Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Trailing through Derbyshire

A man is standing on a slope surrounded by trees, he is breathing hard, his heart is pounding, as are his knees. It is Nick and he seems to be in a similar position to the last time we saw him, but this time he is in this position of his own, rather than gravitational - ummm- volition.
It was Jerry and Gail's wedding, I had decided to take an extra couple of days and do some cycling on the three Derbyshire cycling trails that had been converted from railway lines, "At least that way there won't be too much gradient." I thought. As you can see, I was wrong, this represents the top of the half-mile second gradient, the first one being longer - a mile. I enclose my timetable for the first day, while it can't sum up the sheer beauty of the trip, in fact I started texting people (how modern) to tell them to get their bottoms saddle-conditioned and come up to Derbyshire.

09-55 Left London
12-25 Arrive Cromford
12-35 Arrive High Peak Junction (only approach to start of Cycle and Horse trail
via footpath!)
12-45 Change in toilets
13-05 Leave after Hot Chocolate and chat to Warden, watch his face crumple as I
mention the School Holidays starting in two days
14.05 Arrive Middleton Top after 2.5 miles - it was uphill - lots!
14-40 Leave Middleton Top after failing to find slow puncture, but sporting new tube
15-25 Stop for view from World's biggest bench and Almond Flapjack
15-30 to 17-30 Feel Sick
16-45 Arrive Hartington Station
16-50 Cruise down hill to Hartington Village - delirious!
16-55 Still cruising - glum, as I consider return!
17-00 Arrive Hartington
17-10 Arrive Hartington YHA only 200 yds from village - it is uphill.


The High Peak Trail was firstly a quarry line and later took passengers, after the first accident, passengers were made to walk up the inclines (as was I), as they used to say in those days "Eh up! Tis health and safety gone cuckoo." At one point the Trail passes a large factory, instead of ,"We're a large factory so bog off!", it features a series of plaques, telling the passing trail users, "This is what we make" This is why we're here. This is how we used to do it. This is what we do now." a real engagement with the passing community.



As I stand at the YHA reception I pick up a flyer, I read and discover that tomorrow, TOMORROW, is the start of Beer and Music Festival weekend, featuring 16 real ales, "Ho Hum".
"Do you want to eat here tonight?"
I contemplate the hill that I've just crawled up and consider 'ensconced' a positive.
"Yes, it says here ask about our selection of local cask ales."
"We haven't got any, we don't stock it in quiet times." A small cloud no bigger than a man's hand appears on the horizon.
"But you've got a beer festival tomorrow."
"We've got bottles," he indicates the gift packs on the shelves behind, "Wincl, that's a local one it's good!"
"OK."
I move to my cupboard and, via the shower, to the bar.
"No cask ale."
"No."
"What bottles do you have?"
"Just this one, Jennings Cumberland."
"But at Reception ..."
"Yeah you can buy the gift packs from Reception."
I contemplate the size of my saddle bags.
"I'll have one of those then."
I sit outside in the cooling evening, chatting to an elderly couple who are up with the family for Husband's 80th, it is they who tell me that this was the first Youth Hostel in the World - ever. After they go to meet the Family, I delve into a crossword by Paul (a traditionalist) and revel in the fact that my cupboard (comfier than my Austrian cupboard) is away from the thirty schoolchildren who have arrived.


The evening meal, slow-cooked lamb on the menu, and ubiquitous lamb shank on the specials board. I start:

"Goat's Cheese Parfait."
"Aha..."
"Slow-cooked lamb."
"That's not on because of the lamb shank."
"Lamb shank."
"Aha..."
"A bottle of the house red." (Stupidity bigger than stomach).
"OK."

The parfait arrives, and is dispatched. The lamb shank arrives with heavily-buttered vegetables, it has come from the most spindle-shanked lamb in Derbyshire, the normal cone of meat being replaced by a narrow cylinder, this is probably a blessing in disguise, reducing the meat burden by at least half.

"Everything alright?"
"Uhh."
"Sweet?"

I eye the remaining red wine and the menu. At the bottom of the hill I have spotted the legend, "Cheese Factory", personally I prefer "Cheese Maker".

"Plate of Local Cheeses?"
"Ah ! Ooh! I'll check. ..........

"We don't have any local cheese, we have Red Leicester, Brie and Cheddar."
"I'll pass thanks."

The 80 year-old party are treated to single malts by Dad, I listen to the list, and perk at Talisker.

"Anything else?"
"I heard you have Talisker...."
"Ah! Ooh! I'll check. .............
"We don't have a full measure of Talisker, It's nearly full, we'll give it you for two thirds of the price..."

I bed early. Let us review: Local beer, local beer fest on the morrow - Off.
Local cheese, local cheese factory 200 yds away - Off.

9.00 pm Nick in the bedroom cupboard, after a bottle of non-local beer, non-local wine and a just ran-out measure of whisky. And what is he doing? He is revelling in his packing skills, feeling that the presence of his statins could have been a good thing for both the goat and the lamb (something about hanging here), and that the presence of his toothbrush would have been equally useful, and not left him wondering what he had been doing with his forefinger.

FRIDAY

I awoke with a catchy throat, the sort of catchy throat that suggested I had been entertaining the rest of the building with my spirited rendition of "Sounds one might hear in the Zoo during a full moon, concentrating on the Feline, Ursine and Porcine, "Why, who is here in this first cage. Oh hello it's Old Leo, King of the Jungle!"

I breakfasted, contemplated where my forefinger may have rested overnight while giving my teeth a vigorous rub, vacillated, changed into my cycling gear, and was on the road before 9.00am, the road went uphill, and came creakily to a bridge spanning the trail. One tussle with a gap in the wall and a footpath later, and I was back on the trail, cycling towards the end of the High Peak at an ever-diminishing speed, and then across to the next trail on the Pennine Bridleway, thankful for the fact that I was up and could only go down. And go down I did, down a slippery, steep path to the Wye Gorge and the start of the Monsal Trail. Once again, an old railway trail, this time featuring tunnels rather than inclines.

The Monsal Trail weaves down the Wye valley and would be beautiful if it wasn't for the bloody trees, all those leaves obscuring everything. The tunnels are fun, lit and full of soot from steam trains, it is a gentle downhill glide all the way to Bakewell, where I buy a toothbrush, and then arrive at my B&B early. I shower and watch a whole raft of antique programs (programs about antiques), some I can identify with. Mein Hostess recommends the Manners pub for dinner. At seven I pocket a pen and a crossword and set off, I order beer and food and settle in a corner just down from the other couple who are ensconced, pencil in hand, in their papers. I give them a cursory glance, "Oh well"
"Ruth!" for it is she, my paramour for ten years, the only woman who understood my every word, my curly carrot-top cutie.
She stares quizzically at me, "No sorry."
"Begins with N."
"N.....no."
"I went out with you for ten years."
"Oh Nick! Hi. You've got new glasses!"

All visions and fantasies of life with Ruth vanish in a cathartic puff of smoke.

I meet the Toy Bo.... the new friend, and after eating we have a wander to another pub or two, then I return to my bed and fall asleep.

SATURDAY - WEDDING DAY

Full Derbyshire breakfast (egg, bacon, sausage, black pudding, mushroom tomato toast and marmalade. Oh and cereal, fruit salad, compote and yoghurt, and coffee), a mooch about town and the Farmers Market, then a stroll by the river to Ashford in the Water, where I sit in the pub, nursing a half, and wrestling with Paul ( I had been somewhat taken aback upon discovering that "unpleasant person" translated as "prick") and awaiting arrivals, and here they come. Sarah and Dave drive past and then arrive at the table and eye my suitlessness.
"Didn't you know it was informal?" I quip, somewhat uselessly in fact, as at that moment Ettie appears, elegantly tailored and with hat. This means my suit has arrived so I change and move on to the church, to usher.
Steve and I are a bit fazed, when the car turns up at two not the two-thirty that we both think the wedding's at. Fortunately it just drops off the junior Pirons who are acting as bridesmaids and page. More guests, the church fills, and fills, and fills. The car returns at the right time and unloads the happy couple ( the bride in shoulderless dove grey with a boned bodice and bolero jacket, plus a necklace that greatly appealed to the magpie in me ) who have decided to process together, the stress of the moment causes some confusion, the bride and groom are followed by the bridesmaids dispensing rose petals, oh well, they'll do for the way out.

There is a wedding, people get married, small children hurl themselves from pews, and are taken outside to sob away their pain. There is a reception affording great views of the Wye Valley, a quick lesson on the Pierce Arrow 1924 given by Eddie, and a degree of exasperation at the bar.

"Some wine Sir?"
"Two glasses of red please."
The white-gloved waiter takes a bottle of red from the neat row in front of him, carefully undoes the cap of the bottle, and reverently pours two glasses of wine, each time using both hands. He does up the cap of the bottle, returns it to its neat row and then slides the glasses across the tablecoth.
"Thanks."
"Thank you, Sir. Some wine Madam?"
"Two glasses of red please."
The queue elongates by the minute.

I leave early, feeling that weddings are for couples.
The next day, I repair yet another puncture and head back to the railway line that will take me home. As I'm early I stop off in Matlock Bath to wait for the train, after 30 minutes I have done Matlock Bath. I have never seen so many motor bikes and so many fish and chip shops in one place, the heady mix of hot oil and hot oil pushes me down the road to wait for the train at Cromford - full circle.

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

My Wurst Skiing Holiday



A man is flying through the air, both Steves watch amazed as his fluorescent orange hat disappears below the edge of the piste into the trees, it is Nick, what is going through his mind in these potential last moments of his life? Is it Carol's throaty, "Kiss them!", is it Jane's groan as he undoes her pyjama trousers, is it THAT journey in the conference bus? No, it is, "Look at them rocks, and them trees! I wonder which one I'll hit? Will this hurt?" Then - impact! A thwack to the right knee followed by a blessed cessation of downward travel - a pause - the dawning realization that everything seems to be intact, apart from the tree trunk under his right knee, that, is broken in two, probably because it's not new, had it been new he suspects the position may have been reversed. Looking about he realises that he can slide back down onto the piste where it comes round the bend, he doffs his skis and promptly drops through the snow crust onto another log, the four inch spike of branch that now sits two fingers width from being a pine suppository adds a note of caution to his continued descent. "If I was a cat I think I'd be down to about five now!" he thinks.
It is March and Nick has ventured on his biannual skiing trip, this time he is back in Mayrhofen with almost the same people as last time, it is day two, and he has been accompanying Steve down the bypass route that cuts off a steep section of red. He has relaxed sufficiently to enjoy the sensation of skiing, and to occupy most of the track, this is a mistake as he has just gently crossed the toes of his skis, lost balance, leant back, and hurtled into the void. But let us move back in time......

And so it begins with the Shipping Forecast, an arcane litany of pressure, direction and precipitation. A prognostication for the week to come perhaps. Nick is lying snug under his duvet, soon he will have to rise, shower, dress and set off down the hill to the station, trailing his case - like Pooh. The only thing that will lighten his mood during this travail, is the knowledge that the unholy row of suitcase wheels on tarmac will wake everyone else - he will not be alone in his semi-somnambulism.

A brief wait at the station and he is off, forging through the countryside with a carriage half-full of grey-faced dozers. The train from London Bridge to Gatwick has pneumatic suspension, my carriage (of course) has leaking suspension so that every bounce is accompanied by a shriek, as if a parrot was being - umm - goosed.

At the airport I find Steve Clunes and Liz, Steve decides that he will pioneer breakfast and venture into uncharted territory, consequently he has picked a Sausage and Egg McMuffin, something he will be reminded of for the next eight hours - repeatedly, I bask in the glory that is my Pret Chicken and Avocado.

We fly, we meet Caroline at the airport, she is relegated to a different coach, the system is placed in jeopardy if anyone decamps onto a different coach going to the same place. I find that I am in Landhaus Neuhaus. "Landhaus" ...."Landhaus" rings a bell. I finish exploring my shoebox (a single room that incurs a single supplement), manage to finagle the door of the balcony open, and remember that "Landhaus" means farm. I remember specifically when, as I emerge on the balcony, a man emerges from the barn opposite with a wheelbarrow full of ordure, which he empties on the pile that composes my view. I listen, and let the miasma drift over me (the prospect of a sit on the balcony, composing this blog, evaporates), now let me see, I think the barn contains definitely pigs, but there may be some cows in there.

We eat, our waitress is Melinda from Hungary with whom Clunes goes into overdrive, sadly let down by the fact that he thinks that everyone who comes from Hungary, and who's name begins with "M" is called Marta. We drink and then head for our bed-in-a-box. As always, the room is overheated, normally I would open a window but this would invite in the farmyard. As I drift I'm taken back to my primordial egg in the incubator, as I struggle out of the duvet I realise that if someone had rolled a football past at that moment, I would be trotting behind it, calling it "Momma".

At 5.30 a.m. the pork chorus begins, interrupting my already interrupted sleep, and tipping me into the shower a mere ninety minutes later. As always we had agreed to meet for breakfast at time "X", as always I am alone. Still I get my own back by changing my boots over a period of half-an-hour. Eventually we assemble and head off to the slope, where, later we will meet Steve Two.
"Let's go over there." is suggested, and off we go, well at least I do, the others wilfully, WILFULLY, go the wrong way, and are rewarded with a walk, I however, fail in my attempt not to look superior. We return, I am knackered and after my shower, apply Ralgex in large quantities, I am red from the waist down! More eating, some sleeping.

At 5.30 a.m. the pork chorus begins, interrupting my already interrupted sleep and tipping me into the shower a mere 110 minutes later. Breakfast is a quiet and lonely affair, but, this being Austria I manage to eschew all caffeine, and any struggling in and out of salopettes for the first three hours of the day. Eventually we reach the ski room and the Smell of Skiing. The heady aroma that greets you when you enter the ski room. the sweaty and sometimes unwashed feet of Europe, later in the week this will be tempered with linaments - various.

Some Conversation:

C "I've lost all my fucking money!"

"How?"

C "Must've fallen out of my fucking pocket when I got the fucking camera out to take a fucking photo'!"

"Oh"

C "Fuck!"

"Mmm. Oh look here's Liz."

C "Hi Liz, I've lost all my fucking money!"

Chorus "Have you checked all your pockets?"

C "Of course I've checked all my fucking pockets!"

"Have you checked that one?"

C "YES!"

"That one?"

C "Which one? No. Oh! Steve how much do I owe you for that coffee?"

Clunes "Where's my camera!?"

"Have you checked your pockets?"

We found it in the lining mesh, which Clunes thought was a pocket.

Liz had meanwhile turned herself into an instructor and had declared that in order to get our weighting right that we should adopt the posture of a gorilla. My mind, as it will, immediately flicked to the fact that Guy the Gorilla (a main attraction at London Zoo) only had a penis one inch long. Looking down some of the slopes, so did I.

Eating, drinking.

At 5.30 a.m. the pork chorus begins, interrupting my already interrupted sleep and tipping me into the shower a mere 130 minutes later. Zell-am-Zimmer, what happens at Zell-am-Zimmer is this: You arrive and catch the bubble lift to the top, then you ski away from Zell as fast as you can to Gerlos, where you have a drink. Wise folk drink caffeine free, others drink Coke. Then you ski down to the queue from Hell and fight with other skiers. Ascend, at this point Coke drinkers announce that they need a pee so you descend back to the cafe you just left, followed by another bout in the queue from Hell, then you have to ski back to Zell but now, due to the queue from Hell, so does everyone else. Eating, drinking.

At 3.30 a.m. the pork chorus begins, interrupting my already interrupted sleep and tipping me into the shower a mere 130 min.... Wait a minute! At 3.30 a.m. a large truck turns up outside my window and the pigs start screaming. The 5.30 pork chorus is diminished in volume.
The rest of the day my diary sums up as, "A pile of shit!". We went to the glacier, it was very cold - in oh so many ways.

The next day, Clunes announces, "Oh, I'm skiing with my flies undone." Nick finds a place to pull over and suggests that he, Clunes, " Might like to make a few adjustments."
"Good idea Nick!"
He takes his helmet off and repositions his goggles, faffing to get the strap behind the strap retainer.
"Don't you want to do your flies up?"
"Oh!"
In the afternoon it was 21 degrees, not the best skiing temperature, the ascents by chairlift were all accompanied by the merry sound of streams in spate, by 3.00 clock the snow had turned to porridge, headily laced with kerosene from the snow cannons.

Friday we returned to Zell.

Saturday we returned home.