Picos the Third

The day begins slightly thick-headed thanks to the Pacharan (sloe gin) and oruja (no idea) but has an adventure at breakfast with scrambled egg, well, two adventures as the first scrambled egg is held together by the cook's hair. We pack and settle the bar tab, before whizzing up the Hermana Gorge to Potes, we stop halfway up to check out the canyoning gorge where the water level is declared, "OK". Fortunately the adventure sports centre in Potes is shut.


We move on to the next hotel - a Posada about five kilometres outside Potes, leave our bags and head back to Potes for a lunch of tapas (sort of). Then back to the Posada - locked, tragedy. Highly disgruntled we stretch out in the warm sunshine and admire the view of the mountains as it sinks behind our closing eyelids. Sadly mein hosts return and let us in:

Alex, "OK ten minutes and then we go."

After fifteen minutes I go and check Tony and Judith's room, they fail to answer the door, surely they can't have fallen asleep after one beer. I consult with Alex, until strolling around the house we discover them waiting on the opposite side - what idiots!


We drive to Brez, where we do a gentle circular walk through oak and birch woodland and up to mountain heath, on the track in front of us there is a wildcat pugmark, there are wonderful views up into the mountains, there are rainbows, everyone declares it "Fab!":

The praying mantis in the car park, "Fab!"

The vultures flying close overhead, "Fab!"

The views "Fab!" - both directions.

Nick going, "Oh look field mushrooms. How tasty." Judith and Tony, "Fab!" Alex, "Aaaargh! Noo! What are you doing?"

Lovers of mushrooms should note that this region of Spain is a good place to come, as the locals treat all mushrooms with suspicion. They might also like to know that the football field opposite the campsite contains several kilo's of horse mushrooms.

We return to the inn and I indulge, the bathroom has a bath: Standard European - Short, the sort of bath where you wallow in two halves (see pics - if you dare). Afterwards, and before dinner, I sit on my balcony write my journal and my postcards, and listen to the sound of distant thunder rolling round the mountains, and the close thunder of the couple in the room next door's mother on speaker phone, it will soon be time to test the beer.

Sadly the beer test fails, as all we can find is the dog, Pongo (a Golden Retriever who's quite shy but if someone called you Pongo, wouldn't you be), as I indulge in a bit of ear-pulling I discover a large tick right on top of his head, as we start to leave, and our hosts arrive, I summon all my (and a lot of Tony's Spanish), "Moment!" "Por favor." "Umm, Pongo......" Grab dog, expose top of head.
"Ohh, uno (something muttered)."
"Si." winging it.
"Gracias."
"Por nada."

Then into town to a restaurant, Casa Caya (at this point my notes become a little blurred), to eat several more pounds of red meat, two bottles of Rioja and a Tostadilla, which is a wine base plus some coffee - all together this tastes like a very old sherry, that's not the third of a bottle left over from Christmas two years ago but a 25 year old sherry (it's a good thing - honest). This is followed by a lengthy discussion on teasing (and coffee), a longer one on the Spanish for teasing, the latter fails to come to a conclusion. The evening sky is clear, the star's spectacular though slightly marred by the loom of Potes' street lamps.

Oh yes, I had lamb chops, black pudding, salad, scrambled egg, plus a souffle in custard, the Iberian equivalent of Isle Flottant. I think the scrambled eggs knocked my total for the day up to about eight (eggs) - but I digest.

After breakfast consisting of a sort of homemade churro, coffee, toast and fruit we make a brief run for Potes to buy our picnic, and then high-tailed it to Fuente De, where Alex discovers that he has forgotten the bread. After a brief excursion to the cafe he emerges triumphant, clasping a loaf, after turning his not inconsiderable charm on the poor impressionable young thing behind the till. We then clamber into the cable car and ascend at high speed, it appears that Tony has very inert blood, as the cable car rises, it stays exactly where it was and pools somewhere in his boots but he survives. At the top there is a platform that juts out over the edge of the cliff, we pause for photo's and some tomfoolery before setting out for our lunchspot of Cabina Veronica. First, a road - unmetalled, probably for the mercury mine that used to be up here, then a typical mountain path (something that goes fundamentally up, and is covered in loose stones) finally a teeter-totter over the knife edges of the karst, before arriving at the Cabina. The Cabina is just that, it is a deck cabin from a warship that has been helicoptered up here and concreted to the limestone, for good measure there are some cables cast over the top to hold it in place. it is sometimes a refuge (for seven) and sometimes a hermit's cell as it has an owner, sadly marooned in hospital with lung cancer, at this present moment. The interior contains his memorabilia, pictures of himself surrounded by bottles at some party in the Cabina, it is at once festive and sad. To avoid the melancholy we sit outside at the picnic table, gorging ourselves on smoked pork loin and cheese, occasionally lobbing scraps to the passing choughs, who, being ever-present and constantly ever-fed have become gourmets, and eschew mere bread and cheese, opting instead for tomatoes and olives.

Interestingly the area around the cabina has whiffs of the lavatorial and there are nettles growing there - how interesting.

We make our way back to the turn off point for the descent, I employ my doe eyes, and so it is that Alex and I scoot up to the col to have a look over the other side, take photos of us with my pipe, stare with some terror down the very large hole at the top and watch the bloke trying to kill himself by traversing the scree via the wrong route, whilst Judith and Tony set off on the descent. The view from the col is down into the central valley of the central massif, in the distance the needle of Naranja de Bulnes pokes through the clouds, paths stretch away circumnavigating the basin, they look promising, sadly we turn away and begin the descent.
On the way we pass two English lads that we'd overtaken on the way up, one of the pair has obviously spent his formative (I do not use the term loosely) drinking a lot of beer. We had passed them on the way up while they were sweating profusely and rolling a fag, on the way down they are sweating profusely and eating. It is at this point that Alex and I indulge in conversation,
"Tell me Alex, what most exercises you about guiding, is it the potential death of a client, the financial worry of a poor season or what?"
"Well Nick, I will tell you, it is what you do about, how do you say it - farting."
"!"
This is the most talked about subject at Mountain Guide School, a guide has to lead, and therefore, in narrow places with little air movement what are you to do? Standing to oneside to survey the cloud formations may cause stress within the group, as they are there to follow you. Strategy is called for, a particularly noxious blast can be countered with a mountaineering remark such as, "Aha the west wind blowing from Galicia, what garlic!". Noise engenders remarks about distant thunder, or the calls of rare mountain creatures who have just ..."No, over there, look, by the.. oh no it's gone!". A goat close to the path can be an absolute Godsend. As a Brit I thought that a rather cryptic, "Crikey you don't often get to hear that, you're very lucky." might suffice. I asked Alex what the female guides did during these crises, "Well for them it is easy, they are the worst, they do what they want and no-one believes that it is them."

I recount this conversation with Tony and Judith at our evening restaurant, at which point Judith rather archly points out that this is why she always walks at the back, there is a pause as we contemplate the large dish of chickpea stew that has arrived at the table. A quick word about Tony and Judy. Tony a retiree solicitor is heavily into golf and has a penchant for fast cars (and mime). Judith has a slightly more chequered (in the nicest possible way) past, ex Ballet Rambert, from there to Ballet Hungarian, who fell on hard times and went touring with a circus where Judith became an elephant rider - cor. They are a delightful couple revelling in their middle-age despite being 73 and 68, hope for us all, respect.

I indulge in venison and foie gras, and a glass of Orucha y Ierbas that smells like the contents of a slurry pit i.e. noxious with overtones of vegetation but tastes a lot better - fortunately.
We return, tip Alex and go to bed.
Heavy wind all night.

The next day we were picked up by taxi, and went home.

Picos part two

Alex arrives sporting slightly tighter trousers (if that is indeed possible) and spirits Lucy away to the bus. Lucy who has got up especially early so that she can pay her bill, there is some frantic calculator work - result - nada.

- A Diversion: There are two waitresses at the Arredondo, Mariella - young, voluptuous and incapable of understanding Tony's Spanish resulting in some interesting conversations:
T "Secadora?" [A tumble drier]
M "Secadora?" Blank incomprehension.
T "Secadora!"
M "Secadora?"
T Resorting to mime washes his ropas. Then instead of hanging them out to dry and discovering that the washing line was sadly absent, opens the bookcase door and throws the wet garments in.
M "Oh! Secadora!"
T "SI! SECADORA!"
Much hilarity all round.

The other girl we have already met over the breakfast table, she is thin and stands erect with her hands clasped behind her back, she stares straight ahead and recites the breakfast litany that you are by now familiar with. The first day and my almost non-existent Spanish whirrs, groans and clicks into an internal, and interminable translation (surely the J in orange doesn't sound like that) before producing the querulous, "Si?". Prevaricate too long and she will pounce with a translation which leaves you obliged to say yes even if you know that what's on offer will make you seriously ill. -

Alex re-arrives and takes us back to the base of Cares Gorge, where he turns left, and whisks... well, no - drives, bounces, careers, glides and powerdrives us to the nearly the top of the pass, about five minutes walking from the col. I become decidedly glum as the ascent continues, as I know that we have to go all the way down to the bottom again. Tony just goes green as the view from the front - his option, gets progressively more vertiginous, and the ground progressively more distant. We stop just in time and, while some of us scan the mountain, Tony scans the ground, practices stertorian breathing, and pops a cough sweet in his mouth for the blessed relief of menthol, and to give his rapidly accumulating saliva something to do.

When his heart rate (and stomach) drops to something approaching normal, we start off and accelerate it again. From the col we descend a cow track which eventually becomes a donkey track - today's definition of a donkey track - an agglomeration of smoothly polished limestone cobbles, patinated with the sort of mud that you lubricate oil rigs with, descending at an angle that the average staircase wouldn't be ashamed off, though the pitch is occasionally alleviated by a quagmire.

Judith slips, and rolls, losing some dignity and a smidge of confidence, the rest of her confidence evaporates as her buttocks impact the slope a few minutes later, it is to be her dia horribilis. The path continues in a similar vein - forever. Alex leads by example i.e. he is occasionally seen lurking at critical forks in the path, a form of guiding as a signpost. As we continue, Judith begins to rebel, sadly the path doesn't, it remains, without conscience, the same, until it reaches Bulnes village, just round the back of the muckheap, all bloody-minded 562 metres descent of it. However, waiting there, between the two tractors that have been helicoptered up is lunch and, as we unpack the picnic and wait for the others, Alex tells me about the funicular (something I correctly predict, that Judith and Tony may explore more intimately). The funicular was put in to provide the villagers of Bulnes with a means of access other than the donkey track that I will be continuing on, that's the official story, it was actually put in to rival the cable car at Fuente De, which is in another district. As soon as the funicular is finished (after two false starts both ending in water pockets, one of which destroys the mining machinery on loan from Switzerland) the locals all sell their houses as second homes and decamp for the high life elsewhere.

By this time the others arrive, and lunch is conducted with a degree of dudgeon that ameliorates as satiation takes hold. We sit by the stream and watch an old man whittle a chairpost, and watch the tourists come up from the funicular, cast about the dozen houses and two bars and turn ruefully back to the funicular. No-one even checks out the graveyard where the remains of the first man killed climbing Naranjo de Bulnes lie. Naranjo de Bulnes (2519m) is a pinnacle first climbed by the local Marquis and a shepherd, (mainly because there was a German casting glances in its direction) the Marquis had the boots.

Tony and Judy descend via the funicular while Alex and I (I use the term "and" advisedly) descend via the continuation of the track, which had become much more forgiving as it dried out, apart from the odd horrendous drop-off. However I could tell I was a disappointment, it takes me 55 minutes to Alex's predicted 30, but we still both manage to admire, from a distance, the girl (with enormous boyfriend) that we passed. My journey down is "interesting", the washes of sweat across my glasses cause some tricky moments of foot placing. Knees the size of footballs, I arrive at the cafe causing a slight air of disbelief - timing or my condition, I know not. Alex got a taxi, got the bus, got us. On the way home we passed a rather sorry tanker, bearing the legend "De La Vega Gazoles" a sad ending to the Zorro story, I felt.

In the evening we go to Lanes and to La Cueva (the cave) this is a fish restaurant that features very bright lights, large white plates, and a selection of cave paintings done on tiles on the wall. One of them features what appears to be a papoose next to a large knife, we study the menu with suspicion. I order what I am told is wrasse - it isn't, not with those teeth. Whatever it was
it was delicious. One the way back we surprise a wild boar crossing the road.

Heavy rain 2-25am.

Breakfast ("Si", "Si", "Si", "No", "NO?", "Si, no").

The morning, it rains, the cloud skims the top of the trees, we get in the van and stop in Posada where we search for some glue to mend Tony's boots, as his sole has decided to part company from his upper, and to buy some food. As we wait for Alex, Tony plumps for a cafe cortado to stir some neurones, some of us think this may be a misguided course of action. We drive up to the Ercina lakes, which at one point was all that the National Park consisted of. After Covadonga (Cuadonga in Asturian) the visibility closes down to thirty metres, just enough for Tony (front seated again) to see over the edge of the wall at the hairpins, caffeine strikes and his imagination soars (downwards, with some rolls, finally bursting into flames on impact), he slides from the outer seat to the middle.

At the lakes a bitter wind pushes the cloud through our clothes, and we gather at the back of the van to discuss our options. Alex produces the map. "We can do the four hour trip to this Refugio, or the two and one half hour trip to this Refugio but we'll have to do it using my GPS. Or we can do this trip for two and one half hours between the lakes, or we can do the five minute stroll to the waterside which I think is over there." We opt for the latter and I managed to beat him at skimming stones (this would later lead to an argument over chocolate bars, while he insisted his was bigger than mine I pointed out that at least mine had been used, at least I think it was about chocolate. After examining some wild boar damage we returned to the bus, via a close encounter with a newt (a Triton in Spanish) and headed back through the clouds for a religious experience in Cuadonga/Covadonga. It was at this point that Alex informed us that his Father had been at one point the Lutherian Primate for Spain - presumably a pretty thankless task. Cuadonga is a Marian shrine it was here that Mary appeared to the local warlord and told him to, "Chuck the Moors off my land" or words to that effect, which he subsequently did (just ) incidentally saving himself a fortune in tribute and establishing a kingship, what an astute politician that Mary is.

We then drove to the Coast at Ribasella where us three Brits had a nostalgic time indulging in a very British picnic i.e. in the car, looking at the sea during the moments when it wasn't obscured by rain pouring down the windows.
After lunch we drove to the Tito Caves - closed due to technical problems. I think it was at this point that we became less of a thorn in Alex's flesh. We didn't moan and groan, we had been in fits of hysterics at the non-existent lakes, we realised that the weather wasn't Alex's fault, perhaps to his surprise.

Casting my mind back to last night's dinner I suggest we head off and look at the rock (Pena Tu) with the papoose and knife on it.
"It's just a rock - you know?"
"I like rocks."
"Oh OK"
We meander up through the forest, passing a fearsome array of limb and testicle destroying mountain bike courses, and arrive at the rock, It's a large lump of quartzite featuring the papoose and knife, it also features a set of running men, many of which have been vandalised by passing pilgrims into crosses. As we return to the van we discover that the interpretive museum has opened, and, more importantly that today it is free! We move inside and discover that the rock is a Bronze Age boundary marker featuring scary fetish object (papoose) and very large knife, the message is clear, "We have one of these, and we have several of these, so come past this stone, and we're prepared to use the latter and sacrifice portions of your anatomy to the former!".

The evening meal is back at the hotel, the menu hasn't changed but this is more than made up for by Mariella. At one point she asks if we are moving and where to. Judith and I draw in a breath, settle back comfortably in our chairs, cross our hands in our laps and wait for Tony to mime Potes.....

Heavy rain at midnight and four a.m.

Picos the first three days

The day before I left for the Picos, the 28th September, was Jack's leaving "do". Amazingly, I drank too much and so woke early feeling like sh.., far from chipper. But I got the train, as we neared Baker Street the girl opposite asked if I knew where the EasyBus bus stop was? "Did I look like someone who knew where the EasyBus bus stop was?" the fact that I was travelling on it was immaterial. She was pretty, in a young and pretty kind of way so I relented. We chatted about university in Basel and how she was going to miss the bus. She did, she was on mine, she was in the queue next to me at the airport, I pointed out that fate kept throwing us together and that we should get married but she pretended to be deaf. Her bag was 5Kg overweight due to some serious shopping.

At the airport I dithered and ended up in Pret a Manger for a breakfast sandwich before dithering over two bottles of Campari which I didn't buy. I tasted some Baileys and then proceeded to the gate for non-boarding - in fact, non-plane. However it arrived eventually and I found a space next to a man with a Berghaus jacket and walking boots.
"Hmmm?" I thought, "Is this one of my fellow walkers, in fact might this be my bedroom buddy?"
He was nuts.
"Oh God!" actually being fervently evoked prior to take-off by said person. "Definitely".
There was a spare seat so I shifted into it and feigned unconsciousness for the next ninety minutes. Ok "Nuts" is perhaps a trifle unfair - aspergic.

We arrived and, on standing uselessly in a locked plane, discovered an older couple in front of me, the lady of whom sported a Pura Aventura label,
"Oh good!" I thought, "People potentially slower than me."
I followed them through immigration, watched my case exit the conveyor, and waited for it to come round again. On leaving, I failed to find the man with the notice, I did find the minibus but not the man. I had a plan, I would stand next to the "Older Couple" nope, they'd buggered off as well. Eventually I was accosted,
"Are you with Pura Aventura?" I was rescued, it was Diego, he introduced me to Lucy - hang on, me, Lucy, "Older Couple", that was four, Aspergic Man was off elsewhere.
No-one wanted the front seat in the bus so, with my natural air of superiority, I claimed it. So we set off and drove down one of the most under-used motorways in Europe built with my (and your -Dear Reader) taxes. The coastal scenery undulates, the motorway doesn't, it flies over concrete viaducts and piledrives through hills.
At the turn off for Hotel Arredondo the tax burden ceases, and we rattle over patchy concrete to the former stud farm. There Mariella is dragged from the kitchen to show us our rooms. Lucy and I are garretted in the roof, where the skylight window sometimes gives my worm's-eye-views of passing wagtails. My room is fairly large, Lucy is in the more traditional head-banging attic, the sort that is called "cosy" in the brochures.

Now all that remains is to occupy the several hours until dinner. I look at my book, it's already halfway through - it will have to be eked. I look at my journal and rue the lack of pen. Eventually I look at the ceiling - it is quite dull, so I decide to look at my book again via a beer. Tony ("OC"- Male) joins me and helps me look at the beer, comparing his with mine. Judy ("OC" - Female) arrives, looks at the beer for a bit and then takes Tony away for a walk. I return to my ceiling and Stargate, in Spanish (well it was either that or Crocodile Dundee in Los Angeles, and even if that had been in English...).

Finally it's nine o'clock - Dinner Time. My stomach impels me downstairs by the simple principle of placing a gaping void immediately in front of my centre of gravity. I find the others sitting around a table gently salivating. We move into dinner and order a bottle of Tinto - sadly, or not some might say, Lucy turns out to be a Blanco girl. We scan the variety of meat up for grabs and Lucy turns out to be a pescy vegetarian but at least they have fish. Somewhat guiltily I order the cold meat plate and a veal sirloin, The plate when it arrives covers half the table, I share - reluctantly. The sirloin is probably about the same volume as the cold meats but arranged in a vertical profile. the sweet is a sort of cheesecake, with a caramel sauce of exquisite propensities. The meal finished I go to bed and spend the next six hours awake, digesting. Occasionally a waft of cigarette smoke will drift mysteriously through the room like some sort of nicotine-fiend poltergeist. I doze and am awoken by rain battering the roof at 3.25 and then again by the 8.15 train practising blowing its horn.

Breakfast we have been warned is slight.

"Zumo naranja?"

"Si." (Good accent eh?)

"Cafe con leche?"

"Si."

"Tostados?"

"Si." (As you can tell I had got the hang of things now.)

"Huevos y bacon?"

"!"

"Huevos y bacon?"

"! Umm. Si."

Thus, slightly overfortified, I stagger back to my room to squeeze into my shorts and drape a shirt over my breakfast.

Diego arrives (our guide Alex has been given time out to run a horse in an endurance horse race), we say, "Picos!"

He shrugs and says "Cares Gorge"

We drive through the countryside of "Green Spain", which looks a lot like Wales, and end up in Arenas de Cabrales where Diego disappears to buy the picnic and we follow, ending up in a shop that sell the worst sort of tourist tat and chainsaws (electric or petrol) and chamber pots (china or enamel). From there we head up into the massif until the road runs out, and then start on the path, which goes first up, then down, then along. It reminds me of "Cheddar Gorge in Somerset", only bigger, with less parking. Oh, and it's surrounded by mountains. The lunch stop was exceptional, dry cured smoked beef - cor, ham - cor, cheese, cor, other stuff, cor plus free walnuts courtesy of a passing tree! After lunch the girls decided to wend their way back and Diego, Tony and I sashayed on to the first bridge, at this point Tony left us and Diego and I carried on to the dam, declared the gorge "done" and then legged it back, failing to catch the others. We found Tone sheltering from a shower in the road tunnel and so walked down to the cafe for a celebratory beer and the van keys.

So what did we see? several Vultures, some Redstarts, oh yes and a Wallcreeper, lots of vertiginous cliffs, an enormous spring where one of the three massifs empties into the river, some interesting geology, oh and did I say a Wallcreeper? The reason that Twitchers come to the Cares Gorge - the Wallcreeper - did I say we saw one? It did involve leaning backwards over a 100M cliff but hey - a Wallcreeper (Tichodroma muraria).

After a quick shower and a quick beer we hightailed it to a cider barn for an evening of more meat (plus cider). The popular myth is that the cider is undrinkable unless aerated by pouring it in a thin stream into the glass from about five feet up, the glass has to be held at the correct angle to avoid splashing. In order to achieve this one requires the ocular placement of the average prey animal without ruining your, and several other people's shoes. some of the locals can achieve this thin, slow, pour - a bar skill equivalent to "Ringing the Bull's Nose" or getting all nine down when playing "Devil amongst the Tailors" i.e. one learned by lots of practice but in the case of the latter two, less trouser washing.
The size of the cider press lends weight to the importance of cider in the area, the average saloon car would fit fairly comfortably inside it giving one the ability to satisfy two green urges at once. In this Sidreria, the cider is now poured via some strange battery-powered construction. I thought the cider was lovely, Tony found it "interesting" and then dived into a bottle of Rioja, the other two sipped. Diego looked on perhaps regretting the lack of people in the party, that might have turned this into a night of cider-fuelled riot and license. As it is we go home and go to bed.
Rain at 24.00, 01.30, 03.00, and 05.00, then train is five minutes late.

The next morning ( Si. Si. Si. Si.) Alex arrives, he is tanned (I originally misread this as torrid, either will probably do), slim and pony-tailed. It takes all of two minutes before Judy declares that he has a "lovely little bottom" and all of two seconds for Lucy to agree, Tony and I reserve judgement and make a mental note to do an evening of buttock crunches.
Given the choice Lucy (as it is her last day) opts for the "Coastal Route", this comprises a train journey from Llanes and a walk back along the alternative Pilgrims' Route to Santiago-de-Compostella, the real route being down the main road where, faith being what it is, the hardcore pilgrims vie with articulated lorries (semis) for roadspace. In fact in the town we saw someone in monk's habit striding through the town like a religious version of one of the Famous Five on holiday, pack festooned with such items as frying pan and lamp, and probably containing (if you'll pardon the phrase post Da Vinci Code) lashings of ginger beer.
After a quick stroll around medieval Llanes while Alex buys the picnic, we catch the train, the journey went on for some time, some of us realise that this might have a direct effect on the length of the journey back. Before we start back I'll just advise you of some definitions:
"Flat" - the bits that don't go up or down, honest.
"Mainly Downhill" - the bits that are neither flat or uphill, or, possibly describing a transit from East to West, like the sun, where, after midday, its passage is mainly downhill.
"Coastal Path" - at certain points the sea can be seen, contrast this with British coastal paths where, if making an anti-clockwise (widdershins) circuit of the Island, you should at no point turn right.
"Ascent" - not relative to a coastal path, these are only flat or mainly downhill.
At the start, we arrive at the beach, look at it and then turn away for the next hour or so, before arriving at the Bufones de Arenillas, a blowhole which, sadly, isn't spouting, though this does make it a better place to have a picnic than if it had been. This is an interesting experience, like sitting on the chest of a dozing giant as we work our way through another series of delicious cold meats and cheeses, olives skewered by gherkins (some sort of job employment scheme I'd guess), and Judith's favourite, pickled roasted peppers. I have to eschew the chocolate - it is Nestle, eating Nestle will excommunicate me from my family (I am reserving this for an emergency), upon being asked why, I educate.
Having lunched by the flat calm we now turn our backs on it and turn inland to cross the river (probably the Puron) and to stroll through a Eucalyptus wood (Eucalypts are a disastrous cash crop, they take ten years to reach a harvestable state, which is speedy for forestry, and once harvested you discover that nothing else will grow in the soil). We then embark on a series of ascents, or rather, less flat sections of path, during which Alex (who has obviously decided we were slow - or was showing off his pert buttocks to those with telescopic vision) had a phone call from the Head of the Spanish National Horse-Endurance Racing Team, wishing to check out his stables to supply them with a new team - of horses. Later he slows down as the number of calls from friends and family increases, (there would be times in the course of the week where we yearn for news like this, or a disaster, or, in fact, anything that would result in Alex's relentless pace being modified. It's not that he was particularly fast, he was just constant regardless of terrain).
Eventually Llanes re-appears, in the middle distance, wearing a smug, "Where have you been?" look. In Llanes Lucy and Alex disappear into the Bus Station to sort out Lucy's transfer back to the airport, while the rest of us look at the faded glory that was Llanes' Indios heritage (the large mansions built buy the returning successful colonialists, now falling into dilapidation) and the rash of new building of second homes unaffordable to the locals. Hmm? Been here before I think.
We return to the Hotel for a sluice down and a modicum of rehydration, before being taken to a new fish restaurant/sidreria. much to Tony's disgust we opt for a Galician white, (Albarhino) and top it off with a shot of the local digestif.
02.30 Heavy rain.

The Lake District May 2007

A man is standing at the entrance to a railway station, he is staring bemusedly about him, somewhere in the cellar of the car park an idiot is sounding his horn, his backwoodsman senses aroused, Nick , for it is he, homes in on the oaf, and discovers his brother flashing his lights and waving. Moving sluggishly through the cough medicine and anti-congestants, his brain registers this fraternal son-et-lumiere, fires off a few signals to his arm (right) and legs (both), so that he waves and heads towards the vehicle. They, the family Hayes, including pending new edition are going on holiday together to the Lake District, it is apparently the driest month, the weather forecast is such that it is rumoured that the signs that at the moment say, “The Lakes” will be retouched to read, “The Lake”.
The motorway is found and the drive North commenced, Piggly Piglet and the Prickly Problem is unleashed from the Imo goody bag, and the journey commences. By the time it is finished Nick will have discovered that Lester’s Unusual Pet (Osbert Lancaster) is his favourite, and that Maurice Sendak’s rendering of an adult size rabbit leaves him uneasy, he will also be an expert at unilateral I Spy (where guessing is not an issue, in other quarters this is known as “Can you see?”), and tickling (under instruction).
Brother Steve is on a trip down (up -travelling North?) memory lane, so that they zoom off the motorway to Lancaster, which apparently has had its magnetic polarity reversed, at least as far as the driver is concerned. In a queue of traffic Nick points out a sign, it says UK Pub of the Year 2006, Regional Pub of the Year…… and several other positive appellations, the car swerves off the main road at the next turn and lunch is declared. And jolly nice it was too, though the brothers Hayes are slightly fazed by the fact that it is “Morning Advertiser UK Pub of the Year 2006”, neither of them know if the Morning Advertiser is even a national publication. With this in mind, readers of this blog may like to vote for World Wide Web Pub of the Year 2007 by contacting the author via email.
After a pretty good lunch (not enough horseradish) they set forth into town to try and discover the Duke’s Playhouse, Steve’s old workplace, it has apparently been moved, several times, eventually it is discovered lurking down a main road similar, if not identical, to the one it used to be in.
Back in the car and they let Tim the TomTom man guide them out of Lancaster, and on to Windermere, he only gets it wrong twice. Eventually united with the cottage keys they let Tim guide them to Chapel Stile, he takes the shortest route, there was something very Roman about Tim, he guided them straight but with a large degree of up and down, down a road barely wider than the vehicle in parts, it is doubtful that a cohort of Romans could have passed this way without breaking ranks, or at least scraping their gladii on the drystone walls
They arrive, the cottage (Ann’s Cottage) boasts walls two feet thick. Sadly walls two feet thick that have been unheated for a week take a lot of heating before the heat diffuses back into the interior of the building that they are holding up. Consequently, they turn all the heating on, and then sort out the sleeping arrangements, then they sort them out again, so that Nick ends up in the double with a single duvet. The linen was very modern, a waffle pattern with wooden buttons to close them, this left one with a novelty face the next morning, rather like the aftermath of a bad squash accident, eventually Nick discovers the smooth side lurking on the back of the pillow.
They leave the cottage to heat, and set of for the pub and supper, eyeing the eight beer pumps several members of the party felt that they had landed on their feet, one member felt that sinking feeling and the final one felt that a pink straw was the best thing to happen to her all day. An early night was called, due to the fact that one of the party was five months pregnant, one three and a half years old, one with a terminal cough that kept him and the neighbours awake from two ‘til three a.m., the final member of the party fell into the newspaper, a vaguely annoying pastime but one that keeps him out of mischief.


The next day, Nick peels back his eyelids and the bedroom curtains, outside there were mountains, not only that, but mountains with visible tops. “Oh bugger!” he thinks, “Better look at the map then.”. After toast and coffee, things took on a rosier hue, and so, taking Brother Steve in hand they set off for the mountains at the back of the cottage, Nick consults the map and sets off up a footpath that hasn’t existed since the map was printed, quite a long time ago. Eventually they discover another path in totally the wrong place, and covered with people, they eschew it and, taking advantage of the new access laws set about going their own way up.
The day continues, they continue, partaking parsimoniously of the nuts, flapjacks, Granola bars and Pontefract cakes (liquorice), and basking in the warm sunshine. They chat about most things, with the occasional reference to the complete inaccuracy of the weather forecast (a combination of the Flood and Sodom and Gomorrah), this was, of course, their downfall. In the south a cloud no bigger than a man’s hand was busy doing its stuff, multiplying, dragooning its friends to join it, indulging in several orgies with other clouds, generally plumping itself up and filling with moisture. As they approach major peak number one, the cloud sneaks in from the side and bombards them with large amounts of hail, rain and enough bits of itself to hide all the rest of the mountain.
It takes twenty five seconds for Steve and Nick to declare discretion, and peel off down the mountain on the nearest pathway. Here they find a lot of other people with the same idea, but strangely, they all peel off onto a path not marked on Nick’s 1998 map, no matter, they are wrong. Consequently much more adventure is had by the “boys” as they slide down the “traditional” path rather than the wimps' path which resembles a staircase. In the evening we decamp to another pub and another early night, somewhat interrupted for Nick by bouts of coughing at regular intervals throughout.

The next day started with a trip to Coniston to purchase boots as "stout shoes" were determined to be not up to Cumbrian inclement weather, probably by virtue of not being tall enough. Happily, boot buying took sufficient time to allow Opening Time to occur, just before the walk was started, consequently they find themselves in the Black Bull, home of the Coniston Brewery, after a sample pint, they set off for Tarn Hows (a preternaturally [with reason]) pretty lake. At the lake they discover an ice cream van, Steve's guilt lasts a few microseconds and is assuaged with a cinder-toffee cone, Nick's non-guilt isn't assuaged with a wild-cherry cone. Then onward heading for home via some stepping stones (see video when posted), I say "via" as if stepping stones were an everyday run of the mill thing, they were huge, dry and easy, the younger member of the party skipped serenely across, his senior didn't. At one point there was a stick resting on the stone, Steve treated this with the reaction that one normally gets from a spirited but stupid horse - he bridled, the stick became possessed of some innate malevolent quality only perceived by those of inestimable age (and perspicacity - natch), eventually a tentative step, the stick failed to turn and bite, it did not insinuate its round rolliness under his instep, it, in fact, delivered its sticklike qualities in the way that only an inanimate object can. On the other side of the stream (eventually) they were reunited with Tessa, who was serenely motoring up the wrong valley, they chat, a lift is not proffered so they carry on, over the hill and came down via a quarry, and two lost ladies, before crossing a bridge and finding themselves at the pub (quelle horreur!).

Tuesday was deemed a "Family Day" so all decamped to the Country Club and availed themselves of their pool and spa-like features, just as well really as the weather had become a trifle inclement, the afternoon was occupied with a trip to Ambleside to admire the variety of outdoor shops, the variety of rain, Boots the Chemist, and Stockghyll waterfalls. They then failed to admire the Thai restaurant but managed to admire one called Lucy4 a sort of Demonic Tapas Bar. In the UK there is a restaurateur and chef called Rick Stein who seems to own most of Padstow in Cornwall, Lucy appears to be the Cumbrian equivalent. After putting Imo to bed, the boys are turned out to the Pub to win the quiz. They do, and win a meal voucher - Joy!

Flush with their success our fraternal heroes decide to tackle Bow Fell (or Bowfell if you're anyone other than the Ordnance Survey. Tessa very kindly gives them a lift to the start, and after consulting Nick's venerable map they set off up the valley. A short time later they survey the footings for the footbridge, this is all that remains, hmm looks like another stepping stone moment, Steve begins to blanche in anticipation, while Nick is strangely buoyed by the prospect. A dry crossing is achieved further upstream and the ascent commenced. Those nice National Park people have been very busy path laying to avoid further erosion consequently the ascent is up a very long staircase with the odd bit of "living rock", as they used to say in the sort of novels I read as a child, this used to confuse me no end until I realised that it meant rock in-situ. About a third of the way up the first ascent they come across a band of disconsolate youth, and two teachers. The youths were disconsolate at the ascent but also flushed with the excitement of being on the mountain (why is there no escalator?), one announced to us that, "There's fresh water here Mate, if you want a drink!" They eschewed, and Nick eyed the teacher who had presumably volunteered this information, he then eyed the sheep grazing all around, and made a mental note to check up on the Hydatid cyst statistics in London in 6 months time. They move on leaving the gang behind, and revelling in their superior mountainliness compared to callow youth. At the top of the ascent the path goes down again into a corrie - down Goddammit - and then up the other side before a left turn to the final(ish) ascent. Halfway up this ascent Steve has a fit of the collywobbles, he is declared Hypo and plied with nuts and sweets, Nick, however, has ample reserves and has merely embarked on a spell of Ketosis. Sustained, they move on to the higher levels, the temperature drops and hats are produced, well Nick's hats are produced. As they get to the summit they become aware of something unusual, there is no wind and it is clear - a miracle. In the North, Dumfrieshire (Scotland), in the West, the Isle of Man, to the South Pen-y-Ghent and the Wirral, and to the East...hang on....to the East... some more of the Lake District. What there also is, to the Southwest if you were interested, is a large rainstorm, hmm if there was wind, what direction would it be coming from? Ooh the Southwest I should think. They descend, hoping to go down Hell Ghyll, which Nick is pretty sure is the one that he ascended by last time, if it was, then the path has fallen into disrepair, possibly disrepute so they contour round to the path that resembles just that, rather than the loose assemblage of rocks and sheep droppings that they are teetering along. it is at this point that Nick has two things to talk about with Steve - first, has he made a will and what are its terms, and second, does he know the International Distress call on the mountain? The reply to both is in the positive, though Nick is quick to point out that to achieve the latter may involve climbing down to his, Nick's, broken and shattered body. After the stepping stones incident(s) a momentary gleam comes into Steve's eye as he considers the prospect.
As they get back to the road, the prospect of a bus trip back to Chapel Stile, avoiding the three mile tramp, creeps unbidden into their minds, the bus can be seen in the car park, it is due to leave fairly soon, aching muscles are lashed into a frenzy of motion. They reach the bus, waking up the driver, who then apologetically fleeces them of a large wodge of cash for the short journey, they reply that it is worth it just to see the horror-struck expression on motorists travelling in the opposite direction, satisfaction is declared all-round.
It is about this point that Imo's car entertainment takes on a whole new facet, firstly I spy becomes totally gatebound (there are 126 between the cottage and Ambleside) and secondly, tickling takes on a strange new dimension:
"Do round and round the garden - with French!"
"?.... Autour, autour le......"
"No NOT IN FRENCH! Do some French first!"
Gallic shrug.
"Un, deux, trois. Comme les garcons, Pret a manger. Round and round....."
And so it went on, gates and French, French and gates, sais pas.

Thursday dawns, grey, moist, low cloud scuds overhead, trees drip, the boys (boys!) are still bundled out of the house to go walking. This time they find the right path up behind the cottage and trudge over the shoulder of the ridge to Grasmere. Grasmere, that occasionally appears through the breaks in the cloud they are tramping through, and that looks quite nice in a bleary sort of way. Similarly, the Irish couple they meet panting up in the opposite direction who stop for an oxygen break. At the lakeside, the Faeryland Tea Garden is sadly shut, so they walk to the town carpark where Steve gets a signal and leaps into his mobile. Nick peruses the car park for the car of the Irish couple, he strolls round the defunct craft shop looking through the windows at the leftovers, he admires the church tower, he returns to the car park. Steve has disappeared behind a tree (better reception, presumably) so Nick starts to document the species of birds he can see (Pied Wagtail, Grey Wagtail, Chaffinch), count the bricks in the wall (12,985), do a bit of cloud watching (camel, weasel, whale), contemplates swimming the lak....
"Oh! Hello."
"My broker."
"Oh."
They go to Ye Olde Famouse Gingerbread Shoppe where Steve spends a pittance of his hard-invested cash on something that they both agree isn't gingerbread, though they may have to try it again to make sure. At the town green they find a baguette shop and about 80 school children, of the two, the baguettes are warm and well-behaved. Then - disaster, the ice-cream shop is shut! After a consultation with the map, and a venturing into the Outdoor Shop by Steve to buy a whistle (no connection), they set off round the lake to go back a different way. The Faeryland Tea Gardens are now open but they eschew, and carry on round the lake to ascend Loughrigg Fell. but first the side of the hill is contoured to take advantage of the "official" viewpoint marked on the map. there are numerous benches to the Dear Departed marking various viewpoints (one ex-gentleman at least appears to have been passionately fond of the backside of a hawthorn) but after much wrangling and backsiting with the compass the official one is declared, then argued over. The ascent continues, at the summit, there is a thud and a duck lands heavily by Steve, in the duck world this girl is obviously an entrepreneur, she has cut out the competition entirely, not for her the jostling and hurly burly with the drakes at the lakeside, no she has judged her market perfectly, "Look there's a duck! What's it doing all the way up here? Where's my lunch?" "Quack." Nick is put in mind of the grey squirrel found on the top of Cadair Idris, so he tells Steve about it, Steve is more interested in photographing the duck, the duck is, to be frank, disgusted and flaps off to find folk more sandwich-laden.
The descent, somewhat accelerated by the prospect of a pub, (it's shut) is down a path that is in the process of being ballasted, the rocks being brought up by helicopter, if you trawl through the photos you will see that all bags have a useful set of pictograms including one that carries the message, "Do not land this bag full of very heavy stuff on top of anybody." Thus depressed (the pub) they tramp along the riverbank and fail to find the path on the first two attempts. Finally success and a nice riverine walk, and a chat with some others about Utah, medical students, and multiple sclerosis, like you do.
The evening is spent using up the food voucher and upsetting the other pub clientele, Nick at one point indulges in an accidental stage whisper, both stentorian and vulgar, having overheard a conversation on the next table about having rings stretched, Imo makes a loud and pointed comment about ice-cream as it arrives on their table. there is much giggling but only by them.

Friday, ugh, back to the country club and a somewhat damp sybaritic experience (though I daresay most sybaritic experiences are). In the afternoon things brighten up, so they decamp to Tarn Hows to show it off, have an ice-cream (legally) and to fly Imo's kite ( a somewhat sporadic demonstration of the verb - to fly, implying that it also means to plunge like a falling raptor at the heads of anyone frail or young). The evening will be taken up at the, now successfully booked, Thai restaurant, but what is this? They are too early. Oh dear. A quick trip to Coniston and the Bull conveniently gets rid of the spare time. The meal is good, once again Imo excels herself, beams at the appropriate moments, handles her chopsticks and rice with aplomb and seduces the restaurant manager who gives her a lucky dip into the toy box, from where she withdraws a frog. This is the only point where she is going wrong, once again Steve and Nick take her to one side and try to get her to realise that asking for a "cute" discount benefits the greater number, She ignores them, concentrating on hurling the frog at Nick in the back of the car, interspersed with imperious demands of French Tickling (don't look at me like that) and keeping a weather eye open for any passing gates (there are a few).

Saturday. Vacuum, tidy, lose frog, find frog, pack the car, leave. We were on our way to Otley, via Ingleton. At Ingleton we walked into the first pub (the Wheatsheaf I think), where, mercifully, they weren't serving food. Consequently we ended up at Bernie's cafe where Tessa finally managed the luxury of a cooked breakfast. Then on to Whitescar caves for a quick underground ramble before heading off to Tess' family at Otley.
"I'm NOT doing a gate or French Tickling 'til you've seen a yellow car!"
At Otley the boys are dragged kicking and screaming to the pub, 'tis a minor paradise, so much so that they are recalled, kicking and screaming to the house and dinner. The next day Nick awakes to a screaming pain, reminiscent of being kicked in the head, this diminishes after an onslaught of Ibuprofen and fresh air. On the way home they stop off at Sherwood Forest visitor centre, and marvel at how little fibreglass and plaster seven million pounds of Lottery money can buy. Then, disaster, Steve proves to be more toxophilogically accurate than Nick. The journey back to Cambridge is dark and gloomy, punctuated tersely by mutters of, "Gate, haha I saw it first" and "Apres moi - la deluge! Round and round...." .
They arrive - the holiday ends.

In Devon with The Gaters

On the Saturday I arrived home after a bike ride to find the flat redolent with perfume, it took me about three minutes to discover the source, the overflowing wellspring that used to be my kitchen sink, I was suffering what the powers that be call an "upsurge". The resultant upsurge in my adrenaline level surely scoured my arteries of any loosely clinging cholesterol plaques, hustled them through my cardiac vasculature and splattered them vicariously over my kidneys, so some good must have come of it. Then the usual round of phoning the council, pleading with the neighbours upstairs to stop doing anything aqueous, bailing the sink and swabbing the floor before the pool soaked through to the downstairs flat, rebailing the sink after the upstairs neighbours made an assumption after an hour and a half, sluicing down the surfaces with everything anti-bacterial. Trevor the plumber arrived, his wire was too short so he called "The ProTeam" telling them I was leaving at midnight to assure their arrival, the ProTeam's wire was long enough - just. I got to bed late.
I awoke to the stench of grease-soaked damp chipboard, from my experience a stench which diminishes slowly (very slowly) over the next three months. So, the usual:- start early (public transport's bound to be a mess) arrive at the pick-up point forty-five minutes early. A phone-call, had to go back for the coat, this however, allowed me to affirm which of the two pick-up points I should be at, the proper pick-up point, AKA muggers' paradise, or the "taxi and bus - only" pick-up point used by everyone else.
The road signs in Reading pointed us at the motorway, and then sat on their hands and hummed a little tune. This was obviously a ploy by the good burghers (sic) of Reading to allow everyone to enjoy the one way system (which we didn't) - extensively.

Motorway, motorway, motorway, to Yatton, where we paused to see Dave and wife Angela, and listen to extensive reminisces of things past, mainly about Bishop Vesey Grammar - a rather declasse Birmingham grammar school.
Onward to Ilfracombe with a minor error taking us the more interesting coastal route through Combe Martin. We then did the top half of Ilfracombe, if anything more extensively than we did Reading, in a vain attempt to find 2 Seaview. It was discovered eventually by asking an elderly man, who, with his dog, was, "Going for urination" we didn't stick around to find out how many and if it was exclusively canine.
We arrived and turned on the heating, rejigged the heating so that it was on for the next ten hours, had tea - cup of - and then started off for Town. Impelled purely by gravity we arrived at The Old Thatched Inn. A note about Ilfracombe: if one could harness potential energy, then Britain's energy problems could be solved at a stroke by moving a lot of "Bodies" out of town and then tapping into all that stored stuff. The men congregated at the bar of the "Thatch" had plainly been tapped, for several hours, so tapped, that they were forced to squander their reserves by falling into a taxi soon after we arrived. The StAustell Tribute was fine, slightly taken aback we had to double-check, then we strolled around the harbour to the the "Quay", ostensibly a Damien Hirst venture. I checked the menu, particularly the right hand side, and dug deep into my resources of calm and biting the monetary bullet. however it was good, so good that we had to celebrate in the "Thatch" on the way back.

Next day dawned for a couple of us, who, after tea, walked up the hill to Tesco, and bought breakfast. Then off to walk the coastal path to the Grampus at Lee Bay. We needed to follow the waymarkers, this being a National Trail the waymarkers were acorns, pretty unobtrusive acorns, acorns that had been laid down by people that had obviously had training in waymarking at Reading. Well, we found the way eventually, keep walking 'til your feet get wet, then go back a bit. On the cliffs it was windy with a fair amount of up and down, at this point the US "Birders" declared themselves unsatisfied with BOGs (Boring Old Gulls) I drew breath to launch into my speech about Birders (extracts available at "America - The End") - but refrained, however we did see a hummingbird hawk moth and (I'm convinced) a swallow, both a tad early, that'll be that Global Warming stuff that doesn't exist in Detroit.
We arrived at Lee, the Grampus wasn't there but we found it by asking in the Lee Bay Hotel, which was. The staff at the hotel were abjectly failing to cope with a small influx of customers at lunchtime, so I think it was with some relief that they pointed us in the right direction. The Grampus should have been shut as it was a Monday, fortunately it wasn't, I did wonder later if they had realised that it was, in fact, Monday. Lunch and slightly too much Doom Bar, followed by an immediate ascent of the combe leaving me grateful for my previous adrenaline scour.
A veritable plethora of acorns met us as we descended back into Ilfracombe.
In the evening we descended to the George for a pub dinner, which wasn't too bad, especially whilst eavesdropping on the League Pub Quiz Final, after we'd been sworn to not discussing the answers (name all the elements that do not contain any of the letters in their name in their symbol - Sodium - [Na] there's your starter). As Margie started to chat to them, mid-quiz, to congratulate them on their geographical knowledge of the States, Paul and I felt a pressing need to go outside and admire the plasterwork (Gold - [Au] that's another one).
Another pub, with an eyewatering aroma of toilet candy but with satellite TV (about the same in my opinion), in order to watch the Villa pound the opposition to a draw. On the way home we eschewed the Thatch figuring that raising all the carbohydrate we'd already consumed to the heady heights of Seaview was enough, without adding the eccentric sway of an unballasted pint.

Tea, croissant, in the car for a trip to Lynton, so that Paul could tour down childhood memory lane, and so that I could, sulk having brought past girlfriends here. The journey proceeded well with only a minor glitch, consisting of a sudden left hand turn. We were distracted by the appearance of a new narrow guage railway, and in particular Woody Bay Station, a mere three miles or so from Woody Bay. I managed to bark, "Left!", so authoritarian was my tone that the driver obeyed with such alacrity that Margie got to appreciate the suspension and the finer points of the seat belt. We then embarked down a road slightly narrower than the car, and slightly higher than Mount Everest, Margie and my minds slipped inevitably back to the time when Paul took a car skiing down a driveway in the Yorkshire Dales. Leadfoot's comment at the time, "I thought you were going to hit that!" (a large and venerable oak) underwent a slight reprise, "For God's sake hit something, other than the beach!". We made it however, and pulled into the Valley of the Rocks ( a valley - full of roc.... well I'm sure you get the picture), where we had a little stroll and admired the feral goats. Then onward to Lynton for another stroll. We were much taken with the map in the car park, particularly the red, "you are here" dot which appeared nowhere on the map apart from in the key, unless we were somewhere else I suppose.
Lynton and Lynmouth are a linked seaside resort, the latter being devastated by a flood in 1952, for information on the flood click here. We mooched and descended the zigzag path to Lynmouth where we perused the pre-flood model, then, being Ilfracombed out, we caught the funicular back up and wandered to the pasty and fudge shop to buy some of each. A quick drive later and we found somewhere with a nice view for lunch, (God I've turned into my parents). Then on to Doone Valley for the major walk of the day, sadly Paul's back let him down by the "terrible water slide" i.e. the inspiration for the instrument of Carver Doone's death, but we semi-ignored it (the back, even Barbie could have shot the "Terrible Water Slide" with impunity) and set off back to the car via the upper moor. Here we admired a red deer stag that wasn't admiring the hunt that seemed to be going on around it (hopefully a drag hunt rather than an illegal stag hunt. At the top we experienced some real Exmoor weather, hail, rain, wind and about 4 degrees Centigrade, before descending back to the valley floor and the car. The way back was uneventful if somnolent (for me).

In the evening we went to the Tapas Bar, some of which I can still find on various items of clothing, on the way back we had our final pint of Tribute in the Thatch, verdict: Still good. In the morning I revised my opinion of the Tapas Bar - several times!

We vacuumed and brushed and deplugged and washed and dried and stripped and packed and got in the car and left, and came back for my water bottle, which, being unassuming, hadn't made its presence felt during the packing. We went to Cheddar Gorge and had a trepidacious (for me) lunch, a stroll and a large cheese-buying session. A slight detour over the top of the Cheddar Plateau then a slow burn up the motorway to the choke of the M25 London Orbital. I was dumped (very nicely dumped - with hugs)on St Alban's High Street,as the Council had obviously taken signposting lessons from Reading, I eventually discovered the Station by getting in touch with my feminine side and using the ploy of asking. I arrived back at my dry but odiferous flat. To celebrate my safe return I drank the bottle of wine I'd carried down to and back from Devon, and slumped.
Thursday - let's not talk about Thursday.