEQ4yNvXFAW0AKgTEZeP-x0TnwR1hOWfP_Z5mUTUBgxlEjeOPoBFvABPnPZooUxC8xOO0Oy7eQWAgg-1nRfyyKG21f-9pLsA945rTKtSS3Tqd408hA=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="BodyB">Herbert the Herring Gull jumped up on the next
table and cocked his head at me. He was chunky and gnarled. If he had been
attired in a filthy hoodie and cheap bling on tattooed flight feathers, I
wouldn’t have been surprised. Herbert kept squawking at juvenile birds around
him. Marshalling them for a pincer movement on me, no doubt. An elderly woman on the way to the loo spoke
to me from within the depths of an oversized gilet. “That bird would mug you as
soon as look at you!” She wasn’t wrong. I scoffed as much of the mountainous feed as I could in
double-haste and binned the debris.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">Brian was right. The fish was beautifully moist
and the batter firm and crisp without that slight sense of sickliness after
you’ve stuffed yourself completely and have become too full. Or maybe that’s
just me?</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">I liked West Bay. Previously known as Bridport
Bay, the small town was wedged in the dip between two sets of cliffs. Those to
the west, heading away to Lyme Regis included Golden Cap, the highest cliff on
the south coast. Away to the east, the orange sandstone cliffs were lower and
more crumbly. And infinitely more dramatic - perhaps the settlement’s most
widely recognised feature. Huge blocks of fallen cliff were nestled at its base.
Brian told me that at least once a year someone would be badly injured or
killed because they loitered in this impact zone, despite plenty of warning
signs urging people to keep clear.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">On one side of the harbour, in amongst pastel-painted
fishing cottages and other dwellings, West Bay had a couple of sturdy looking
inns, a smattering of restaurants and a few shops and coffee houses, but the
only real nod towards seaside schmaltz was a discreet amusement arcade off the
main square. There was also a heritage centre (closed Mondays) and an
attractive weather-boarded beach cafe. </span></p><p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">The western side had a large but tidy caravan
park tucked behind the coast road and a block of mid-20<sup>th</sup> century
sheltered housing in prime position right on the seafront. Some much more
recent apartment blocks with sweeping balconies overlooked the seaward harbour
walls – the location of the police station in that telly programme. The informal
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>feel was appealing. The western cliffs
had hinterlands studded with houses and bungalows strategically positioned for
the morning sun.</span></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">However, it was the evening sun that struck me
at that moment. Turning back towards the bay, the deep orange sandstone cliffs were
lit up by the declining sun like a Himalayan salt lamp.</span></p><p class="BodyB"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-LroevtBKRfHT4q0Ov9t1U0zRDcjP3JwKrCBd_yUVRirQ4OA_JxWuSk-FVMrC2ijIWxORopQ9fvtU7sA9S-do4fKHmIBff1jMtWEG1d0HCEBqMMnenauBToLt7Rgva1xPQ10KoL1pnU19qxYYlJnRdnSVapA8BbjzsezA6MRWT4F_Sx_tZDhBzT2_FA=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-LroevtBKRfHT4q0Ov9t1U0zRDcjP3JwKrCBd_yUVRirQ4OA_JxWuSk-FVMrC2ijIWxORopQ9fvtU7sA9S-do4fKHmIBff1jMtWEG1d0HCEBqMMnenauBToLt7Rgva1xPQ10KoL1pnU19qxYYlJnRdnSVapA8BbjzsezA6MRWT4F_Sx_tZDhBzT2_FA=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="BodyB">Beneath the illuminated
range, the golden ribbon of Chesil Beach slid its way back to Weymouth and
Portland Bill. Mr Douglas, my old Geography teacher, would have nodded
approval. I remembered it was my birthday and I caught myself thinking, ‘Well
if you have to work on the day, there are worse places to earn a shekel.’</p></span><p></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p><i>Series navigation: </i></o:p></span><i>Introduction - <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/04/seaside-special-excursions-to-coast.html">Excursions to the coast</a></i></span></p><p class="BodyB"><i><span style="font-family: arial;">Previous episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/11/seaside-special-titanic-emotions.html">Titanic emotions, Hampshire</a></span></i></p><p class="BodyB"><i><span style="font-family: arial;">Next episode: South Devon - <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2022/02/seaside-special-mother-natures.html">Mother
Nature’s playground</a></span></i></p>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p><i> </i></o:p></span></p>Davoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.com0Bridport DT6, UK50.7335769 -2.75830122.423343063821157 -37.914551 79.043810736178841 32.397949tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2854417785396611556.post-57803088048317209692021-11-18T12:39:00.012+00:002024-02-08T12:05:26.203+00:00Seaside Special - Titanic emotions: Hampshire<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhZEmCvAxL3W8dBDmEb_HXUQrgUSqkCGW3l30HuVxgryBECdMLTwe0yXqDXwnb-9iDo5_CuGHYFTS7MZbsFFkfu17lyxHnNXk6fdv6x2ZNq70_huOVqLkEe-PmW_tXNMoGNgYZFPsMQZrM/s400/Southampton7.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="282" data-original-width="400" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhZEmCvAxL3W8dBDmEb_HXUQrgUSqkCGW3l30HuVxgryBECdMLTwe0yXqDXwnb-9iDo5_CuGHYFTS7MZbsFFkfu17lyxHnNXk6fdv6x2ZNq70_huOVqLkEe-PmW_tXNMoGNgYZFPsMQZrM/w400-h283/Southampton7.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">RMS Titanic leaving Southampton by John Stewart</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Southampton was a coastal city I did not know well – save for a visit to Ordnance Survey’s hallowed offices in my first ever proper job – until Daughter No 1 took up residence there as a student. </p><p>The day we took her to the University halls of residence for the very first time was, predictably, full of sharp emotions and memory stabs. </p><p>Our collection of cavernous IKEA bags, long-time unregarded residents of the shoe cupboard, finally came into their own for moving day. Temporarily packed with bewildering items from Daughter No 1’s old and new existence, they played a key role in the home-uni transit arrangements.</p><p>The bags and holdalls had to be relayed to the car in shifts and then crow-barred into the boot and seat wells. Jackie over the road looked out on the scene and said that they had to deploy their trailer, more often used for scout camps, when they took their daughter to uni. </p><p>Last to come downstairs from DN1s bedroom was a family-size rucksack last used on her Reading Festival adventure, still flecked with mud from that right-of-passage adventure. “That one is mostly shoes”, remarked the Imelda Markos clone, with a casual wave of the hand, ignoring the newly-made crater the bag had just depressed in the dining room floor.</p><p>I left for college with nothing but a toothbrush and a packet of condoms. I never used either! (Boom! Boom!) Ok, slight exaggeration, but I certainly didn't have a clothes airer wedged over the back seat head-rests. “Can't you just hang your washing out the windows?” I pleaded. </p><p>We lost count of cars on the M3 with duvets, pillows and M&S bags crushed up against the rear windscreens of assorted 4x4s. Moving day. In all senses. My mate told me about a piece in the Torygraph in which a Dad was taking his daughter to uni. At one point she looked at her father and said 'You did alright you know'. He inflated with chest-swelling emotion and declared the moment to be worth more to him than any of her qualifications.</p><p>Anyway, there was none of that on our journey. As if to eek out a reaction, I casually asked what she would miss about Berko. "Maybe the cheap double gin and tonics in the Crown" she said.</p><p style="text-align: left;">The journey reminded me of a very different road trip almost exactly 19 years previously: </p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>So very calmly and orderly, we call a cab. I didn’t think it would be like this. Mrs A was not long back from the hospital after a scan on our baby who is due today. She had turned breech and suddenly everything accelerates. </i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>Our Star Car minicab arrives quickly. The driver, who is wearing a dubious leathery pork pie hat, helps us into the car. He’s very chatty. We tell him we want to go to the Delivery Suite at St George’s. He looks at us for a couple of seconds and then asks us if it’s for real as we seem very calm. I think he’s expecting screams of agony and panic. </i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>“No”, we say very matter of factly, “This isn’t a practice!”</i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>Little does he know that Mrs A’s waters are gushing all over his back seat! He’ll know it’s for real when the next passenger gets in.</i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>Things then get a bit surreal. </i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>“I’m hoping for some good news myself in the next few weeks”.</i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>“Oh yeah, what’s that?” I say brightly. I bet he’s going to be a Grandad. </i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>“Yeah, I’m hoping to have my vasectomy reversed!”</i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>Where did that come from! There’s a pause while I swallow back the laughter. If Mrs A tries any harder to stop giggling she’ll give birth right there. What do you say? He must be in his late fifties. </i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>“Oh really?” I tamely offer. </i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>“Yeah, I had it done twenty-odd years ago after I’d had a few (unspecified) kids. The doctors reckon I’ve got a 60-70% chance of a successful reversal, but I reckon it’s better than that.” (How the hell does he know?) </i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>So I get into the feel of things as well. Mrs A and I chip in with the odd question here and there as he proceeds to describe in reasonably graphic detail what the operation might involve. Ever made small talk about vasectomies? It’s quite a challenge. I have to pinch myself to remind me where we are going.</i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>The journey passes in a flash. We get out of the car and everybody wishes everybody else good luck. It’s lovely. </i></p><p><br /></p><p>Our current excursion ended when we were greeted by a very efficient uni Arrivals Team who helped us locate DN1s room in the cluster flat, provided a guided tour/dos and don’ts briefing and then worked out that the door pass-key didn’t work. They also lugged their fair share of the hundredweights of gear up to the first floor bedroom. Things have changed.</p><p>Some of the IKEA bags were going to come back with us, so we spent a good hour or so unpacking. This helpfully illuminated the nature of the priceless cargo we had hauled down the road.</p><p>“Swimming goggles? You haven’t worn these for five years!”</p><p>Giggles. </p><p>“I thought I might take up swimming again.”</p><p>“Feather boa?”</p><p>Swiftly taken from my grasp and draped around the window.</p><p>“Reminds me of my 18th”</p><p>“Spotty bandana? Fake pirate’s hook?”</p><p>More giggles.</p><p>“Fancy dress parties, Dad!”</p><p>We met some of her new flat mates. They seemed fine. I knew that meeting them and deciding that the group harboured no obvious axe murderers would help me leave her behind with (a little) less anxiety.</p><p>We had to push her out the bedroom door when a few arrived in the flat together.</p><p>“Go make friends. Do your thing!”</p><p>She took a deep breath and strode towards them. Within a few moments, she’d arranged to go to clubbing that night. Her new friend and flat mate Vanessa had organised it all in about 45 seconds. Bit hasty I thought. Wouldn’t she want to stay in and cry for hours once we’d departed?</p><p>The moment came to go. There was a gurgle as I hugged her. Less an emotional reaction, more a cry of pain as I crushed a number of her more important vertebrae. Mrs A was more gentle. I suspected that DN1 had actually spent longer saying goodbye to the dog that morning. </p><p>On subsequent trips to Southampton, we gradually saw a little more of the city and is environs. Almost adjacent to her first year digs was the spankingly new Ocean Village development. Like many former docks, the site had recently been overhauled after a period of dereliction and now offered the sort of exclusive services and facilities that nearly every other port city has scrambled for: high-end balconied apartments, up market chain restaurant/bars and deep water anchorage for tall ships and large yachts. </p><p>It lies at the mouth of the River Itchen and was originally the site of Southampton's first working docks. The Outer Dock opened in 1842. The site became uneconomic after the war and lay dormant until the first phase of redevelopment in 1986. Ocean Village has since become a well known start and finish for round-the-world yacht races. After a period of stalled activity after the 2010 banking crash, the place was once again the subject of frenzied multimillion-pound building projects. </p><p>Some of the original warehousing can be seen set back from the complex and the rails for cranes and unloading gantries have been concreted in to the refurbished quay cobbles. Otherwise there is very little that screams ‘heritage’ and the basin is indistinguishable from similar regenerations that might be seen along Battersea Reach on the Thames, Paddington Basin or a poor imitation of Cardiff Bay. Obviously better than abandonment, but it is a pretty unremarkable and spirit-sapping transformation.</p><p>Maritime history flows through Southampton at every twist of its many rivers. Where the Test meets the Itchen is the former deep water White Star Dock. The Titanic set sail from here for New York on April 10, 1912 from Berth no 44. </p><p>The White Star Line had relocated their transatlantic operations from Liverpool to Southampton in 1907. It allowed Southampton to play host to the biggest vessels in the world. The berth was originally constructed to host Titanic and her two sister ships, the Olympic and the Britannic. At the time of the Titanic's departure, Southampton's economy was flourishing. It was established as Britain’s premier passenger port and had 23 steamship companies in operation. Some of these were crucially important, such as Royal Mail, Union Castle and American Lines.</p><p>The SeaCity Museum in the guildhall has a great photograph of Titanic departing Berth 44 amid clouds of smoke and steam, with mooring lines being cast off and five tiny tugs manoeuvring the vessel away and out of the dock. </p><p>Something that the museum rams home is that nowhere else felt the tragedy of the Titanic disaster like Southampton. The ship was carrying 700 crew members who came from the city. More than 500 local households lost a family member to the freezing north Atlantic. </p><p>One cold Spring morning I had a wander round the docks and terminals. Until 2005 one could get right up to Titanic’s berth and have a nosey. I’d have liked to do that, but revamped security amid increased terrorism concerns have closed access to the general public. It would still be possible for me to visit the berth by special arrangement if I wanted to, say, join, the British Titanic Society who have been known to organise boat trips to the berth. </p><p>Another option would have been to buy myself a round the world cruise ticket. Berth 44 is still used, alongside other termini for today’s luxury liners like Cunard’s mammoth Queen Mary 2. I just didn’t quite have time that morning. </p><p>I consoled myself with the knowledge that there wasn’t much left to see at Berth 44 anyway. The original sheds and cranes were badly damaged by German bombs in World War II. The dock was renamed Ocean Dock in 1922 and the terminal that replaced the war-damaged sheds at berth 44 was itself demolished in 1968. However, the exact same bollards against which RMS Titanic were moored remain in place. Painted a lurid orange in case anyone missed them. </p><p>This sense of re-invention and progress runs through a teeming concentration of passenger and container facilities that stretch miles from the Test/Itchen confluence upstream as far as Redbridge Causeway and the western banks of the Test. The ports are thriving and not much industrial archaeology has survived. Though I was pleased to see the Mayflower’s departure point is commemorated via the Pilgrim Fathers Memorial on Town Quay. A nice link with my trip to Harwich a few posts ago. The ship was chartered by a group now known as the Pilgrims in 1620 to sail to the New World to escape religious oppression. Now, over 30 million US citizens are descended from those who sailed there on the Mayflower. Various events, admittedly Covid-impacted, were delivered in 2020 to mark the 400th anniversary of its sailing. </p><p>The city centre has done a little better in terms of preserving its history than the port complex. The heart of the place dates from just after the Norman Conquest when the invaders used this site as the main link back to their lands in France. Bargate is the best remnant from this era. I sat outside an artisan coffee house on the broad High Street appreciating the crenelations and detailed stone carving of this imposing gateway. This was the main entrance to the walled town built somewhere around 1180. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgukTg4im64iDSSTKsXoYyeH21Rv-QZJnQACiAaeQQbxaErgbg7fvWxDC3QK-s5wq4gx2xYfzFLKxTKyPYy102O2G6TNx14-0-gjRp1yuPRU7f034tSCApeFryZCmcq8-Uc_2LYukpgOK5A/s2048/Southampton+2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1816" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgukTg4im64iDSSTKsXoYyeH21Rv-QZJnQACiAaeQQbxaErgbg7fvWxDC3QK-s5wq4gx2xYfzFLKxTKyPYy102O2G6TNx14-0-gjRp1yuPRU7f034tSCApeFryZCmcq8-Uc_2LYukpgOK5A/w355-h400/Southampton+2.jpg" width="355" /></a></div><p>I’d just emerged from another of the city’s heritage landmarks, the Star Hotel. During the early 1880s, the hotel was visited regularly by royalty and the Victoria room commemorates the then Princess Victoria’s visit here in 1831. However, my stay had embraced a more domestic experience. I’d had a shocking night’s kip. My room was the buffer zone for an extended family early-hours row that involved at least three rooms around me. Tucked under the covers, I genuinely feared for my wellbeing as some bloke seemingly outside my door shouted, ‘Where is he, where is he? Which room?’ I was just waiting for him to burst in and confront me over some indiscretion. Instead he found a different door, but the arguing went on for hours.</p><p>A decent chunk of the City Walls are intact and a stroll after my frothy, calming cappuccino gave a decent vantage point onto other parts of the medieval centre. It’s hardly Chester or York, to be fair. On the other hand, the city does not aspire to be a living museum, either. It is a reasonably affluent modern city, hosting cutting edge marine and communication industries alongside more traditional academic, service and retail sectors. And there are signs that the newer developments such as The Quays and the Bargate Quarter may undo some of the unspeakable architectural crimes of the 1960’s. </p><p>On some trips to visit DN1, aside from running diy repairs to her student hovel and dosing her up with vitamins, we’d take her out to visit the network of estuaries beyond the city. Hythe, on the western bank of the Test, just before the Fawley oil refinery, was an unexpected joy of Georgian Streets, sweeping riverscapes and a couple of decent pubs for lunch. I was delighted to learn that Sir Christopher Cockerell, the inventor of the Hovercraft lived here - an almost forgotten mode of transport that came up in my <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/10/seaside-special-diamond-smiles-isle-of.html" target="_blank">Isle of Wight post</a>. We took the little train along Hythe pier and then realised that we could have been ferried here to the pier head across the Test, dodging cruise liners, from Southampton. Poor planning on my part. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieXra3gGAfoST7nZgVYNSBY_KGyNV2dGP5YW1a47CZiGYtWTBxBbRXs9CEfL88fiiDEIvK-VlPLJ6tqk2QGgM4dfYl7uSOtX9LK19qFoM5txghejDRwz0RY7SbEFy7YtV4UhDWV6_mKOWn/s2048/Southampton1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1267" data-original-width="2048" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieXra3gGAfoST7nZgVYNSBY_KGyNV2dGP5YW1a47CZiGYtWTBxBbRXs9CEfL88fiiDEIvK-VlPLJ6tqk2QGgM4dfYl7uSOtX9LK19qFoM5txghejDRwz0RY7SbEFy7YtV4UhDWV6_mKOWn/w400-h248/Southampton1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Hythe also had a marina. Of course. On every trip to this part of the world, I was staggered at the amount of yachts of all sizes, high-end cruisers and various other expensive craft moored up at every possible harbour from Southampton onwards. The River Hamble estuary must be the absolute capital of yachting Britain. Places like Old Bursledon and Hamble itself provided us with excellent venues for eating, drinking and viewing these symbols of naked wealth parked in sheltered board-walked rectangles up and down the river. The games of ‘which boat would you have if money was no object’ easily lasted a couple of rounds of solid Golden Glory ale in the Jolly Sailors.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvltUka9nV_A-DR2rn2u3nSydF1A_aRdEn197BUMVKzLL1lVQyz5HJqwD8CzidHW_6_J10oOXu80FCNAknC6GaiIgwmxBRqBi4iA3pUrmPs-1paHx1oI0FRWQBcXXQ4OB4oxN50mNPV1RP/s2048/Southampton+4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvltUka9nV_A-DR2rn2u3nSydF1A_aRdEn197BUMVKzLL1lVQyz5HJqwD8CzidHW_6_J10oOXu80FCNAknC6GaiIgwmxBRqBi4iA3pUrmPs-1paHx1oI0FRWQBcXXQ4OB4oxN50mNPV1RP/s320/Southampton+4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghIzpBKtvjoD72T3xaQjE8VgNXBfVy9RvB7QiPzDkItSOkN-r910lE9EtUVmCerROh5GNghdwYyFmT4Dc3LrLFpkX_JsCzszvKa2SaPXWTS9yLZE7j22Yl1frE4m0mZnEqM7Mhr6gxqsEE/s2048/Southampton+6.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1619" data-original-width="2048" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghIzpBKtvjoD72T3xaQjE8VgNXBfVy9RvB7QiPzDkItSOkN-r910lE9EtUVmCerROh5GNghdwYyFmT4Dc3LrLFpkX_JsCzszvKa2SaPXWTS9yLZE7j22Yl1frE4m0mZnEqM7Mhr6gxqsEE/s320/Southampton+6.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Another visit to Southampton was to review a band I liked at a venue called the Engine Rooms, a strange, modern warehouse gig tucked in amongst the container handling facilities in the port area. I persuaded DN1 to come along with me to ‘see the future of rock n roll’. She wasn’t impressed. The band were called The Answer. She was left wondering what on earth could have been the question. <p></p><p>Daughter No 1 had a blast at Uni. It was never in doubt. She may not have embraced classic hard rock in the way I had hoped, but she assimilated student behaviour remarkably effectively. On one of her first trips home, she came spluttering and retching out of the bathroom into my path. “You OK me dear?” I inquired. “Oh. Yeah, sorry. Just knocked back the mouthwash like it was a shot… [cough, cough]“. Good skills. </p><p>Another time, she was telling me that she’d stayed in one night to do some work whilst her flatmates had gone out. They came back late, drunk and lairy. DN1 gave up the pretence of trying to sleep and went to join them. She starting chatting to a bloke she’d never met and asked him how he knew the gang. “Oh, I don’t”, came the reply, “I’m just the Uber driver. They invited me in!”. The student life eh? </p><p><i>Series navigation: </i><i>Introduction -<a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/04/seaside-special-excursions-to-coast.html" target="_blank"> Excursions to the coast</a></i></p><p><i>Previous episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/10/seaside-special-diamond-smiles-isle-of.html" target="_blank">Isle of Wight</a></i></p><p><i>Next episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/12/seaside-special-physical-geography.html">Dorset</a></i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><br /></p>Davoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.com0Southampton, UK50.909700400000013 -1.4043509-22.4797420951488 -142.0293509 90 139.2206491tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2854417785396611556.post-83094716344557362702021-10-27T00:11:00.013+01:002024-02-08T12:04:17.164+00:00Seaside Special - Diamond smiles: Isle of Wight<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Always – no, never – set up an Out Of Office message. Because although it might be good, even required, practice in some
quarters, the execution can go horribly wrong. I know. In the Summer of 2015, I
managed to send out about a billion or so automated messages. By accident, of
course. I’m not really sure how this happened. Something to do with the way I
applied the filters, I believe. Even the polite little warning from Apple,
saying “Are you sure?” didn’t alert me. About 30 seconds after clicking to
activate, I realised that I had sent an e-mail about my holiday plans in reply
to every e-mail in my work in-box.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I’d sent an apology text to those that got the
most. Brian said ‘”Just the 300-odd!” and Andy said “Don’t worry. Just replying
to them all now”.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">There were a couple of unexpected
consequences. Some colleagues I hadn’t been in touch with for ages replied “I
think you’ve got a bug. By the way, why don’t we meet up soon?” One guy replied
with some useful advice about employment law that I had originally asked for in
2013. He hadn’t bothered the first time.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Si went “Let’s get some dates sorted for horse
racing this Summer.” “Top plan”, I replied “l’ll get on to it after my hols. As
you know, I’m away for a while”.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The moral of the story is
empty your in box.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I was still sending apologetic electronic
missives from the ferry as the northern point of the Isle of Wight’s diamond
landform swung into view.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Ferries always evoke a sense of adventure.
Even that short hop across The Solent from Portsmouth. Our Wightlink ferry had slid
from its berth and passed the maritime city’s latest landmark, the Spinnaker Tower,
designed to evoke the image of a flying, wind-full sail. It was a bit leggy for
that, I mused, but still very sleek, eye-catching and attractive. And you can
never really have enough high-rise viewing platforms in which to enjoy
luxurious high tea.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The tower had recently been the subject of a
classic British row over its painting scheme. Corporate sponsors Emirates had
proposed a red and white design in line with airline’s expensively assembled
branding package. Residents of the city went mad. Red and white, of course, are
the colours of local football rivals Southampton. Portsmouth play in blue, as
if you needed telling. There was a fleet-footed u-turn by the city council in
the face of a hostile reaction. The tower was eventually finished in a neat
blue and gold top-coat and thousands of unwanted pots of red gloss were given
away to local charities…</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I was also intrigued to pass the hovercraft
berths at Southsea. This was a mode of transport I had casually consigned to
the grainy images of Movietone history: a revolution in travel that came and
went in the space of a few short decades. But no, it appears that the
Hovertravel service to the Isle of Wight is the world's longest running and
only remaining commercial hovercraft operator left in Europe.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The Isle of Wight was all crumbly cliffs,
sandstone outcrops and curvaceous beaches. We were staying on the outskirts of
the laid back village of Bembridge. The sort of place to which our daughters
would happily have us packed off and retired. We wouldn’t have been alone. We
had recently acquired a family dog. Walking hounds of various sizes and
descriptions on the beach below our cottage was the main source of activity in
the area. Bembridge was very chilled and I decided I wasn’t quite ready for the
sedate life just yet. No matter how soul-filling it was to see our bonkers
Tibetan Terrier (mostly) skittering over the wet sand, poking her nose into
crab-infested rock pools and running away from frothy tides.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXybVpplxcYESo6XjW2P7T5EryB8H9JaV404x-fcV7Xeq99hPCih95Qd4PRxdYrqe5KToav7s51bYt-Dkgq50hSa2lfg79V81EE62FWRz0avUMxwQlT4liDsZj1QTvLduposog1GB9VFbC/s2048/isleofwight+4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1691" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXybVpplxcYESo6XjW2P7T5EryB8H9JaV404x-fcV7Xeq99hPCih95Qd4PRxdYrqe5KToav7s51bYt-Dkgq50hSa2lfg79V81EE62FWRz0avUMxwQlT4liDsZj1QTvLduposog1GB9VFbC/w330-h400/isleofwight+4.jpg" width="330" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">So genteel was our destination that I got up
spectacularly early one morning just to photograph my first ever Summer
sunrise. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQOdNALgm7YIswDBYYj9nDK3TC_g6Ah6eQcw3aim7UPXtEFwB20QfbMrCM65a27ZC-r9xKT_sWirj_BOxdJCPRGxDFpJLfp0RCAgvaFotLUrWkizQa25k2-xD1VXt8AyMWL03I80z_mPje/s2048/isleofwight+3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1371" data-original-width="2048" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQOdNALgm7YIswDBYYj9nDK3TC_g6Ah6eQcw3aim7UPXtEFwB20QfbMrCM65a27ZC-r9xKT_sWirj_BOxdJCPRGxDFpJLfp0RCAgvaFotLUrWkizQa25k2-xD1VXt8AyMWL03I80z_mPje/w400-h268/isleofwight+3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">And one evening the four of us were leaning on the fence of our next-door pub beer garden admiring a superb ‘blue’ moonrise over the harbour.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji0N6aa9wYj9_1HAO2HLirWkPyJsZ7bxDGosIPv8919jlkbv0iQHt9OVRRoym7bOjhq4o4Wdl-Rcl19DjQx0aqeEVRWVLfRc92DTHVcOnnsMqn3Iz_w91mXDyeQOXg94y0iKms_qgyhMHs/s2048/isleofwight+5.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji0N6aa9wYj9_1HAO2HLirWkPyJsZ7bxDGosIPv8919jlkbv0iQHt9OVRRoym7bOjhq4o4Wdl-Rcl19DjQx0aqeEVRWVLfRc92DTHVcOnnsMqn3Iz_w91mXDyeQOXg94y0iKms_qgyhMHs/w266-h400/isleofwight+5.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><p class="BodyA"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">This part of the island was naturally
photogenic. As was the other half of the diamond, to be fair. It’s just that
there were a few places over there that we wished we had avoided. The Needles
Park, for example. It is a disaster area. It is a crime scene. It is a rash
outbreak of tack and tasteless crap nestled beneath a breathtaking headland.
How this horrific collection of fast food, cheap tat and slow traffic ever managed
to evade planning laws to scar the location of one of the most iconic landmarks
in Britain defies sense.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">We had crawled many miles along single track
roads behind hordes of tourist buses to the park. We already feared the worst.
If we could have turned round before our arrival we would have done so. The
gaudy vista as we descended from the rammed car park was a sufficient jolt to
our equilibrium even before the wind had dealt us a stinging slap of that
famous multi-coloured sand, precisely funnelled through the parade of unsavoury
retail units up from Alum Beach. Events only took a humorous turn for
the better when we witnessed a shockingly bad Bob Marley impersonator crank out
‘Jammin’ and ‘Three Little Birds’ at a ferocious wattage whilst eye-catchingly
girating his ludicrous belt buckle and single handedly breaking the trajectory
of the sand-gale.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I came here once before, many years ago. Then
there was a pleasant chair lift down the face of the cliff to the bay. It’s
still there. “Let’s see the Needles from the chairlift”, we had said to the
girls that morning, “pretty view”. But no. This one modest relic of that
innocent, bygone age was closed because of high winds.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The walk up to the batteries on the headland
was a perfect antidote. The screaming wind blew away the bad taste. Views of
the Needles, across to Lymington Harbour and back to Tennyson Down were as
satisfying as they were refreshing.</span></p><p class="BodyA"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-yVhR33dGz6BLbjNgVCBa5jA46RC4srVRon-L2dA2yTd9Jb5cAxD0zEn9msp1B3-eS9ih4TmFwlNWl9oaKyYXaQzzZFYbvFhRxI0ZeqbYd4-OBqt_wf9mqzspWr3nOjXypx3aWgGxJcQf/s2048/isleofwight+2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-yVhR33dGz6BLbjNgVCBa5jA46RC4srVRon-L2dA2yTd9Jb5cAxD0zEn9msp1B3-eS9ih4TmFwlNWl9oaKyYXaQzzZFYbvFhRxI0ZeqbYd4-OBqt_wf9mqzspWr3nOjXypx3aWgGxJcQf/w400-h266/isleofwight+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="BodyA">Our fisherman’s cottage, serving as home for
the week, was cosy. That’s a metaphor. The lounge-slash-diner was precisely
that. One or the other. Never both. Once the table was folded out to facilitate
eating, the space was entirely dining room, including elbows overspilling into
the galley kitchen and bedrooms.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The table was down quite a lot because we
rediscovered some traditional pastimes, like scowling everytime Daughter No 1
ruthlessly trashed our pieces in Ludo. I also taught Mrs A and daughters to
play Texas Hold ‘Em. We had matches for poker chips (in time-honoured fashion)
and the hand rankings blinked back from the laptop screen perched on the table.
Daughter No 2 had the best poker face out of the lot of us. She’ll go far.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Just as well we could gamble, play games and
explore. Because access to social media, the 21st century default pastime, was
patchy. In Bembridge, despite being promised full coverage from the cottage rental
company, wifi was mostly unavailable. Often we resorted to waving devices in
the general direction of the next door pub to catch their beams. The cottage
owner popped round one afternoon whilst we were out. It’s not clear what he
made of the four wooden chairs placed hard up against the fence adjacent to the
pub. He moved them back around the lonely picnic table in the centre of the garden
and went away.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">In fact the Crab & Lobster was a decent
boozer. It became our second home, with good hearty food, pleasant aspect that
all important wifi signal. There were other second-home boozers too. We took
the splendid walk along the bay and up to Culver Down a couple of times during
the week. The Culver Haven Inn had a view almost as tasty as its crab
sandwiches.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Wight is blessed with some wonderful outlooks.
A fact not lost on caravan park providers (again), who had sited the
considerable spread of Sandhill Holiday Park in a prominent cliff top location
above the sweeping Whitecliff Bay. However, this was the Isle of Wight of
course, and the park was really quite pleasant. Modern, tidy chalets with
balconies brimming geraniums overlooked by picture-windowed lounges, and all
with enough space around them to hint at privacy. Some had little white picket
fences, latched gates and patches of artificial grass. I muttered some admiring
comment as we skirted the front of the development.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">“Don’t even think it”
rejoined Mrs A. “You’ll be on your own”.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The girls nodded assent.
I didn’t even realise I’d spoken aloud!</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">This was the first trip where I had cause to
laud what was then the new OS digital mapping offer. From its fantastic phone
app, I could download the maps I had purchased and link them to GSI in order to
provide an accurate pinpoint of my precise location. …Until the mobile signal
dropped out of course. At that point we were stuffed because I’d left the actual,
real, physical map at home. Relying on my rigorously honed geographic instincts
only cost us a couple of scenic miles or so… The app couldn’t do anything for
the dog-unfriendly stiles either. We were reduced to gathering up the hairy
beast and bodily lifting her over fences. It could have been worse. She could
have been an Irish Wolf Hound.</span></p><p class="BodyA"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmO5K3wPdfq_rmOTPusAYuwPTkNNictpg2AMMvyB2eP2CtOnuqW4aK7bwLqAxhLChihUaxKwVkw0IuV7QFiAA1W-KYJrbmOaFDgMxJgKra2FUfQiqBicmbFywLxko-ghLmkimVTmPmYLfX/s2048/isleofwight+1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmO5K3wPdfq_rmOTPusAYuwPTkNNictpg2AMMvyB2eP2CtOnuqW4aK7bwLqAxhLChihUaxKwVkw0IuV7QFiAA1W-KYJrbmOaFDgMxJgKra2FUfQiqBicmbFywLxko-ghLmkimVTmPmYLfX/w400-h266/isleofwight+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="BodyA">One of our excursions was down the coast
through Sandown, Shanklin, Luccombe and on to Ventnor. The sand and shingle
beach rising up to the town built into the cliffs of St Boniface Down pulled me
right back to family holidays here back in the early 80’s. As kids we were happy
splashing about in the sea and wasting money in the few penny-falls
arcades. But the town, which gained popularity as a health resort with
botanical gardens and boasting a warm micro-climate, was a bit too mannerly for
my Mum. She preferred something livelier: perhaps a bit of bingo, a sing-a-long in the
pub or maybe an end of the pier show.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">No such opportunity in Ventnor. The pier was
in poor state of repair by the time of our visit in the 80’s, having been
truncated to just 100 feet long, and losing its pavilion and steamer dock in the
process. The repair bill steadily rose and had reached about £800,000 by 1992,
when the decision was taken to demolish it at a cost of £239,500. Crazy logic.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">For my birthday this year, a mate gave me a
book called ‘Round Our Coasts’. He knew I was halfway through these leisurely blog
posts around marginal Britain and thought the book would be useful context. Not
half! Published around 1900 by George Newnes Ltd, it is a collection of photos from
just about every seaside resort across these islands. The images are revealing
bits of social history, celebrating bathing machines, Edwardian dress and modest seafront
developments. The descriptions that accompany them, often provided by town hall
clerks, are almost as illuminating in the turn-of-the-century language to advertise the resorts. Ventnor is typical. “Our view shows the esplanade and the pier; at
the end of the latter is a commodious pierhead, with a bandstand, where a band
performs in summer.” I doubt even that charming image would have been enough to
quicken the pulse of my Mother.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Here’s a photo of the pier and bay from Round
Our Coasts and next to it, a photo of the same spot now with the new Ventnor harbour having replaced the pier. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhghYzd86qdTEgcoE2jkw8y9ZVmHHXFy9sG9aQcim5wDJioR9yuEpAj4gFefFmRlda2gmxWPhB-EjvSkxv6PF7RfzonNeiati8yfB4lEjf-FhYqQ-2mH9GrqsilWmZ6QKcU-5WKLyrG5ooL/s2048/ventnor.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1378" data-original-width="2048" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhghYzd86qdTEgcoE2jkw8y9ZVmHHXFy9sG9aQcim5wDJioR9yuEpAj4gFefFmRlda2gmxWPhB-EjvSkxv6PF7RfzonNeiati8yfB4lEjf-FhYqQ-2mH9GrqsilWmZ6QKcU-5WKLyrG5ooL/w302-h202/ventnor.jpg" width="302" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU46orrzngpXcI-Wfs51l3K-XaU5g0LsNepZrkW-hmL6E6OwuYIDKJGBTUUt2ZEUSwDR_EBaFnPHiqdYZ05bHP3sqUlrDCD1EjRAMH1y0wX6U0tKKPEoXnfKbxtw-JXfw5ANmgClIFrk6c/s601/ventnor+2.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="451" data-original-width="601" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU46orrzngpXcI-Wfs51l3K-XaU5g0LsNepZrkW-hmL6E6OwuYIDKJGBTUUt2ZEUSwDR_EBaFnPHiqdYZ05bHP3sqUlrDCD1EjRAMH1y0wX6U0tKKPEoXnfKbxtw-JXfw5ANmgClIFrk6c/w277-h208/ventnor+2.jpg" width="277" /></a></div><br /><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="break-before: page; mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></p><p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></p><p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></p><p class="BodyB"><i><br /></i></p><p class="BodyB"><i>Series navigation: </i><i>Introduction - <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/04/seaside-special-excursions-to-coast.html" target="_blank">Excursions to the coast</a></i></p><p class="BodyB"><i>Previous episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/10/seaside-special-sprawling-and-wittering.html" target="_blank">West Sussex</a></i></p><p class="BodyB"><i>Next episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/11/seaside-special-titanic-emotions.html" target="_blank">Hampshire</a>; </i></p><p class="BodyB"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></p>Davoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2854417785396611556.post-62297519980246421382021-10-07T13:45:00.009+01:002024-02-08T12:03:11.224+00:00Seaside Special - Sprawling and Wittering: West Sussex<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif">By March 2021, the grip of the Winter
Coronavirus lockdown was beginning to free up. I was looking to break out some
trips to the seaside again. I picked this coastline partly because earlier
visits hadn’t done West Sussex much justice. And also because the area is
relatively easy to do as a day trip.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Bognor was to be the jumping-off
point, because I had never been there at all. My most recent visit to the
stretch of coast had been Littlehampton further east. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only redeeming feature of that dull little
town on a day in 2015 was a reasonable plate of grub at Osca’s Fish and Chips and a
wonderful sky full of brooding thunderclouds heading over to France.</span></p><p class="Body"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjetTcFL3cOaqs4UFA4VfWmj37nvIQxSPsW9HsmJOZA5g-xY354vwOwEzZ542LIs8M_T2kTkc3acJHS6CjdITUNSTlil0BAggihXmWOZ0CWrYK2nrW5P7UCbdSa0PUPxb3nrmxcLvkva4S_/s2048/Littlehampton1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1407" data-original-width="2048" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjetTcFL3cOaqs4UFA4VfWmj37nvIQxSPsW9HsmJOZA5g-xY354vwOwEzZ542LIs8M_T2kTkc3acJHS6CjdITUNSTlil0BAggihXmWOZ0CWrYK2nrW5P7UCbdSa0PUPxb3nrmxcLvkva4S_/w400-h275/Littlehampton1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><p class="Body">Being back on the coast trail for
the first time since the previous November gave me a preposterous sense of
giddy freedom. The 97 days of Covid-19 restrictions from December to April had
felt merciless. Apart from a brief trip in to London for my first Covid jab in
February I had not left Berkhamsted since an early-December work trip. Too long. Too much.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Back on a substantial train journey for
the first time in ages, I rediscovered </span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">the many opportunities for
people watching. And listening. Even, or perhaps especially, on a sparsely
populated non-peak service, still quiet after lockdown restrictions.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">A youngish bloke over the aisle from me pulled down
his mask to reveal a wispy beard and answered the phone jangling out a tinny Percy
Sledge ‘When A Man Loves A Woman’.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">“Oh, hi. Hi Mike. Yeah, I wanted to
catch you, man. Thanks for calling. Yeah, yeah I’m good thanks. I was gonna
give you a shout actually. Yeah, no worries. Well, sort of. Look, I can’t give
you the key… I’ve locked myself out, yeah, and well, with the key on the
inside. No, the key’s on the inside. [pause]</span></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">Well, it doesn’t matter how it
happened, does it? It just did. Well, I don’t know how I did it. No, I’m on a
train now, heading back to my folks. I had to leave earlier than planned. [pause…shifting
position in his seat]</span></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">OK, Mike, look it doesn’t need to
spoil your day, man. Just keep a level head yeah? It doesn’t need to be a big
deal, yeah? There’s no need to get worked up man, just take it easy. No, no
man, doin’ your nut on me ain’t gonna help… [click].</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">The young man shrugged, put his phone down and returned to his Terry
Pratchett novel. He didn’t even glance over at me, let alone try to make
apologetic conversation. I imagined an apoplectic Mike and his expensive morning with
a socially distanced locksmith.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">My morning turned out to be better than Mike’s, but if I’m honest, not
one entirely out of the top drawer. Is this the moment to quote King George V and
his rumoured <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Bugger Bognor’ remark? Allegedly
uttered when invited there to aid his health. Probably nonsense. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">Although maybe not. The place was a charmless hole with identikit
shopping streets of anonymous architecture and functional fittings. Pretty busy
though: bad-tempered queues for the barbers; outside café tables filled with
shouty adults; pedestrianised zone zipping with scooters and bikes; Greggs bags
and Costa cups blowing across the municipal zig-zag paving. Maybe I wasn’t
ready for all this yet.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">I burst out of the shopping streets onto the front like a free diver
screaming for air. My mood didn’t improve much. There was further scooter and
skateboard-dodging on the wide prom, which was also festering with small groups of aggressive sounding
young adults and family groups. The atmosphere was intimidating and oppressive.
I’m not usually susceptible to this stuff, but I don’t think I was imagining it.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For instance, I walked passed a bloke blaring
angry rap music out of a speaker hooked up to his phone. He was occupying a
bench-hut to himself, spitting on the floor randomly and definitely girding his
neck as I shuffled by so that I could see his ugly tattoo flex across his
throat.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">Bognor has a poor excuse for a pier. It is truncated and empty. Metal building-site
railings marked the end of the current stub at a point where an older segment
used to protrude further into the sea. The railings had some padlocks attached
to them in a pale imitation of Pont des Arts in Paris. Except these cheap locks
were from Wilko and had rusted in the sea air to give the dispiriting scene an
even more forlorn, tragic air.</span></p><p class="BodyA"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT30ADECMwczIX0iERts7dgxQXi3V2d7vN3QM_uGpzJyCIagCRw7_37OmrsPBXowOzWXOVJVwkxVhrb-12TTa-pu3xf3QCEHzjMZj8g4DukCynl9jkzhckAa12hT6k6bOjHKQXbJZNdzew/s615/bognor+pier.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="615" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT30ADECMwczIX0iERts7dgxQXi3V2d7vN3QM_uGpzJyCIagCRw7_37OmrsPBXowOzWXOVJVwkxVhrb-12TTa-pu3xf3QCEHzjMZj8g4DukCynl9jkzhckAa12hT6k6bOjHKQXbJZNdzew/w400-h225/bognor+pier.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a;"><p class="BodyA">On the bright side (ha!) many of the hotels and restaurants were getting
a lick of paint and spruce up before the anticipated reopening on 17 May. But I
couldn't find an open loo for ages. A corona-consequence for day trippers.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">Sussex was once not just a unified and ancient county, but also an
Anglo-Saxon kingdom. However, dipping back in to my junior geological
companion, it seems there has always been significant differences between the
Eastern and Western halves and a sense, rather dismissively, that Sussex in its
entirety was something of an ‘awkward’ shape. Marshy areas were dominant in the
east, making it susceptible to flooding, whilst fertile agricultural lands were
to be found on the coastal plain out west, where I currently found myself.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">Maybe the architects of the infamous review that led to wholesale,
nationwide local government reform in 1972 had been reading the same geology book.
The old kingdom was split asunder at a line running roughly north-ish from the
coast at Shoreham-by-Sea. Two new counties of East and West Sussex were born.
This is the same review that re-organised the nation’s administrative
boundaries and at a stroke abolished the Yorkshire Ridings, saw Leicestershire swallow
Rutland and ushered in countless other administrative assaults, such as the creation
of Greater London and a slew of new boroughs that consigned the historic county
of Middlesex to the history books.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">This technocratic interlude is not merely an excuse to mention my early
career in the Local Government Boundary Commission… though whilst I’m here, I
have to say it was the best job I ever had. This was an agency of the old
leviathan Department of Environment and Transport. Personnel, as HR directorates
were called back in the murky 80’s, rang me discuss where in the dusty
corridors of Whitehall I’d be placed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>‘Geography degree is it? Lines on maps appeal do they? We’ve got the
very place for you!” I was told in Yoda-like tones.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">No, the real point of the legislative diversion is to emphasise that on
the ground, right there in Buggered Bognor, as oppose to red lines on black and
white maps, this division made some sort of sense. That’s not always the case
with boundary-making. (It’s probably an overstretch of the aims of this seaside
blog to whistle up the massacre-inducing partition of India and the bloody
carving up of Africa as evidence of crap mapping. But there you go.)</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">Having written a couple of episodes about <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/09/seaside-special-ramblin-men-east-sussex.html">East Sussex</a>, the differences
with its western sister county were clear. From Shoreham, the coastal location
of the dissection, lurching along the coast, the casual traveller is encumbered
by an almost unbroken chain of low-level development. Suburbia-on-Sea. The
stable geography that we’ve been learning about is part of the reason. Developers
love building towns and estates on an easy coastal plains. Planners and
engineers like to build cheap railways, trunk roads and motorways without
physical obstructions. All that is easier to do here than in much of its
eastern neighbour.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">Shoreham spills into Lancing and then gives way imperceptibly to
Worthing which falls upon Goring and Angmering, before Littlehampton takes up
the baton. The coastal megalopolis has a brief respite around the green oasis
of Atherington, before another dispiriting collection of towns runs from
Middleton through to my gloomy afternoon on the edge of Bognor.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">Harsh
maybe. </span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US">I took a
long look around me as the prom from Bognor ran out onto the beach and gave way
to wealthy </span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">Aldwick. The
houses were bigger. Detached. Set back from the shingle. Safe behind fences and
security gates that obscured their view of the sea. Interwoven with narrow, high-sided
paths plastered with signs identifying them as for ‘resident access only’.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGq085cqttt4AmXmdBjEciXH8892VrAOavt6i-OwGXKqCqytlA2yURmpFY2lvDxWImXC3pbpvrNwlCD0Kq4NQNPi5pH8hfghQPufHqSEwIWgYsLkhir8ZDAvN7Ct_74Vmxh6XYvHgwWscE/s2048/Bognor2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1347" data-original-width="2048" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGq085cqttt4AmXmdBjEciXH8892VrAOavt6i-OwGXKqCqytlA2yURmpFY2lvDxWImXC3pbpvrNwlCD0Kq4NQNPi5pH8hfghQPufHqSEwIWgYsLkhir8ZDAvN7Ct_74Vmxh6XYvHgwWscE/w400-h263/Bognor2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">There was
no public path in front of these sprawling gaffs. Just the shingle beach, punctuated
by the odd concrete slipway giving boat-access to their double garages. I could
have really made use of a path. The shingle was hard going. </span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">Then I saw bloke on a bike straining away, stood up on the pedals and
going even more slowly than me. I began to cheer up. Things could always be
worse, I reasoned. He soon gave up, turned back and headed inland through one
of the little snickets between the mansions. I hoped he was a resident.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">Apart from the shingle-cyclist and the occasional dog
walker, the beach was quiet. Residents of the big houses were not venturing out
that day and I had their front garden to myself. Maybe a bit of peace was in
order after Bognor’s onslaught on the senses. Messing up my equilibrium. The
slate grey sky began to break open and the whole vista became more pleasant under
a bit of Spring sunshine. The sea took on a curious aqua-green hue under the
weak sunlight.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">I took advantage of a bench sited on the crest of a
shingle ridge, placed there I assumed by the house behind me. I deliberately
paused. Stopped myself from hustling through to Pagham and the next link in my
public transport chain. My thighs hurt from high-stepping through stones that sank,
shifted and rolled under my soles, swallowing every footstep like a heavyweight
ball pit. From my perch, I paid a bit more attention to the beach rather than simply
cursing it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">The insidious gravel and schist was broken up by tufts of grass,
sometimes dense enough to provide carpets of softer underfoot walking
conditions. Knots of sea kale abounded in the briny air and would be flowering
in a few weeks. Here and there solitary or pairs of daffs and clumps of grape
hyacinth struck bright notes – probably escapees from the gardens at the back
of the beach. As, no doubt, were the tulip stems, currently fighting their way
through the weight of micro-masonry ready to display their wares shortly.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">Sea kale is a member of the cabbage family, and I read later that it used
to be harvested and eaten to such an extent that it nearly disappeared
altogether. Its greatest threat now in some places is the construction of sea
defences, which replace its natural loose shingle habitat with solid walls and banks
No danger of that in my current environment.</span></p><p class="BodyA"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbqn1MIC6EyZ3UfGTevJwjH97T1KyA_V5TspHK6c8bcK18iOH9bOAd809-8sxBVp2l1-qjgEAQeHvJyihIknSoy6pGXRWcgWWY34s7Rl7fhj2jDydXWRT4-uHtdgduB_t2A699xn-x-IEx/s2048/Bognor1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1636" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbqn1MIC6EyZ3UfGTevJwjH97T1KyA_V5TspHK6c8bcK18iOH9bOAd809-8sxBVp2l1-qjgEAQeHvJyihIknSoy6pGXRWcgWWY34s7Rl7fhj2jDydXWRT4-uHtdgduB_t2A699xn-x-IEx/w320-h400/Bognor1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a;"><p class="BodyA">There were also nesting birds around. There is an RSPB project to help
re-establish little terns. That’s their name. I’m not being all cutesy.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">The pause had worked. I did the same again a mile or so further up the
beach. I just needed to remember why I was out there. Enjoy the moments and
stop bellyaching about my straining calfs. And Bognor.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">Onwards to Pagham. An appealing spot and my day had improved significantly.
Managed by the County Council, Pagham Nature Reserve is a vast expanse of
protected salt marsh, mudflats, lagoons, reed beds and a bit more shingle beach.
The habitats attract waders, wildfowls and migrants birds. Who in turn attract walkers,
birders and naturalists. The place was busy. I collapsed on a bench overlooking
Pagham lagoon and fell into easy conversation with some dog walkers. ‘You’ve
walked from Bognor? It’s hard on that bloody shingle isn’t it?’ There spoke the
voice of experience.</span></p><p class="BodyA"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaYBb-IjoBUOO2SS31j3gBUbq8B6O9orgTUmeUkeJW7FkK_c1D9cmYUTxu7FH2zdr8Ha039qMM3um4T1Gs0pP5xa8LPIHycw6rf78L44lyZQDRKt90pUbI1AJDDqdEbfSZikGhFMgfla81/s2048/Bognor6.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaYBb-IjoBUOO2SS31j3gBUbq8B6O9orgTUmeUkeJW7FkK_c1D9cmYUTxu7FH2zdr8Ha039qMM3um4T1Gs0pP5xa8LPIHycw6rf78L44lyZQDRKt90pUbI1AJDDqdEbfSZikGhFMgfla81/w400-h266/Bognor6.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a;"><p class="BodyA">After tea and flapjack in the café of the holiday park that twisted
around the shore of the lagoon, I caught the bus up to Chichester and had an
hour or so pootling around that fine cathedral town before home. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg08p0ZhJL5tBoQ0IOnQycgEVrgmJlWmz5P5mJDdgDwy_-gG5M9H3FOSlRgH6Br8KU1ny1ACivjr-b2y92iM2CKViHU8w4eAX6hnHhY8b_DSa3ewKkexrGb8FFgrtIHwt_CjazQD5oOYhRj/s2048/Bognor7.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg08p0ZhJL5tBoQ0IOnQycgEVrgmJlWmz5P5mJDdgDwy_-gG5M9H3FOSlRgH6Br8KU1ny1ACivjr-b2y92iM2CKViHU8w4eAX6hnHhY8b_DSa3ewKkexrGb8FFgrtIHwt_CjazQD5oOYhRj/w266-h400/Bognor7.JPG" width="266" /></a></div><p class="BodyA">I was reminded that the last time I had been here, a good few years
before, I was in a Vauxhall Zafira packed to its very ceiling lights with
camping equipment. Mrs A, the girls - about 10 and 12 years of age at the time - and I were heading to the West Sussex coast
for our one and only (so far!) family weekend under canvas.</p></span><p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">Sat in a traffic jam from 10 miles north of Chichester until 5 miles beyond,
Mrs A who had taken some persuasion to join this jaunt in the first place, could
be forgiven for thinking her instincts were right. Theoretical benefits of camping,
like the simplicity of nature and stress free days, seemed to gain little
traction in her reasoning compared with the practical issues of shared shower
blocks, uncomfortable beds and bugs for company. ‘The kids will love it’, I airily
declared. In the end, the strong chance of fine weather and the opportunity to rendezvous
at the camp site with some good friends had just about sealed the deal. That
and the half-case of Saint Emilion sloshing about in the boot.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">The logic of the venture unravelled further as we arrived hot, bothered
and late at the West Wittering campsite, and scrambled to erect the borrowed
tent. Tempers became as frayed as the taping on our tired sleeping bags, with Nick
and Den watching the show from their camping chairs, plonk in hand. Their two kids and both ours were instantly absent without leave, having discovered the campsite playground.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">Darkness was on the march, metaphorically and physically, by the time we
fired up the barbie. A reasonable litreage of alcohol had also been consumed.
This might account for the flawed thinking that saw us place the disposable
barbie tray on top of the blanket ‘so that we didn’t scorch the grass’. Cue
much hilarity next morning as we threw the foil tray away to reveal a perfectly
rectangular hole burnt through the centre of our previously lovely National
Trust plastic-backed tartan blanket. Revealing properly scorched grass underneath.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">By the end of the day there were scorched bodies too. The weather, as
promised, was awesome. Breakfast was slow, but enjoyable in the morning August
rays. Sausages and bacon hissed in pans over two labouring camping stoves. And
then Den realised I’d forgotten to pack teabags. We had earlier divided up the
fetching of provisions between our two parties. Teabags were definitely on my
list the day before. Definitely not in the food box the day after. I’ve known
Den a long time. She had put up with a lot of drunken, ridiculous behaviour
from Nick and I over the years. But I’d never seen her so cross as in that moment.
‘I always have a cup of tea first thing. I can’t function without a cup of tea.
You said you’d bring them you loser!’ I shot off to the shop over by reception with
unseemly haste, and as an atheist I prayed to any God that would have me that there
would be a few scraggy tea bags for sale. Returning like Bodyline Captain Douglas
Jardine with The Ashes, I waved a box of Tetley’s in Den’s general direction
and put the kettle on the burner.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;">Unlike the deep stones and pebbles that made up the seaside from Selsey
Bill east in front of those sprawling coastal developments I was dissing
earlier, this stretch at the Witterings was yellow-white, firm, comfortable
sand. Absolutely gorgeous. If Sussex is a kingdom of two halves then West
Sussex is a county of two beaches. We lobbed a foam torpedo around in the sea
and flung a frisbee around in the surf for what seemed like most of the day. Fish
and chips for tea, wine by the camp fire and moisturiser on singed bodies. The
perfect summer’s day.</span></p><p class="BodyA"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJTkGlLIZsR-krElMgJCw2ezkliDskxTDHDXwhN4ErBYxuEh5ugJL4d3XG2zaSJ2fBCC45KvnGs-hHL-F79oR-VZ3jsC8nmrGZdcTAfT9ixr4mHJVmmAx15s7cuo9nX0K2JpYrCR4kakVV/s2048/bognor-wittering.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1343" data-original-width="2048" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJTkGlLIZsR-krElMgJCw2ezkliDskxTDHDXwhN4ErBYxuEh5ugJL4d3XG2zaSJ2fBCC45KvnGs-hHL-F79oR-VZ3jsC8nmrGZdcTAfT9ixr4mHJVmmAx15s7cuo9nX0K2JpYrCR4kakVV/w400-h263/bognor-wittering.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><p class="BodyA">Though it was perhaps less of a perfect night: sunburn-chafing, sweaty
and noisy – mainly Nick tinkling into a yellow bucket by his tent flap every
30 minutes. I could start to see some of Mrs A’s reservations about camping
after all.</p><p class="BodyA"><i style="color: black;">Series navigation: </i><i style="color: black;">Introduction - <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/04/seaside-special-excursions-to-coast.html" target="_blank">Excursions to the coast</a></i></p><p class="BodyA"><i style="color: black;">Previous episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/09/seaside-special-ramblin-men-east-sussex.html" target="_blank">East Sussex part 2</a></i></p><p class="BodyA"><i style="color: black;">Next episode: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/10/seaside-special-diamond-smiles-isle-of.html" target="_blank">Isle of Wight</a>;</i><i style="color: black;"> </i></p><div><br /></div><p class="BodyA"><br /></p></span><p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #1a1a1a; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-themecolor: background1; mso-themeshade: 26;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Davoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2854417785396611556.post-79847949304260042032021-09-15T21:45:00.005+01:002024-02-08T12:01:56.079+00:00Seaside Special - Ramblin' Men: East Sussex Part 2<p style="text-align: left;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">“That might be nice”, said Mrs A. “Find a nice
little B&B up on the South Downs for an overnight stop”.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;">Bryn had e-mailed me a link to a British Heart
Foundation page about a London to Brighton walk over a Summer weekend in 2015.
It did indeed sound appealing. Tough going, but over a couple of days, probably
achievable.</p><p class="BodyA"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia3wbnA3pVcFoHs5Ql61K6T6WI-2GO96s76YtDYrAx2-SaqlrRrpEN_vJV1mlW1RB4z_VJ45leHupQfG51vBFlRW1fqdSOiew6cwE533Z55vAwEHVk_LHKMuEihnexhmXVYh296hOy4-Zk/s799/Brighton+1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="472" data-original-width="799" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia3wbnA3pVcFoHs5Ql61K6T6WI-2GO96s76YtDYrAx2-SaqlrRrpEN_vJV1mlW1RB4z_VJ45leHupQfG51vBFlRW1fqdSOiew6cwE533Z55vAwEHVk_LHKMuEihnexhmXVYh296hOy4-Zk/w400-h236/Brighton+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">A short stroll to the beach...</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="BodyA">On further investigation, the challenge seemed
a tad tougher than Mrs A and I had initially thought. The idea was to depart
from south London on Saturday morning and arrive in Brighton on Sunday
afternoon, having trekked through the night. BHF had filed this little trip
under their ‘extreme events’ section, described as ‘The ultimate walking
challenge. Up to 30 hours to walk 100k from London to Brighton’.</p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">It was either trepidation about rambling
across Box Hill in the dark with only a head torch to stave off an 80 foot
plunge that finally put Mrs A off; or the prospect of me, Bryn, Ad and Ben
talking about cricket averages for a day and a half. Either way, she instead
decided to volunteer her services as support crew during our marathon
adventure. A grand gesture, the full implications of which only revealed
themselves during the event. </span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The training went well: first my right knee
twinged a bit, then the heel felt sore, finally the left knee began to wobble.
The whole house had a faint smell of embrocation.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Still, I’d sorted the sock strategy. A new
pair every 10 miles would be the answer. It would keep the feet fresh, apparently,
and was the best prevention against blisters. On reading the event guidance, we
discovered that there would be masseurs on the course, too. Fantastic, though
anyone who wanted to put their fingers anywhere near my feet would require
lead-lined gloves and a carefully worded life insurance policy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">All sorts of help would be available ‘out there’.
Ben provided some excellent advice on lubricants, gels and sprays that he found
on a website somewhere. I’ll say no more.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">How do you really train properly for a 100km
walk? Even to get close to halfway (let alone two-thirds as you might do in
marathon training) would take over ten hours. The four of us joined up once for
a group trial hike before the big day. We rambled from Battersea to Richmond and
then through the park and finished with a welcoming plate of sausage and mash
in a pub in Norbiton.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> We suspected pubs serving sausage and mash would not be part of the BHF support package. </span></span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Bryn was Team Leader (the trek was his mad,
inspired idea) and he took seriously the task of organising our ramshackle band
into a lean and hungry team. Walking past the practising boat crews around
Putney and Hammersmith, Bryn was keenly eyeing coxes brandishing
megaphones. “Step it up Davoski!” he rehearsed through funnelled fingers.
Thankfully, the rest of the team were on the same page about this policy. Brynaldo would be involuntarily breaking wind through a megaphone pretty
sharply, should one be produced on the day.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Some sensible ground rules began to emerge
about language and motivation. Banned phrases included ‘Are we nearly there yet,
Dad?’, ‘I could murder a pint’ and ‘Is there a kebab shop near here?’ No-one
was allowed to say ‘Shut the f**k up!’ until at least all the pleasantries
about the weather and personal well-being had been exhausted.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">One training walk locally rewarded me with
wonderful views from the Ridgway escarpment through ancient beech woodland and
across the Aylesbury Plain. I had set out deliberately late and Ivinghoe Beacon
was deserted as the declining sun lit up a busy canopy of scudding clouds
revealing deepening hues of blue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe
this walk idea wasn’t so insane, I thought. I foresaw passing Hardy-esque
commentaries as the 100k route took us through some of the finest landscape in
southern England.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">On the way back over Pitstone Hill, I heard a
double crack echo round the otherwise silent, gloaming landscape. Peering up to
the ridge I spied a large-set man framed against the sunset with the
unmistakeable silhouette of a shotgun crooked over his arm. He was stood on the
footpath and had been blasting at rabbits running through the meadow.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Dangerous game this trekking I thought. I
shouted and waved to him and then pointed in the direction I was going. He
looked at me, said nothing and after a moment simply stalked off down the
slope, clearly begrudging my trespassing into his personal shooting gallery.
Thank God I wasn’t wearing my lucky bunny-ears baseball hat.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I made a mental note to check the BHF trek
guidance about the stewarding of rabbit shooting. The night was closing in by
the time I approached Tring station. My phone rang. It was Mrs A who was taking a break
in Tenerife with her sister.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="margin-left: 36pt; mso-outline-level: 1;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">“Have you lost the dog then?”</span></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">“No”, I said with that
rising inflection that turns a denial into a question. “Er, I don’t think so.
Maybe… Yes I suppose so then. Oh God, what’s happened?”</span></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">“I’ve had a call from a
chap in Castle Street who’s got her. He rang the number on her collar.”</span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="BodyA">Oh. Oh dear. Technically I hadn’t lost Nuca
the Tibetan Terrier-cross because she was in the charge of Daughter No 1. But
in the scheme of things, there was no question where the ultimate
responsibility lay.</p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">In a co-ordinated international family rescue
that the Tracy Clan would have been proud of, Mrs A texted me the number of a bloke
in Berko who had the dog. I rang him to say I’d collect her in about 20
minutes. He had already called the house to say he would drop the dog off but
was worried that she wouldn’t get in his car!</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I then rang Daughter No 1 to tell her I’d collect
the errant dog. It took me ages to get hold of her. She had been out looking
for Nuca and was in pieces when I spoke to her. It seemed that one of her
friends let the back gate open and the dog simply strolled out!</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I got off the train and quick-stepped into the
cul-de-sac where the dog rescuers were patiently waiting with Nuca. “The little
scamp!” I said to them. Or words approximating to that general effect. I felt
so guilty and thanked them profusely, returning next day with the lead I
borrowed and a big box of Quality Street, like on the advert.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">So the training was going well. I ordered some
pukka walking kit to see if that would make me feel the part. It worked! The
postie delivered multiple pairs of grippy merino wool socks, a ‘wick-away’ long
sleeved base layer (I think that meant it was a t-shirt) and a breathable half-zip
top with holes in the cuffs for my thumbs. Oh, and a nice purple 10l backpack
that I soon lost to any of the girls in the house. Sorted. All the gear, no
idea…</span></p><p class="BodyA"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyHfa98wGWg9NITG5A_SNoM2i_XCuYL3o0OOK6Yv7JGc_Egdr21jLl5O0BsrqBek_Vcb9bQWi1CrQGm95-KGtKPfCOG2S_aTT4ADAt52iuU8sO7fQqjDqND8I-0CzMLu3ysRoTceWgtBI8/s2048/Brighton+4.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyHfa98wGWg9NITG5A_SNoM2i_XCuYL3o0OOK6Yv7JGc_Egdr21jLl5O0BsrqBek_Vcb9bQWi1CrQGm95-KGtKPfCOG2S_aTT4ADAt52iuU8sO7fQqjDqND8I-0CzMLu3ysRoTceWgtBI8/w300-h400/Brighton+4.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">All the gear, no idea</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="BodyA">I began to ramp up the sponsorship, too. "The BHF really do some excellent work. Heart disease is
the UK’s biggest killer," I blogged. "It is entirely possible that some of the resources we
are aiming to raise money for will be required to carry us over the line.
Defibrillators en route, we are hoping.”</p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The trek itself proved to be a monumental
struggle. Crossing the line was an emotional moment. More so than I had
anticipated. Mrs A had spotted us traversing the track at Brighton racecourse
from some way out and was waving furiously. It was wonderful to have someone
there to welcome us home.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">At that moment, the flagfall on this epic walk
had seemed like a lifetime ago. In fact it was only the morning before when Mrs
A had whisked me down to the team rendezvous at Ben’s house. There was time for
a nervous cup of tea and conversations about kit and medications that just
served to spook us more. Ad and I compared notes on the underwhelming support
from our offspring. “It’s just walking”, had said Daughter No 2, “you’re always
walking!”</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The registration hall at Kempton racecourse
was buzzing. Good humoured BHF staff kitted us out with maps, t-shirts, head
torches and first aid packs. Mrs A then departed home in order to rest up
before meeting us that evening for some intensive moral and practical support.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">About 500 walkers left Kempton in three waves.
The initial procession through suburbia along narrow pavements soon gave way to
an exceedingly pleasant stroll by the river. Ad met his new girlfriend
somewhere near Twickenham and she joined us for a few miles.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Some of those departees were seriously determined
trekkers. More than 24 hours later, as we were struggling over some testing
inclines in deepest Sussex, a steward told us that the first people to complete
the course had run most of it to finish at about 11.30pm.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">There were some vaguely amusing scenes at
Check Point 1, the Anchor pub in Pyrford. Saturday lunchtime diners found their
beer garden festooned with hundreds of red-shirted walkers bearing foot spray,
sun cream and Lucozade.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The support and advice from
stewards, staff and paramedics was absolutely wonderful throughout the event, from logistical information to motivational words and medical
interventions. Brilliant.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">In the next phase, Ben broke out his stonking
eight-round quiz with jokers, wildcards and additional rules made up on the
hoof. Fantastic. It sustained us through a lot of miles.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I knew Bryn would win. I just knew. Many years
ago he secured a pub quiz victory for us by unearthing obscure facts about the
personal habits of Homer Simpson. He has quality form.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I let myself down by confusing Derby winner
Ruler Of The World with Master Of The Universe (I was in the right ball park!)
and describing everything about the ownership, trainer, colours, price and form
(including a Catterick prep victory) of Grand National winner Ballabrigs,
without actually recalling his actual name! I blame muscle fatigue.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Ad’s concentration inevitably slipped when he was
responding to the stream of text messages from his new girlfriend.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The trek began to feel real after Checkpoint 2
at 32km (20 miles or so). We’d all walked further in training, but not in such
hot weather. The distance from the first to the second checkpoint was more than
15km and we had probably made a mistake by not stopping in between. No damage
done, but we were already more tired than expected.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Thoughts turned to sustaining our physical
durability. I’d nicked a clear plastic Ted Baker medicine bag from Daughter No
2 and considered it to be the finest example in our group. She had used it to
house her collection of 20-odd lip balms assembled over many years. Ironically
this was the one thing I forgot to pack and I suffered chapped lips deep into
the trek.</span></p><p class="BodyA"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixlh1Wg7jS_fuGb6KVmRUGZ9IhYM5SRd7vlLY_B2YpdZMU1vGywKSwt1erJR0-yDsvVcXDIcv05wB4mXOTJV6JNFZAR25qxajPKp_zp64xwuKQyxpyBQFZMLNQIhZX6WZXdxLetRRgbzjV/s2048/Brighton+8.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixlh1Wg7jS_fuGb6KVmRUGZ9IhYM5SRd7vlLY_B2YpdZMU1vGywKSwt1erJR0-yDsvVcXDIcv05wB4mXOTJV6JNFZAR25qxajPKp_zp64xwuKQyxpyBQFZMLNQIhZX6WZXdxLetRRgbzjV/w400-h300/Brighton+8.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="BodyA">Hardly a medical emergency I’ll grant you. The
aching joints were more of a priority. It was checkpoint 5 before I resorted to
a paracetomol/ibuprofen cocktail. Combined with a strong coffee that Mrs A was
queuing for before we even emerged into the dark car park of the industrial
estate, it provided a temporary boost. I felt much stronger on the subsequent
11km stretch. That checkpoint, 56km in, was the first where we saw real
casualties. People obviously packing sweaty kit and broken frames into support
vehicles for an early escape.</p><p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Apparently the boiler in the solitary drinks
van had been on the blink for much of the evening. It had only just started
working again before our arrival. The absence of hot drinks may well have been
the final straw for many. Apart from the loos and the paramedics, there was
nothing else there.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">On leaving, the stewards asked if a lone
female walker could join us. And so four became five as Cherry accompanied us
through the night and early morning stages. Cherry’s opening remark was “You
won’t murder me will you?” I do like a woman with realistic benchmarks!
Apparently Cherry had been determined to walk alone, but the stewards
intervened when she said she didn’t really like the dark! Just another example
of how sensibly and responsibly this event was run. No one was put at any unnecessary
risk.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">One walker from Yorkshire put this to the test
when he got smashed by a branch after only 7km. He was avoiding a bike coming
the other way and simultaneously unsighted by the sun. The paramedics said the
cut needed to be glued and he should end the walk there. We saw him at about
the 25km marker when he was telling us this story. “I’m not stopping” he said.
“I’m from Donny!” He was allowed to continue as long as he got the all clear
from the paramedics at every checkpoint. He finished before us.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">There was a foot spa on offer at one of the
checkpoints. Tempted, but I didn’t partake. My feet would probably have
benefitted immeasurably from such a treat, but I felt I couldn’t inflict them
on a paramedic who, though having solid training under their belt, would have
not have been equipped for such an ordeal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In fact I was happy with my foot regime: a good airing and glide blister
barrier application at every stop, together with four sock changes. I survived
largely contusion and friction free for the duration.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Ad took a different approach. He had a look
and a poke at his plates at stop 4 and was so appalled by what he discovered
that he kept them wrapped up for the rest of the trip tighter than a Chinese
foot-binding ritual.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Talking to Cherry later, she said that the
foot spa was a bit of an exaggeration. It was actually a washing up bowl of
warm water. There was still an extensive queue for it though!</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">At about that point, Ben’s partner rang to say
that she’d had a great time at a 40th birthday party, had danced all night and
that “her feet were killing her”. “Oh really?” seemed to be the collective
response.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">We lived by checkpoints. Time spent resting
and recuperating there grew at the same rate as the kilometres seemed to
stretch out exponentially when we were closing in on one. This was a mental
battle as much as a physical one. We all seemed to go through good and bad
stretches. My worst moments were in three of the four middle sections.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Meeting Mrs A for the first rendezvous at
checkpoint 4 was uplifting, but I was in a poor state by then. She said that
she had seen people coming in crying and limping. This was not a competitive
event in a race sense, but there is no doubting that those little nuggets
provide a personal boost.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Tired and emotional, I was concerned that my
aching knee would become a massive burden with still a logic-defying 57km to
go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, Ben’s diversion to M&S
for sausage rolls and iced buns was a spirit lifter. The tomato soup that Mrs A
queued for was a life saver. The elasticated knee brace that I resorted to was
a joint restorer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We cruised through the
50km marker on that next stretch much restored and invigorated.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">My worst moment, however was at dawn. Feeling
limp and pathetic outside the Cat and Canary pub checkpoint, my head was
spinning and I thought I would pass out. I had a lay down and soon felt
recovered.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">This wobble may or may not have been the
result of the significant toilet stop I had just made. Anyone of a nervous
disposition, please avert your eyes from the following graphic description. I do
feel that I need to share this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
porta-cubicles would remind you of Glastonbury – happening on the same weekend
– but you don’t get freshly talc-ed loo seats on Worthy Farm. The evacuation I
performed here was colossal. It was coiled in the pan like a giant Cumberland
sausage and as thick as your wrist. Is there any wonder I felt faint
afterwards? That’s what you get if you eat a dozen protein enhanced oat bars in
24 hours. If I never see a flapjack again it will be too soon.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Conversely, others had dodgy moments at other
spots. Ad had a woozy spell at our third checkpoint on the disused railway
station of Bramley that forms part of the Downs Link walk. The afternoon had
been stiflingly hot with little breeze and we had been exposed for a lot of it
next to the River Wey. A strong coffee and a huge chocolate muffin seemed to
sort him out though. Bryn and I went for the banana muffin option and were
rewarded with a calorific sticky toffee gloop in the middle. We both felt
enervated after that. Sometimes it’s the simple things.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Bryn struggled with aches a bit later on and
developed an amusing rolling gait that John Wayne would have been happy to
claim as his own. Ben, like the rest of us, was up and down. Despite having a
bag of medicines and treatments that put my plastic envelope to shame, he still
begged and borrowed from others. Soothing foot spray from Bryn, slow-release
Ibuprofen from me and - after a literal, pretty scary, sleep-walking moment up
on the Downs - a caffeine tablet from Cherry. “It’s legal!” she said.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The night time sections were surreal. Walking
though the beautiful Sussex countryside but unable to see any of it, guided
only by shifting pools of head-torch light about three feet across. It was
quiet, except for the shuffle of feet, some murmured conversations and the bing
of Ad’s phone bearing more texts from his new girlfriend.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Cherry had no qualms about undertaking this
trip alone. I wasn’t sure if she was just a little bit bonkers or stark-staring
insane. She said she had practised a bit on her bike. I couldn’t quite see the immediate
logic.</span></p><p class="BodyA">“Six hours into London!” she declared.</p><p class="BodyA">“That’s excellent. Brighton to London?”</p><p class="BodyA">“No, not Brighton!” Even
in the dark I could tell she was looking at me like I was from Planet Zog. “I
live in Ealing. I got a bit lost along the river…”</p>
<p class="BodyA"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSqTAlpKTrmahGkMuA9Xt1Zq4BWMMH0LphBMJM5dZ_58MTVH-MAjFXjgr3USBjhh9OGbpGo1_T4CeAA6B6e8Gdb71XdauKP6OoJBftpuGgOwHVy0-tTtJAFDJjewcEeG_L0QZ8ectwEGBh/s1000/Brighton+5.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="667" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSqTAlpKTrmahGkMuA9Xt1Zq4BWMMH0LphBMJM5dZ_58MTVH-MAjFXjgr3USBjhh9OGbpGo1_T4CeAA6B6e8Gdb71XdauKP6OoJBftpuGgOwHVy0-tTtJAFDJjewcEeG_L0QZ8ectwEGBh/w266-h400/Brighton+5.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Cherry makes it home</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="BodyA">Before the walk I had felt sure that I could
have done the walk solo, if needed. However, during that long morning, I became
far from certain. The drop-out rate for the event approached 50%. It’s hard to
explain the unrelenting assault on the body by strains, twists and aches in
places you didn’t know existed, compounded by mental and physical fatigue. We
were so far out of our comfort zones we needed sat navs.</p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">By checkpoint 8 at 86km, we knew we would
complete. We had the South Downs peaks to negotiate, which were tough so late
in the walk. But the coast was on the other side and we dared to think about
the finish line. Meeting our friends Andy and Sam for breakfast at Checkpoint 9
in Hove was another lift. And then it was just the walk along the seafront and
a totally unnecessary, vindictively cruel 1-in-3 gradient ascent up to the
racecourse.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">After much hugging and back slapping, we went
for refreshment in the restaurant. Mrs A, who had been amazing throughout the
expedition said “Pints all round then?”</span></p><p class="BodyA">“Sounds good” I replied.</p><p class="BodyA">“Not for me.” said Bryn.</p><p class="BodyA">“No thanks.” said Ben.</p><p class="BodyA">“I’m ok.” said Ad.</p><p class="BodyA">“Oh, OK, I’ll just have a
coke thanks.” Didn’t want to spoil the team ethic at that late stage.</p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">We all looked reasonably fresh in the team
photo taken just before we departed for home. In it, you could just about make
out Ad at the back, taking a phone call from his new girlfriend.</span></p><p class="BodyA"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPXLLy7M1EBPl8vaqwjznjZX_Zh7pUtvLtYbW2NRWVebVg2yJX-8DG_1ngDDJkjfh1wIf07PWF9u81n0rEzX2Df7vHomej47zSBJmSTN2-7Xplpt2YSk-IFw9tkSI4I8oGA-RljL9hOozp/s960/Brighton+6.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPXLLy7M1EBPl8vaqwjznjZX_Zh7pUtvLtYbW2NRWVebVg2yJX-8DG_1ngDDJkjfh1wIf07PWF9u81n0rEzX2Df7vHomej47zSBJmSTN2-7Xplpt2YSk-IFw9tkSI4I8oGA-RljL9hOozp/w400-h300/Brighton+6.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="BodyA">That is by far my most eccentric arrival in
Brighton. Although it is not the only off-centre experience I have had in that
fine, newly created coastal city.</p><p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">One subsequent trip was unexpectedly solitary
arising from a mis-judgement about the pulling power of a rock ‘n’ roll dream
ticket.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Joe Bonamassa, one of the few truly inspiring
guitarists left on my to-see list had announced an arena tour. Surprisingly all
the dates missed out London. Inexplicably, they also bypassed Aylesbury,
Watford and even the decent blues pub in Sarrat. Brighton was on the list
though. And I knew tickets would sell fast for this blistering fret-meister. So
one Monday morning I was to be found crouching over the laptop, credit card in
hand, waiting for the tickets to go on sale. Hardly a Glastonbury-scale
operation, granted. Nevertheless, I was determined not to miss out again after
failing to catch the man on at least three previous visits.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">My promptness was rewarded. Two tickets were
purchased for the Saturday night, although my eagerness didn't yield anything
better than seats up in the south balcony. Some birds were significantly
earlier than me.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">"Fancy a weekend in Brighton?" I
smugly teased Mrs A. "Maybe." she replied. Was that a hint of a wink?
"What are you offering?" When I gushed my plan: the finest blues-rock
guitarist of our generation live and personal for a 2 ½ aural treat, and all night
scrabble (amongst other options) in a bijou little hotel overlooking the front,
she seemed a fraction underwhelmed.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">"Maybe" became "maybe
not". Joe B and the boys were not universally regarded as a hot ticket, it
seemed. (It couldn't have been any other part of the offer, surely?) More
importantly, I'd also failed to register that the date was Halloween. A big
night for the girls in the Atkinson household. It became clear that Mrs A would
not/could not join me.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">So that wet Hallowe’en evening, I was to be
found skulking outside the Brighton Centre, doing my best stubbly-chinned,
roll-up smoking, stained-mac wearing ticket tout impression. I'd previously
tried to flog the spare voucher on one of those reselling websites that are
nothing more than industry-sponsored mark-up outlets. Despite the gig having
been sold out for weeks, mine would not shift on the net. I had no joy trying
to hawk the ticket outside the gig either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I hung around the box office a little while
and then simply handed the voucher over to them, asking that they gave it to
anyone who turned up last minute. Life really is too short to be flogging
tickets on Brighton front in the pissing rain. I'd had enough free gigs over
the years. I didn’t begrudge paying double for this one.</span></p><p class="BodyA"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5jArqqvIURJv_d79N6KFuUgyn5aMv7LAaZ80m7fDt_MgD7jL2NQRGY8MUt7dK0e9XnOZ79urvmsk5CxMYrr-zYY_QguVdNs9th439oh_KnC6SMWhCEh-v6sWsty4nk0gbG1GVfS5CIfcy/s800/Brighton+2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5jArqqvIURJv_d79N6KFuUgyn5aMv7LAaZ80m7fDt_MgD7jL2NQRGY8MUt7dK0e9XnOZ79urvmsk5CxMYrr-zYY_QguVdNs9th439oh_KnC6SMWhCEh-v6sWsty4nk0gbG1GVfS5CIfcy/w300-h400/Brighton+2.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Autumn on the pier</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="BodyA">The seat next to me in the balcony was empty
all night, so I guess no-one claimed the ticket. During some of the many
exquisite moments when Bonamassa was writhing over his axe like a dementer,
faced screwed up like a pug's, I glanced at the vacant seat and thought it was
just as well Mrs A was not there. She would have seen those extended passages
of sublime lead guitar as nothing more than overwrought grandstanding. To me,
Bonamassa is a genius. His sharp suit, slick hair and shaded eyes belie the
passion and feeling he cajoles from his instrument. Nobody chucks such a
high-spec ceramic kitchen sink at every solo like this upstate New Yorker. He
means every plaintive, guttural, pure, sweet, brutal note he picks out.</p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">All this rarefied emotion and guitar nirvana
was despite, rather than because of, the venue. Brighton Centre’s auditorium
was a horrific 1980’s concrete box, lidded with a cavernous roof and hosting
utilitarian seating blocks that could be wheeled around depending on the event
being staged. Very practical I’m sure, but the result created vast areas of empty
space that swallowed up the atmosphere like hungry black holes. The sound from
the stage was fine, but the audience response at the end of each track wouldn’t
have been out of place at a chess convention. Bonamassa could be forgiven for
removing his eyewear to check whether anyone had actually turned up.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">An apres-gig walk up the prom was a visual
treat. The weather had relented to allow the hen party/stag scenario that takes
over Brighton at weekends to be seen in full plumage. At the bottom of South
Street I was forced into the road by a maelstrom of nurses, tarts, vicars and Elvises,
together with attendant taxis and rickshaws. Their number had been swollen by
swinging, swaying and shouting Halloween revellers. I later read that Halloween
had just become the second most lucrative festival in the calendar, behind
Christmas. The sale of pumpkins, costumes, sweets, cakes and decorations had
eclipsed Easter, Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day in terms of the revenue it
generated. I think at least 75% of those fancy dress sales were collected in a
thin strip of the south coast that night. I battled towards the station past
zombies, Freddie Krugers even the odd Grim Reaper. More inexplicable were the
minion, shark and, er, rubbish bin outfits. Bizarre.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">I'd decided to stay in genteel Eastbourne
overnight, rather than schlep back to Hertfordshire. Strolling to the hotel
along the town’s empty seafront parade was like a timeshift experience. I was
surely in a completely different temporal zone to the manic scenes in Brighton just
25 miles down the coast.</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The Riviera Hotel was just the job. Cheap but
comfortable. Sunlight was streaming though my sea view window and, downstairs,
a generous fry up was on offer in the conservatory. The breakfast room was
about half full and, as if living up to the resort’s reputation, there was a
disproportionate number of pensioners on sneaky weekends away; and couples
minding geriatric parents. A vision of the future...</span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Eastbourne pier is less gaudy than its
Brighton neighbour. On a balmy November morning
that felt more like August, I watched the building emerge from the mist whilst drinking more cappuccinos
than was strictly good for one.</span></p><p class="BodyA"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFqEHJF_N69SQdw-9BZpfaypTE5y0W2UULsmcto_GA3rebwUBYAGIAWQ-lsQkG6yBvo1FPujMiP3kGqf_zj8n5hd2krlulJmQXzoEgIJOlqD_xAprUm6z-LkCLU61J_ixC7icEsiXENLHs/s799/Brighton_eastbourne.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="799" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFqEHJF_N69SQdw-9BZpfaypTE5y0W2UULsmcto_GA3rebwUBYAGIAWQ-lsQkG6yBvo1FPujMiP3kGqf_zj8n5hd2krlulJmQXzoEgIJOlqD_xAprUm6z-LkCLU61J_ixC7icEsiXENLHs/w400-h266/Brighton_eastbourne.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="BodyA">I caught the Number 12A bus from the pier back
to Brighton. Rather than the faster A27, the route took the coast road
revealing sweeping views back over Eastbourne, across Beachy Head, through the
Birling Gap and past Cuckmere Valley. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d
taken that road. Absolutely lovely: the double-decker wriggled through classic
English landscapes of undulating heaths, managed woodlands, busy valleys and
preserved villages. And all for a £4 single. Never lose sight of the value.</p><p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">Past Newhaven, Seaford and various Deans, and
then Brighton pier shimmered onto the horizon from our cliff top tour. Onto the
Esplanade and we were plunged back into the glitzy, thronging, cosmopolitan
hubbub. The London to Brighton vintage car rally was in full swing. Glorious
Autumn sunshine was glinting off carefully polished paintwork and chrome
radiator caps. With a final glance over the seafront and Bonamassa’s ‘Oh
Beautiful’ appropriately popping in to my brain, I headed for the train home.</span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="BodyA"><i>Series navigation: </i><i>Introduction: <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/04/seaside-special-excursions-to-coast.html" target="_blank">Excursions to the Coast</a></i></p><p class="BodyA"><i>Previous episode - <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/08/seaside-special-lockdown-dodging-east.html" target="_blank">East Sussex Part 1</a></i></p><p class="BodyA"><i>Next episode - <a href="https://www.mugpunting.net/2021/10/seaside-special-sprawling-and-wittering.html" target="_blank">West Sussex</a></i></p><p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span></p><p class="BodyA"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span></p>Davoskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974588032644590806noreply@blogger.com0