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.

America - The End

We got up and stumbled bleary eyed into the dawn ("Woss happenin'? Oh, I'm at Camp!"), shovelled down some toast and cereal and a dramamine, built sandwiches and filled water bottles. Why dramamine? This was whale watching day and we were about to spend several hours on the Pacific. Warm clothes packed, and we set off for the marina, as we got to the coast we could see the restless Pacific. It was not a surfing day, the Pacific for once, was. The flat sea stretched away into the fog, the surface only broken by a pelican feeding frenzy, elsewhere it was mirror smooth. I rued scoffing the dramamine, $5.00 down the drain and probably totally uneccessary given my Island Heritage (IH).
We arrived and met up with Susan our naturalist, who while we were waiting for the boat asked the question,
"Any Birders?"
Margie, "Yeah!"
Paul and Nick, "!"
Nick, "I say Old Chap, spot of interestin' tarmac over there. Check it out?"
Paul, "Rather"
There was a Birder, he was dressed head to foot in matching North Face Gear and sported a beard, a beanie, and some expensive binoculars. His brain was wired up as Birders brains are, any speck floating disdainfully three miles from the boat would be spotted, identified, sexed, aged and catalogued before anyone else could raise their bino's, let alone fiddle with the focussing bits.
Our boat arrived, and with it Captain Tom, and Engineer Den, it was obviously a bit early for Den, as his teeth were missing, sadly talking about such things as sea-lions, Stellar's Sea-Lion, ceteceans, sea and surf would be challenging for him - and us. We climbed nimbly (IH) aboard and set off, Captain Tom regaling us with nautical niceties over the Tannoy, such as, "If you have to throw up do it over the side." I nearly added, "To leeward." but refrained, no-one likes a smart arse.
We passed under the Golden Gate bridge, a relatively rare occurrence and one that bestowed a wish, or so Tom said. I debated, it was an agonising choice between seeing some whales or ever having sex again, for the sake of my fellow passengers, I eventually plumped for the former.
Outside the Golden Gate we hit a very small swell, mainly due to a shallow sea, this was the Potato Patch, so-called as quite a few of the ships servicing the 49'ers lost their deck cargo here, the deck cargo being - potatoes. Here also, we passed a small pod of porpoises, this was felt to be a good sign. Then we turned towards the Farallon Islands, at some point my IH came to the fore and I stood at the prow, at one with the Ocean and its vagaries, balancing deftly on the balls of my feet and allowing my supple knees to absorb the movement of the boat, my hands lightly gripping the rail, my nostrils flaring at the scent of the salt spray, my heroic profile raking the horizon with my hawkl......
"Can you move please we can't see."
"Oh ummm ... sorry."
We all raked for a bit but no whale showed a fluke, so we went to the islands instead, there were a lot of birds and a lot of sea-lions. some of the Sea-lions climbed up about fifty feet above the tide level, I'm still yet to find out how, unless they had been stranded during post-glacial melt. Suddenly, great excitement (GE) Mr North Face had spotted something, "Tufted Puffin!" There were two, they were quite cute.
A sad tale; originally this trip was to spot Blue Whales, which feed on Krill, a cold water shrimp, there ain't no krill as the water's too warm, but there are a lot of bait fish, hence Humpback Whales. The Puffin have failed to breed for the last few years as bait fish are too big for the chicks to swallow and consequently they starve to death, despite frantic attempts at force-feeding by Ma and Pa.
After a quick history lesson, and an aquatic mooch about, we left the Farallons and their bloody annoying Guano flies, and headed off into the Pacific to look for Whales. Several times porpoising sea-lions (I can't help it, that's what they call it, even penguins porpoise) caused a momentary hiatus, the porpoising looks like joi-de-vivre but is probably something more natural (as in red in tooth and claw, natural) like avoiding shark attack.
The we found two Humpbacks, both adult, about 40 foot plus, we watched them for a bit till GE reckoned that there was one breaching on the horizon, we skedaddled over, he was right (sadly). There were three more and the juvenile with them had obviously been at the tartrazine, he even breached twenty feet from the boat, I, of course, heard, "WOW!" splash.
We moseyed on looking for more, I was sat at the front when some big fins started to go past, "Hmm? there aren't supposed to be Orca here." I thought.
"Risso's Dolphin!" GE.
Rareish, squid eaters, no beak, lots of squid scars.
We started for home, bathed in cetecean glory.
"Rhinoceros Auklet!"
"Pink-Legged Shearwater!"
"BlueWhale!"
A minor sensation this, first one of the year etc. Margie agreed she'd seen something that wasn't a Humpback, it was at this point I asked Paul if she'd ever been Headgirl.
The journey back was somnolent, GE, resuming scanning the horizon when he discovered;
A. That Margie was married.
B. That her husband was on the trip.
C. That the couple of chicks next to him were just that, a couple.

As we re-approached the Golden Gate I wondered if the wish idea worked both ways, now what to wish for? "Sex" or "Sex in a meaningful relationship".

We harboured, and climbed back into the car, mindful of the need to re-hydrate after our lengthy time at sea (there was coffee on board, brewed by Den, but it wasn't very liquid) it was agreed to head for a suitable hostelry. Sadly the complex grid system of San Francisco proved too much for the driver so we ended up in the Half Moon Bay Inn. We decided to snack,
"Oysters please?"
"Run out, sorry."
"Artichokes?"
"Yup."
They arrived, deep fried and breaded, ho hum.
"Pint of Great White,please?"
Sound of dry pump.
"Run out....sorry."
"Fat Tire?"
"Yup."
It arrived, dark and malty, ho hum.

We went home a(Hi! I'm back! Now let's see... don't tell me. Salt, hint of guano, diesel, thrice brewed coffee and the merest trace of... hmmm...Dramamine. Add to that the overlay of adrenaline, fish, pinnipeds and cetecea. No - haven't a clue. Where you been?)nd ate a highly civilised meal, before a comparitively early night, due to my early morning flight. I slept, the bed didn't move(IH).

U(Bye, missing you already!")p. Then up and away via Philly. I was talked to on the way back - she liked my accent.

America - Still there

I got up, today was back to town and a trip to Alcatraz, well why not. After br("Your left testicle weighs 13 grams, about average, and is slung marginally lower than your right, all quite normal. I had testicles once...I think")eakfast Margie took me back to Linda Mar and I caught the bus to the train. From Market I walked over the top of the hills via Powell. On the way I passed by the cable car museum, which is also the place where the cables get turned through 90 degrees, so that they run under the street, all quite fascinating, if you like big wheels. On the way out I met an exclusively Chinese school crossing the road, cute, in a monoracial sort of way. I stopped at Safeway to pick up some provisions before joining the queue for the ferry, on the other side I ate my lunch while the crowds moved off up the hill, the jalapeno and cheese bread being excruciatingly delicious. Hmm Alcatraz, what can I say, well it's ok if you like concrete, it used to be a prison, ten foot by six foot is quite small, there's a lot of wind, there's a good view of San Francisco, no one was ever executed there (they shipped them out to San Quentin)? The audio tour delivered such humanitarian goodies as, "There were rules saying that the windows in the doors of solitary confinement had to be left open, but we ignored that." No wonder Clint wanted to escape. To be fair it was quite interesting in a punitive sort of way.
From Alcatraz, back to the mainland, and an ancient tram back to Market, where I strolled down to the Caltrain station to venture out to Burlingame, where Paul was having a tonsorial makeover, we were due to meet in the Steelhead Brewery before heading off to try a new "mediterranean style" (aka Turkish) restaurant ( a digression: this is the only country where the humble and drunkenly delicious doner kebab, pretends to be Mexican, living [and some of them are, believe me] under the name of Gyros ). I arrived and went upstairs on the train - for the view. As we left the Attendant announced what we were on, where we were going, what we could do when we got there, and finally made a plea to keep cell phone calls to oneself, as not everyone else necessarily wanted to know what you obviously thought they should. The click of the mike button was immediately followed behind me with, "HI BOB! I'M CALLING YOU ON YOUR CELL!" Would Bob be surprised, would he do a double take as the thing in his hand spoke to him, or would he just roll his eyes and mutter such things as, "Fatuous oaf." under his breath. I know which I did.
The Bombay IPA was delicious but a little strong, the meal was passable, as was the topshelf Margarita, the journey back was through fog, no, it was.
Thursday, I got up mo("Why do you think I've got this bald patch on the top of my nose")oched about for a bit and then leapt into the car with Margie for a trip to Ano Nuevo. We parked and strolled through the park to the beach, the grass was speckled with the brilliant scarlet of Indian Paintbrush, the pond speckled with small waders ("Virginia Rail?" I thought) and the sea... the sea was speckled with something, sometimes a triangle of something, sometimes five somethings like a particularly irregular pentagon. A quick squint through the binoculars confirmed my diagnosis, yep, definitely blobs of some sort, actually incredibly cute furry blogs (unless you're a clam) - sea otters, eventually three. Much bouyed by their appearance we pointed them out to various passersby, whilst loaning out the bins to their offspring (loaning out bins to children usually means that various bits of sky leap suddenly into focus, closely followed by various bits of grass which leap out). Eventually we decided to be less smug and carried on down the path, merely spotting an osprey passing, carrying a fish about the same length as itself, presumably giving it a quick tour of a new environment.
Eventually we arrived back at the shore and were fielded by a docent who walked us towards a pile of somnolent flesh, these were Elephant seals, mainly juvenile males, having a moulting session.
How to moult as a post-puberty Elephant Seal (male):
1. Swim to the shore and caterpillar your way above the tideline, some of your skin will be abraded by pebbles.
2.Lie still.
3.If you can afford to spare the energy you may scratch.
4.Eye opening is optional.
5.Other seals may sometimes climb over you, abrading your skin.
6.You may have to turn over occasionally, this is a chore.
7.In about a month's time, girls will arrive and you may be motivated by strange urges, you need to suppress these, otherwise people three times your size will try and bite your head off, some of your skin will be abraded.

The docents took us to within 25 metres of these lardpiles. 25 metres because thats the distance when they run out of steam, 20 metres and you're acting as a lubricant ! Just offshore there was a female sealion, waiting for us to go so that she could come ashore to die, her tail had been taken off, probably by a Great White. I decided against a paddle.

We returned, with me being dropped at Safeway, to buy some goodies, Mexican drinking chcolate, some Jelly Belly beans, that sort of stuff. In the ("Jelly Belly my favourite!") bedroom I decided to sneak a few beans, Rocket decidedto sneak a few more when my mind wandered for a moment.

It was my turn to cook, I chopped, I ground, I marinaded, I caused catastrophic kitchen covering by adding the mustard seed to the oil when it was too hot, I've seen blast furnaces produce less spelter. The tikka was pronounced a success, as were the gin and tonics.

Friday, and I was being left in charge of the d("I smell fear")og I had to take him for a walk before bussing into town. I got the lead and Rocket got excited. ("Aha, the fear-fouled one is taking me, Rocket AKA the Terror of Terriers, Punisher of Poodles and the Lash of Lickspittle Labradors, walkies! Nice. Let's go!
Hey Bub less with the, "Heel!" stuff, I'm strutting!
What's that twenty five degrees to port, some sort of wrapper, check length of slack, nonchalantly walk past and DIVE!
Got it, hahaha!
No Lead Boy, it is mine, your weak fingers cannot pry this prize from my mighty jaws. There, it is gone.
Onward!
But Lo! Mine enemy and his two enfeebled owners! I roar, my rage is all consuming, tremble at my voi... Ouch! OK, keep your hair on.
Now keep an eye out for likely low lying shrub. There's some! Adopt the position, strain... such relief! Why, I smell adrenaline, and what's that keening noise? It's Lead Boy. Whassamatter? Ahh you want the prize of my leavings, like the others, you will wrap them in sacred wrappings and deposit them in the Vault.
The Castle now looms, the Terror of Lesser Canines returns to his Ancestral Seat.
C'mon give us some peanut butter.
Ta, I like you.")

I caught the bus, fretting that we would miss the connection as we were late, when we pulled into the terminus I dismounted, alone, my fellow passengers sitting firmly in their seats, the connection was nowhere to be seen and I began to curse. After a while I watched the driver of my previous bus change the number and become the connection, I cursed and handed over the new fare while failing to make eye contact with my erstwhile travel mates.

In Town I was looking for an outdoor shop, REI, I knew it was on Brannon near the centre of Town, I strolled down 7th and, at Brannon, peered in both directions, all I could see was the Fashion Center, I set off towards the Bay. Forty minutes later I had a great view of the Bay Bridge from underneath, I moved one block northwest onto Bryant on the grounds that it began with B, and walked back to 7th, pausing to investigate the yellow pages dangling in a booth, nope. Depressed I mooched back to Market, with a brief (very) diversion into the Tenderloin (so named because that's what you end up with). On Market I found a sports shop, "Do you have....?"

"Only in Winter"

"Any ideas?"

"Try REI."

"?"

"8th and Brannon."

There was some fulmination, as I limped out onto Brannon and turned left, the Fashion Center sign winked at me, the REI sign was set back from the road, I fulminated some more and then went to purchase. I had had enough, I returned, missed the bus connection by 10 seconds, got to Linda Mar an hour later and phoned (with trembling lip) for a lift.

In the evening we we("Hi nice to have you back, whatever it was I ate doesn't seem to have done me any harm. Your feet smell sore.)"nt to the Yacht Club(not for the glamour, just has the cheapest beer in town). At one point the Commodore, well, a man wearing a cap, came for a chat, and I was introduced as "the Brit". It was one of those occasions where the neurones fired a little late.

"Do I detect a trace of an accent?"

"Ohh umm ha ha ha!" when what I meant to say was, "God forbid!"

From the club to Mezza Luna and a competent Italian meal then home for an early night, as, come the dawn, we had to get on a boat and watch some whales.

America - Trees and Sh*t. Dedicated to Jerry.

It was Monday, I got up, showered, and got dressed before ("Ooh minty!") preparing breakfast in the middle of the breakfast bar where it was dogproof. I had summoned up courage and decided to go into town - on the bus and the train. Margie gave me a lift to Linda Mar, where I bravely caught the bus to Daly City, where I bravely caught the BART. In the City it was sunny but with a cool breeze blowing in from the sea, the top of the Golden Gate obscured by fog. "What a great burning combination!" I thought, remembering the suntan lotion lounging in my suitcase.
I hoiked out the guide and riffled through to find the "Downtown Walk", the book, Lets Go San Francisco, I had bought from the remainders box in a bookshop, as I now consulted it I discovered it to be, "The Budget Conscious Traveller's Guide" something I hadn't noticed before - honest, though it did explain the directions to walk everywhere. I started out, looking for the cartoon museum - moved, the fortune cookie shop in Chinatown - moved, Jack Kerouac's bookstore - moved, Lyle Tuttle's tattoo museum - a lot can happen in five years. The big bits of architecture fortunately proved immutable, I enjoyed the Yerba Buena Arts Centre initially for its post-breakfast-coffee rest rooms and later for the Martin Luther King Jr Memorial (the aqueous nature of which leads inevitably back to the restrooms). The memorial consists, finally, of a waterfall, representing the change in the Black Man's enfranchisement - drips to waterfalls. Sadly the memorial is made of granite so that the waterfall is never going to get noticeably bigger which, equally sadly, feels apposite.
On to Chinatown, moving rapidly through the main tourist section with it's OTT objet's d'art (I though ivory importation was illegal) and tat stores, full of fans, fireworks, buddhas and lucky kittys, to Chinatown proper and shops full of soon-to-be-unlucky frogs, soon-to-be-unlucky catfish, previously unlucky chickens and the like. I turned a corner - Italy. Hang on, turn back - China, go left - Italy, how strange.
Popped into the art school and checked out the Rivera at the San Francisco Art Institute, something that should remain there 'til the Big One.
After the sublime, the ridiculous, I arrived at Fisherman's Wharf, how shall I sum it up? Ooh, Rainforest Cafe, Hard Rock Cafe, T shirt shops that sort of thing. I gave up, caught an antique tram (not a cablecar) which wheezed up to Market and then did the reverse journey with an extra bus thrown in. During the wait for the transfer I went into the Linda Mar Safeway and experienced a strange deja vu, it was familiar but wrong, I eventually sorted it out, it was identical to Half Moon Bay but inverted, so that the pickles were where the bread should be and so on, how dare they non-standardise their stores, I mean if it was on the other side of the equator I could understand it!
I arrived back (You've been through Chinatown, and had a strange experience in Safeway), we had a quiet night in.

It was Tuesday, I rose and had bre (Your inside leg measurement is twenty nine inches) akfast then Margie took me to Purissima Creek Preserve, showed me a path and said, "See you in six hours."
Purissima Creek is a mixed Douglas Fir and Coastal Redwood forest, the Redwoods were logged out about 100 years ago when they were cut and then dynamited into convenient chunks to put on the railroad for Redwood City. Over the past 100 years, new growth of "Daughter Trees" has taken place, so that as you wander through the forest you become aware of tree boles about fifteen feet across sprouting (if one can use that on this scale) several five foot diameter, 150 feet tall siblings. The original forest must have been truly awe-inspiring, sadly the sort of awe that said, "Shee-it look at all that there wood. There's a powerful lot of planks to be sawed outta them thar trees.".
The path climbed up into the fog (yes fog) heading up for the North Ridge where there "are fantastic views over Half Moon Bay" today there was a view of the fog, however my disappointment was tempered by the sight of a Banana Slug (the world's second largest slug) followed by finding a lizard's tail on the path. Lizards shed their tails when being chased as a diversionary tactic or possibly a consolation prize, I found the tail but no lizard, so it looked like the tactic had failed this time. As I moved back into the woods the sun came out, actually I think I climbed above the fog, it was balmy, I slipped into my shorts, crossed the peak and started off down another trail. Not being the nervous type, stoic Brits and all that, I decided not to worry about Poison Ivy (probably cos I was on the West Coast), Poison Oak and Diamond Back Rattlers, consequently when a humming bird flew behind me at knee level I only yelped a small amount, rather than the full blown scream of lesser mortals.
The path contoured down and round the mountain, diving back into the trees. Naturally as I contoured down and round the mountain the fog receded before me, no doubt revealing fantastic views of Half Moon Bay, though it did allow me to see more trees. It was about this point that disaster struck,and the elastic on my underpants gave up (some of you may realise that this is a not uncommon experience for me, my pants being of a certain age), so it was that I continued with, perhaps, a more refreshing outlook on life. A mile before the finish I saw my first human, I think I ruined his day too.
I returned to the Gaterpad and (Your elastic's gone!) pottered in the garden before settling for a doze in the sun. Rocket also settled for a doze, finding the one strip of sunlight (there was a yardful to choose from) that was Rocket width and sunned his belly.
In the evening we went to The Half Moon Bay Brewhouse it being $2.50 Tuesday where we met up with Pat and Liz, a couple that I'd subjected to the Nixco Ye Olde Pubbe Tour (now booking) and their two children, Nathan and Grace. The kids went hyper on root beer and I went hypo on the IPA. Later we ate, I had the Baby Back Ribs, half a pig smothered with a trickle of cooling BarBQ sauce with cold garlic mash on the side, they seemed to be having an off day. However, I soldiered on, knowing full well that I had several hours of sleep in which to digest it and partake of the lurid dreams such digestion engendered. My favourite was where I told someone off to inject a little humility into their life (a Doctor - naturally), and then walked across the water to work.
Tomorrow, back to town and Alcatraz.

America - Being there.

NATURE
Rosy-fingered dawn had touched the sky, somewhere above the fog, I surfaced through a fog of my own and sought solace in the shower. When I emerged, swathed in a towel, Rocket came and gave me his greeting, in fact he gave me this greeting at every available opportunity. What was it with this animal, had he been a sniffer dog for testicular cancer, was he attempting to induce some sort of psychological trauma, or was my crotch the canine equivalent of Kleenex?
"For those annoying little sniffles - try NIXCROTCH! Nixcrotch is mansize and comes in a variety of smells and textures, try Earlyamnude and really wake up the neighbours! Yup, try Nixcrotch today - as recommended by Fido, Rocket, Rover and Patch." After that he came and ate my breakfast when I wasn't looking! I mooched about, admiring the way the hummingbirds ignored the feeder, and made a mental note to grub up the fuschia should I ever move to the States. Then we took Rocket, a round, surfeited, Rocket off to "camp", before heading back to Safeway for supplies. I love American supermarkets for two reasons, firstly the enormous range of stuff they have and (sort of) secondly the vast variety of crap they have, like completely fat- and cereal-free cereals.
In the afternoon I made myself useful, I built soup, a sandwich lunch, watered the plants and had a nap. Paul arrived fresh(?) from work, so we loaded the car and headed off along Highway One to Point Reyes. This means crossing the Golden Gate Bridge (tick) and then hanging a left at Marin City where Highway One turns into a road that Wales would be boast of, it twists, it dives and swoops, it dives its head in its armpit, I was proud of it. Brief stop at Bolinas Lagoon,
Passenger, " Cor look at all those, wonder what they are?"
Supposed Birders, "Pelicans!"
Passenger, "Nope I meant the 5000 other things, wheeling around the sky in those patterns so loved by chaos theory people, the groupings and partings forming shapes that Escher would have died for."
Supposed Birders, "?"
Passenger, "Those!" points.
SB's, "Oh!"
I don't think we found out, maybe terns.
Onward to our residence for the next two nights, An English Oak (I've linked it so that you can revel in its tweeness, I wouldn't recommend it) where we installed and tried the breakfast cookies before hightailing it to bar for steak and oysters and Lagunitas IPA (recommended - in medium doses, let's put it this way, on the way home, Paul slipped into the ditch, well I say ditch, Paul slipped into the gulch - about forty foot deep and two hundred and fifty feet wide, apparently he didn't see it, though he did stop after six feet or so, thanks to the large patch of brambles. A welcome import from the Old Country, as I pointed out as we inspected the damage, I thought his response somewhat terse). And so to bed.
Still digesting, I had the remains of my breakfast cookie and headed out to sip, slightly stale coffee while contemplating the Zen Garden, I knew it was a Zen Garden because it had a hand-painted sign, propped on a stone (not representing an island, unless it was a small one with a big sign on it) telling us that it was. It also had a Japanese Lantern and a Japanese Bird Table (?), it did have gravel though, sort of, have a look at the picture and you'll see.
Then off to the Port Reyes Station and the Earthquake Trail where we read all the boards and learned that the area was prone to earthquakes because of tectonic plates and the subduction zone where the Pacific Plate dives under the North American Plate, damn careless if you ask me. After that we zoomed up to Pierce Point, a backbone of rotting granite supported on what seems to be windblown sand and other sediments so that the severely cut gulches are marbled and fluted.Here we had a wander down the path while being serenaded by Bull Elks bugling to attract the girls with their somewhat wheezy prowess (they sound a bit like me with 'flu'). Bull Elk run harems, the older males coralling in the cows to make their own private mating herd. However, such are the ups and downs of the mating game that the whole thing tends to run like a student disco. At the edge of the herd you'll see the adolescent males, strutting their stuff along invisible boundaries, trying to attract the odd wayward cow, some of them lurk in the undergrowth with just their antlers visible. Occasionally a cow will wander from one harem, ignore the bull who's trying to chase her back, and end up in the harem next door, leaving the bull attempting to look like he doesn't care. Sometimes whole harems decamp and head off for the bull who obviously has a car and might buy you cocktails, leaving their previous boyfriend to stand dejectedly in the middle of the dancefloor, antlers scraping the ground, trying not to shed unbully tears. As we walked along the spine we were kept pace by Turkey Vultures who cruise looking for carrion, they found some this day in the guise of a dead sea-lion on the beach, however there were only three hardy souls in attendance - everyone else being, presumably, on a low sodium diet. Scattered along the paths, were Docents, unpaid experts who will tell you about stuff if you ask and will let you look through their telescope (very docent of them). It being a wildlife sort of day we agreed that the occasional dollop of non-elk crap on the path must be that of mountain lions, who live there taking advantage of an elk diet. We had a mercifully small lunch, watching the disco and doing the odd bit of birding, Paul won with a raptor of some sort (a black-shouldered kite, apparently), then wandered back to the car, avoiding stepping on the snake on the way.
A quick whizz down the road, then out for more nature at Abbot's Lagoon, where we used our combined birding skills to identify firstly Pied-billed Grebe, and then an immature Moorhen as the Virginia Rail that the docent had told us was there, before heading off to the coast, past hills reminiscent of the cellulite-dimpled buttocks of mature ladies (well, I could see it, the others struggled with the concept). The coast held a mixture of Pelicans and one Blue Heron (resembling a badly put together feather duster, I wonder if this is camouflage?
Natured out we high-tailed it to the Old Western Saloon, following in the footsteps of Charles and Camilla. The Great Western Saloon is a pub, pure and simple, well when I say pure - the carpet is a pub carpet, thick, stiff and redolent with sins and spills past, made more potent with the ban on smoking. We watched the barman chew his way through a series a bar snacks, only drawing the line at the Demon Dog, a sausage about the same thickness and colour of a firecracker and, we suspected, with the same kind of oral punch. However, it was the ingredients that put him off, the phrase "mechanically-recovered meat" and his suspicion that the Dog was only made from the extreme front and rear ends of the cow, I had a chaw of jerky, it's made of steak.
Back to the "cottage" for a shower, where I discovered my towels to have the same degree of freshness as the Old Western carpet, resulting in two showers and a dry on a spare handtowel, no mean feat some of you may think. Then back to Port Reyes and the Station Cafe, for salmon fishcakes (somewhat drowned in oriental herbs and spices) followed by seared baby backribs - baby here being more of a PIGLET than a piglet. I pigged out on a pig. The couple next to us troughed their way through two bowls of clams whose aphrodisiac qualities became more self-evident throughout dinner. The size of the dessert however, may have put paid to any of the more energetic, umm, roistering. We returned with a chicken breast about the size of one of the ones barely contained next door, and a half bottle of wine, which we drank.
DRIVING
After a breakfast of Costco peach yoghurt (the cheapest) and some coffee we hit the deli in Port Reyes and watched Margie rack up an impressive collection of expensive cheese followed by an impressive collection of expensive vegetables for me to buy, the twitch abated after thirty minutes or so. Then we offed to a breakfast of polenta cake in a layby/pullover overlooking the Tomales Bay (1 Heron - Blue, 3 Egrets- Great, several Cormorants - varied - in a panic). The polenta cake was fine. The off, over the hills to Bodega Bay where The Birds was filmed for a quick stop at the harbour (Pelican- Brown, Bittern - American, Lion - Sea) before heading on to Russian River (discovered by Russians) where we flicked from coastal heathland to Coastal Redwood. The road was in a bit of a state having had several "washouts" (I think these are landslides, I myself, have had several washouts but I think they involved women) so that the river was hidden behind large concrete barriers - and holiday homes.
We motored on - popping out of the forest and being drawn into some strange kind of gravity well centred round the Sonoma valley (reknowned for its wine-making apparently). And so it was that we turned up at the Iron Horse Winery, in fact at the tasting bench. Now I'm interested by the choice of Iron horse by My Hosts as the vineyard (that's what we call them in Europe) was much favoured by Ronald Reagan (who was not much favoured by MH) but perhaps they didn't do red then. Sadly the picnic area was shut, so that all we could do was taste the stuff, quel horreur! Wine was delivered at breakneck speed by a rather gushy girl whos delivery was not impeded one jot by her piercings - I decided to call her Mildred. The sauvignon blanc drew the most comment, who would have thought that the addition of 1 % viogner could turn this friuty refreshing, rather spritzy w....
So, no picnic spot, what to do, for me, quaff wine number 13 and slide back into the car for a trip to the next winery with a picnic spot, down the road. Anyway I think that's what we did, after being forced to taste theirs we sat outside for a very late lunch and a modicum of picnic rose, the cheeses lived up to their price. Then back in the car and a trawl through the rush hour back to Half Moon Bay, where we were met by Rocket ("99% sauvignon blanc and 1% viogner, interesting, I'll bet it took some of the zing out. And speaking of zing, I say those towels! What were you thinking?") in the usual manner. We had just enough energy to fling the steak on the broiler (or gas-powered barbecue) and eat it with some wine, before an early night.

America - Getting there

I flew from Gatwick. In the light of enhanced security (this was two weeks after the arrests for potential bombings - this time liquid, severely denting duty free sales, lucky I sold my BAA shares) I arrived three hours before takeoff, I was inside the Departure Lounge within an hour. Amazingly, the Great British Public had taken notice of the restrictions, and arrived with the bare minimum, gobsmacked I had a coffee to give me takeoff jitters.

Once upon a time I went flotilla sailing in Turkey. The nice lady (well an Irish flibbertigibbit) said,
"There's a bit of a problem with your boat, the mechanic's working on it now. Come with me and I'll buy you a beer."
So we sat, in the shade of a thatch umbrella. As time wore on and the sun went down, a host of fairy lights came on under the umbrellas - I'm sorry, all the umbrellas except one, this set the pattern for the week.

Aircraft gained, I sat in my seat, listening glumly to the announcement that we were waiting for the TSA to give us clearance - about ninety minutes, then we missed our slot - about thirty minutes. I had decided to read, and inserted a digit into the button marked with a bulb, I was not illuminated. I vigorously poked the button with various digits in case size was a deciding factor, my gaze roamed around the plane spotting small constellations of lights.
We took off, after some time, I foolishly allowed my eyes to roam again, everyone was glued to the seatback in front of them wherein the video lurked. I turned mine on, and got a rather nice collection of stripes, I tried the one next to mine (it was a quiet flight, something to do with getting blown up I think) - more stripes, different pattern. The LED display on the armrest read E9, I came to the conclusion that this meant "Error 9 -I'm totally f*cked". So I moved to another empty seat nearby and managed to watch one film at a slightly obscure angle, so that it became less of a film noir and more of a film chiaroscuro, with head-bobbing.
As we taxied into Charlotte NC I had the pleasure of watching my connecting flight take off. In the UK this would have been a disaster involving, taxis, trains, other airports, tears and tantrums, in the US you just get on the next plane. So it was that they let me into the country, failed to find my undeclared farinaceous comestibles, and took my luggage to put on the flight due to leave in 30 minutes. I got out my instructions for using the phonecard and prepared to phone my hostess. I dialed and got the message, "You are English and stupid, wait for the Operator, Limey!"
"Oh Bugger! Collect call please?" All that American tv watching was not in vain.
"Name?"
"Eh? Oh - Gater"
"I have a collect call from Jacob>"
"?!" x 2
"NICK!" I screamed.
"Oh hi Nick!"

We were an hour late taking off, we had one go but moved off the runway again to stop the next plane landing from using our arse-end as a novelty braking system. So we then had to wait for the top of the hour stack to move through. Inflight entertainment was Mission Impossible 3, we watched the first fifteen minutes of the silent version three times before the crew gave up. Everyone then produced laptops and got down to some serious work, well, actually, if you took a stroll around the plane you could see that they got on to some serious pinball and solitaire.

I arrived, amazingly, so did my luggage - and Paul. A quick zip through the fog and here I was, greeted at the door by Rocket, who did a quick check of my genitals (two, one on each side of the nose, his nose, he's a dog), and Margie, who didn't, well, not that I noticed.
I ate, I drank, I went to bed.

Austria 2

If my memory serves me correctly, I had arrived at the first hut and had been rudely assaulted in the middle of the night by an Austrian gentlemen who expected me to have unconscious control of my adenoids. I awoke, drenched myself in the, still cool, nuzzwasser, and, after a breakfast, set off for the Simony Hutte and then to cross the "Stone Roof" to the Adamek Hutte. Ha Ha Ha. The Simony hut was an hour and a half of steep, but I persevered, admired the glacier, filled up with drinking water, went to the toilet, just in case, and set off balancing on whalebacks of limestone. Here, I was now on the moon, there was very little vegetation, and what there was, was secreted down deep ankle-shattering cracks. At the first scree I met my first man travelling the other way, he was an elderly but spry sixty something, dressed in Loden Green, sporting a Tyroler hat and - an ice axe, "Hope he's going to the glacier." I thought.
After my new standby of, "Hello.I'm English and don't speak any German." in German, he raised one white eyebrow at me, plummetting me back to eleven, and said,
"How much water are you carrying?"
"Umm two litres."
"That should be enough. Gruss Gott."
"Umm yeah, oh Gruss Gott!"
And off he went a wandering along the mountain path, I, however, turned up the slope and continued my weary ascent, before going over the col and starting my painful (in all senses of the word) descent.
A diversion, the squeamish may care to skip this paragraph. Some of you will know that I have problems with my knees, other than the fact that they're too close to the ground. My left knee in particular now has a pocket containing a lump of floating cartilage, as I descend it slides gently in and out from under my patella, pressing on the joint capsule, and clicking back home. It makes me feel sick. Imagine my joy at the prospect of several long, excruciatingly long (I forgot after a long time it hurts, probably friction) downgrades (also in all senses of the word). There I feel sick now.
At the bottom I met a young man coming up, he looked - unhappy.
"I'm English and don't speak any German." I said, in German, in reply to his somewhat fractured question (he was on the way up, remember).
"How - far - Simony - Hut-?" I got the impression that while his English may have been up to the task of constructing the whole sentence, that his lung capacity and soul were not.
"Umm, two, two and a half hours?"
"NO!" scorn and disbelief.
I gestured, "'S'very steep."
"That way also!"
End of conversation, he left in high dudgeon.

I continued, forging my way over the next col where I met young man number two. He was just wet, sweat dripping of his face, and his face? His face was like thunder, he glowered, he scowled, his frown was so low that most of his forehead had disappeared, his body language said, "Talk and I will kill you!"
I wondered what had prompted these last two into such a truculent, and possibly in the case of the latter, murderous state?
I found out.

Over the next col I was faced with the "Stone Roof" that the Adamek Hut was so proud of. This was a couple of miles of karstic limestone (great grip but cuts you to ribbons when it trips you up by holding onto your boots a fraction of a second longer than you think it should), weathered into rolls, ridges and boulders, at points it was like walking over the backs of some of the more extravagant frilled-dinosaurs, there was also the odd twenty metre deep pothole to teeter by. The route (!) was marked with paint splashes and on the higher pinnacles large bullseyes had been painted, I discovered that these were starting points for when you lost the path amidst the jumble of stones. I'll not bother to tell you how I discovered this. It was early afternoon, so that the sun reflected off the white stone and slowly cooked me as I travailed, at times I came across rafts of fossil shells, all of which looked at me, and pointed out that I could have had a beach holiday. As I came over the top of the roof the water ran out so that it was a rather raisin-like Nick that rolled up at the hut.
"Hello. I'm English and only speak a tiny bit of German."
As you can tell I was buoyed by self-confidence at this point, though, I didn't point out that, that was the tiny bit (along with "A beer please?"). Still, my evening was rescued by some medical students from Gratz.
No-one woke me during the night, quite probably because I was failing to get to sleep in case someone woke me up. But when I opened my eyes, I did have a very good view of a magnificent teutonic moustache complete with nicotine staining, sadly this was failing to strain the nicotine laden breath behind it, perhaps that's why I stayed awake.
The morning, and matters scatological. The problem that most mountain huts, refuges, refugios and the like, have, is a lack of water, in Winter everything is frozen, and in Summer it's dry, consequently a lot have now adopted the earth closet. This is a large tube, usually industrial ventilation ducting, that plummets down through the building to a pit somewhere in the basement, at the top there is a hopper full of sand, well actually at the top there's a seat with a hole in it, just above and behind this, there is a hopper full of sand. Using one of these is like going back to childhood as, because of the width of the ducting (possibly something to do with Coriolis Force), the box that surmounts it is large, consequently one's (ok, my) knees stop before the edge of the box so that your (ok ,my) feet are floating some distance off the floor, and everything suddenly seems much bigger. There is also the notion that you are going to fall down the hole. You'll be pleased to know that they dig it out in Winter, when it's comparatively frozen and innocuous.
I set off across the moraine under the ever-decreasing glacier and arrived at a cliff (upward). In Italy and France, if the path is going to make you do something foolhardy, then it's marked on the map so that you can decide whether you want to die today - or not, in Austria, with characteristic Teutonic reserve, it's not. Consequently, in front of me were several bars of steel, that had been hammered into the cliff face, and, starting about halfway up, a steel cable for your fingers to rictus onto before having to mentally prise them off again. It was at this point that I regretted having my water permanently accessable, as I couldn't take off my pack and have a delaying rummage around in it, what I did instead was have a comprehensive swear at all things Alpine with special reference to Austria, and Austrian cartographers in particular. I started, I stopped, I started on the other foot, and adrenalined my way up, it was probably five metres. Once on the top and several metres away from the edge, just in case my boots decided to caterpillar their way back to it, or the cliff face fell off, I took stock, and decided it wasn't too bad. Ten metres further on, there was a plaque to someone who disagreed with me, five metres beyond that, there was another one! Thus psychologically enriched I teetered on over the dragon's back of the ridge.

Iceland

A boy is standing in a street, his back pressed to the wall of a shop: a sharp, cold breeze is running chill fingers through his sandy hair. It is Eddy Piron, and the Imp of the Perverse has just played him a nasty trick. After pinching, prodding, scratching, tickling, nipping his heels and whispering urgently in his six year old ear, the old devil has twitched off the shackles of restraint causing him to run, licketty-spit, down Laugavegur, Reykjavik High Street. Running from the Do's and Dont's, running from the Being Good, running from the Be Nice to Your Sisters: Sisters, those icebergs that appeared in the calm ocean of exclusivity that was, but never again will be, all his.
But the Imp, being perverse, has deserted him, run off to goad some other soul into misdemeanour. So here is Eddy, adrift, anchors slipped, moorings sundered, in a strange country. Soon the panic, at the moment a small restless beast, tickling somewhere at the back of his neck, will rise and grow, roaring, to tighten his chest and squeeze his eyes 'til the tears flow.
But wait, what's this?
The Captain hoves or perhaps heaves, into sight, his face set, frozen into a semblance of disapproval. He fields the mite errant and they shop. Eventually Eddy will ask about the glower and the tight lips and will be told about, "Running Away". After a lengthy review, during which he subdues Truculence, Rebellion and Bravado, (three trolls that turn all the moving parts of the male brain to stone), he will apologise. Now all he has to do is weather the consequences; the parental wrath, the naughty step and the awed, but nevertheless present, sororial gloat.

It all began on the second of January at Exeter Station, where I was to begin an abortive attempt to meet up with Paul and Margie, my 'phone went off causing the usual panic and hiatus, akin to discovering that that tickle on the leg is actually an ascending tarantula, it was Two Paths, "We're going to Iceland for half term do you want to come?"
So what did I think? "Jolly nice of you old chap, love to." or "Hello? Third adult required." Either way I acquiesed.
And so, after an interesting take off ("Need the potty Mummy!"* as the plane is on stand, and revving up the engines), I found myself getting off the plane at Keflavik having spent the flight flanked by Eddy and Ella, the woman in front turned and said, "You were marvellous!" Ahh if only different circumstances - at this point I had put "and a younger woman" but at my age, beggars and choosers and all that.
Pecuniarily speaking, the bus journey from the airport probably set the tone of Iceland, Salzburg airport into town £1, Dublin airport into town £4.50, Keflavik into town £19, children free (Thank God). The transfer bus did not go to our guest house, the Adam, so the children and mum were placed in a taxi. Cavilling at the idea of another taxi Two Paths and I set off for what turned out to be the five minute walk to the hotel. It's amazing what chaos can take place in five minutes. We found our host, Ragnar, glassy-eyed, staring at the seemingly endless scrum of children burning off the potential energy accumulated over several hours at 30,000 feet, by the simple process of dispelling it as noise, speed and door opening. I found my room and left... to unpack.

The evening was spent mastering the intricacies of the microwave and quick cook pasta, plus mastering the correct amount of tonic to put into export strength gin, not too much as tonic is really quite expensive in Iceland. I checked out my balcony, double-taked the gin and then went to see Two Paths,
"Um Jer, need your opinion."
"?"
"Just step out onto the old balcony what! Now whaddya think, over there!"
"Cor, I reckon you're right."
Through the sodium haze the Northern Lights shimmered just like cloud underlit by the motorway, though cloud doesn't drizzle at the bottom. Impressed, we retired.

* A diversion. My neice Imogen is about the same age as Maddy and has the typical sloppy pronounciation of the two year old, consequently things like stawberries ("Poofats") are "yed" in colour and bananas are "nan nan". Maddy however, unlike Imo, has two siblings and consequently sounds like she's been trained at RADA, Larry Olivier himself has never uttered, "I'm sorry Mummy!" with such clarity, though he may have said it with more of a tone of honesty.

Dawn failed to break till gone 8.30 something to do with being "Up North" and when it did break it revealed gusting wind and snow flurries, regardless we set off into town, and after 30 minutes or so the children went back to the guesthouse, while Two Paths and I discussed the relative merits of standing on the shoreline while a Mid-Atlantic gale is flinging handfuls of ice and bucketfuls of spume at you, we decided there were no relative merits, and so went back to join the rest, at least we had discovered the Supermarket.
Reykjavik is built on a grid pattern so any passage through the streets is either against or with the wind, or in calm, punctuated by blasts of ear-shredding cold, it was the ear-shredding cold that had decided Ella that she no longer wished to partake of the perambulation and announced so with a wail.

After lunch we went to the swimming baths, well I did, the others got lost and turned up later, the most interesting experience was sitting in the "Hot Pots" outside (my resemblence to a slice of potato is not up for discussion here) with a howling gale rattling the windbreak, and one's hair freezing in the sub-zero of the day, one of my fellow bathers said "Ragnarok!" so I told him I was English but that I agreed with him. About an hour later we emerged, chlorine-eyed, back on the streets, and headed back to heat up more pasta.

The next day was Bus Trip Day, we got up, we got on the bus, we tripped and got off the bus at an extinct volcano crater, it was full of ice, we got back on the bus and set off for Gulfoss - the Golden Fall. About halfway there, the dread shout of, "Is there a Doctor on the bus?" bounced among the seats causing everyone but the driver and the guide to examine their boots (the Captain found several bits of tufa in his). The guide merely extracted his mobile and the driver turned the bus round, both scarily professional acts, prompting the question of just how many ancient people come to Iceland? There was a Doctor, it was Gail (another scarily professional act) but it did occur to the Captain that this could be an "above the waist" (not Gail's speciality)problem so he lumbered in to offer his two pennorth, with the sort of excited tones usually reserved for small boys after too many sweets. The victim was a young man with the sort of alcoholic breath that said, "That must have cost a lot!" but that apart, he wasn't having a fun time. As he seemed to be having some sort of left arm problem the Captain was dispatched to find aspirin. Now, I don't want to over inflate the poor man's ego here but what better choice could there have been, applying his huge lexicographical expertise he managed to reject several offers of Tylenol (and such was the urgency resisted the temptation to explain why, and the difference between a headache and a heart attack) before returning with a "seen better days" aspirin tablet. He then went off to console the wife of the victim (who had, by this time, admitted to having had panic attacks before). They were duly discharged at a cottage (more of a chalet) hospital and the bus returned to the trip.
So they arrived at Gulfoss, the Golden Fall, a cross between Victoria and Niagara Falls (Viagra?) only on a smaller scale, the path to the fall was ice, the sides of the rift were ice, all the grass was ice, at this point the Captain must have lost his usual photographic aplomb ( a reluctance to take photo's on the grounds that film and developing costs money) as he started snapping away with the alacrity of a famished pirhana. Several frames and a skating trip back to the bus later, and they were off to Geysir - the place they're all named after. The Great Geysir itself goes off about three times every twenty four hours, but abjectly failed to do so (in fact it abjectly failed to do so for several years being choked with rubbish and [probably] soap, suffering from the geological equivalent of benign prostatic hyperplasia until a large earthquake managed to clear its, umm, "throat") however, its neighbour Skokkir, goes off every fourteen minutes or so. So, three young children, bloody great holes in the ground spitting out superheated steam, thin crusts on the edges of deep pools of near-boiling water - paradise! Eddie's time was taken with breaking off pieces of ice and hurling them into the nearest hot pond, at Skokkir the Captain and Two Paths were rewarded with a fifteen foot high burst of steam and boiling water.
"Cor! Eddie did you see that?"
"Yeah"
Notice "Yeah" lacks an exclamation mark, this is because it was said with the world-weary tones that only a six year old can manage when being addressed by those dullest of creatures, an adult, and probably an adult who has found something a lot less interesting to show you than some melting ice.
"He didn't." muttered Two Paths.
Skokkir blew again, this time causing Eddie to fall over backwards with a "Whoa!", there was much satisfaction in the Captain/Two Paths camp.
Home again for more pasta and some gin.

Blue Lagoon Day. Another stroll to the bus depot, and then a trip to Iceland's most unnatural tourist attraction. The Blue Lagoon is the effluent from one of the country's geothermal power stations, it contains a lot of suspended silica and is therefore a milky, semi-opaque, duck-egg blue, it's also very warm with the odd hotspot and a, very welcome, cold spot if you swarm over the ridge at the back. In March, a permanent fog rises off the water, perfect for a bit of clandestine skinny dipping out of sight of shore, though you would have to be doing a very efficient backstroke to upset someone such is the opacity of the water. It also has various spa bits scattered around including a shoulder-pummelling waterfall, steam room and sauna, plus free white clay to smear grittily over one's person (if you need it). And, it does a great magic trick; stand in the water and feel your toes sink into the ooze, hold your breath and reach through the white soup to grab a bit of the bottom (of the pool), what colour is it? Black naturally. The evening was as before, though with better skin, the second bottle of gin was opened.

Car Hire Day. The people-carrier expected turned out to be a saloon but, nothing ventured- we set off illegally for the National Park of Pingvellir, site of the first Parliament in the World. In those Norse days it only had one major feature, the Lawgiver's Rock, where the keeper of the law, a bloke with a good memory, would expound on cases ( though how you would tell if he wasn't making it up is anyone's guess), after Christianity there was the Hanging Rock, the Drowning Pool and other such delights, Gosh the wonders of civilisation.
Pingvellir is also where the Mid-Atlantic Ridge breaks surface so that it is possible to bestride a crack (like a mighty/short, fat colossus) where one foot is heading off to America and the other to Europe, a sort of geological version of failing to get out of the boat fast enough (ask me nicely and I'll tell you a tale about my Uncle Jim and my Auntie Reny). This caused Eddie great excitement, there was a lot of jumping between continents, though which was which became a little confused.
We went for a stroll, down the crack, back round to the lake and up a stair into the crack again, it rained - miserably. Eddie and I discovered the local wishing pond with large amounts of cash in it, so my recommendation is that if you want a serious night out in Iceland, pay a visit to Pingvellir with a wetsuit. Having said all that, it is a stunningly beautiful place.
We returned the car, and Jerry and I watched from the office, as the man from the hire firm, disappeared in a roar of exhaust smoke with Gail and the children, one phone call later and we were re-united, squashily.
It was eating out night, so eschewing the delights of rotted shark, stewed puffin, or scientific-evaluation minke whale, as well as any recommendation of the Captain, who had spent the last three nights trawling through the town peering at menus and memorising happy-hour prices (this should of course read, "relatively-happy-hour prices") we opted for the traditional Scandinavian dish of pizza. How shall I put this, the beer was the same price as the ice cream £6/$11.
Then back to packing and an early night, as the next day we bid a fond farwell (as they say in the travelogues) to that bleak land of fire and snow, Iceland.