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.
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.
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.
