KA -CHING! The nine millimetre nickel-clad bullet ricocheted off the bar in front of me and vanished into the cow-bells hanging off the roof. I was getting used to them by now, this was day three of being under heavy sniper fire, I blame myself, I had committed an unpardonable sin (mea culpa), and bought myself a drink.
Several days previously I had been sitting on the toilet checking my texts (as you do) prior to advising Steve Clunes of my ETA at Gatwick to catch the 11.30 check-in. A text surfaced through my slightly foggy early a.m. consciousness, "Check-in 13.25" it said, "Bugger!" I said, tossing up between a re-pack or a trip back to the Land of Nod.
Later I met Steve at Gatwick, and marveled at his sang froid as his suitcase came in at exactly 20kg.
"What a shame you paid for that extra baggage allowance."
"*$£+!"
"You'll just have to buy something while you're there."
"*%@^!"
The flight was uneventful, so much so that I rather carelessly finished my first book, they let us into Austria, and we sought out the rep;
"Gatwick?"
"Yeah."
"OK, your luggage will be delivered outside the arrivals in the coach park."
"?"
"OK, your luggage will be delivered outside the arrivals in the coach park."
Pointing of fingers
"Yes, your luggage will be delivered outside the arrivals in the coach park."
It was, a big train of trucks full of luggage, there was a free-for-all, and we were finally reunited with our luggage..... outside the arrivals in the coach park.We felt the rep's greeting to Crystal Finest customer's should have been met with hoots of derision, but it wasn't, they were probably too exhausted after manhandling their own cases.
An hour later we arrived at Soll, and ten minutes after that at the Hotel Austria, we watched the party in front check-in and then struggle up the stairs with their cases, accompanied by much "Fecking", Steve and I, we took the lift.
In the restaurant we met with Caroline and John and a plate of beef, the beef we dispatched, and then descended to the bar, or the third circle of Hell, the one reserved for non-smokers. The stench coming off my clothes the next day taking me back to the heady fug of the upper deck of the bus on a wet December night. Caroline and I decamped for fresh air, and a look for Hettie, she of Hetty's Darkroom, according to the official map her lodgings were across the road, according to her lodgings they were next door to the hotel, she wasn't there yet, so after a few quick breaths we returned to the bar and found it full (by volume) of Scots. Nick we have already met in Finland, he was accompanied by Dave and Colin. Hettie arrives diverting Steve away from a pounding by the Scots, and moving him towards excommunication by the Pope.
Day 1. Caroline, despairing of "serious skiers" has gone to join the Rep's Tour, Steve and I (not "serious skiers") take Hettie and John off up the mountain, after only a few hours of ski-fitting. I have found a suitable blue for John to practice, sadly getting there involves a completely unsuitable red, but we co.... I was going to put cope, but we get down it; to lunch.
After lunch we go the other way and find a nice blue, I get in the chair with Steve, and head off up, as we get off, I look at the rutted track for the right hand skier, and think, "Hmm, there goes John." Sadly John thinks that too, scrabbles off the chair and moves to the left, pinning Hettie's skis, then, and only then, does he fall. The chair carries on, the pisteur being more involved in the football on the tv than his job, and Hettie's ligaments ping like perished bungees before she is levered on top of John's now couchant corpus, there is much shouting, anger and pain in equal measure, with perhaps an hint of invective. Steve and I watch,
"Oh dear."
We ski back slowly and painfully, the descent in the cable car is relieved by giving a French PhD student an unsolicited education in the finer points of English etymology, and that is the end of Day 1. Well the end apart from listening to Caroline wax lyrical about where she's been, aka places only "good skiers" go to. Interrogating the reps about "Doctors" and "Insurance", meeting up with the Scots, and drinking beer and schnapps, and wine.
Day 2,3.. Hettie wasn't with us. We did skiing, we were going to do a tour with one of the reps., but the first descent took place in a whiteout so that those of us who didn't get lost immediately were allowed to get lost by ourselves - for insurance purposes. Then we did meeting the Scots in a bar (we did that quite a lot, sometimes by accident. In one bar there were people dancing (it's called continental Apres Ski), one of the people dancing was a girl in bright turquoise ski trousers, much was made of her terpsichory and callipygiosity, so much so, that we were forced to leave, by Caroline, who had deigned to accompany us.
On one of the nights we met Australians (Tosca and Pam, one of each sex, I'll leave you to decide which was which), they were nice too, but not in a callipygian way. They seemed very taken with Steve, deeming him a "character", the Scots deemed him a "headcase"
By this time my lack of fitness, and lack of ability were beginning to tell, I spent long periods of time on the toilet, not for any drastic gastric or prostatic reasons, but simply the fact that I'd run out of viable muscle fibres in my legs and therefore couldn't get back up again. In order to alleviate further damage, we booked a private lesson with Gerhardt, he would give advice to Steve and Caroline, but would give me a look of reproach and disappointment, then tell me to pull my socks up. Eventually I realised that he was actually telling me to mime pulling up my downhill sock and from that point on things went a lot better. Liz, on previous trips had told me to emulate a gorilla, meaning that the gorilla-like stance favoured the balance for skiing, now I didn't only stand like one, but my progression down the mountain looked like one bearing down on a hapless band of tourists, whose "Meet the Gentle Giants Experience" was about to have both "Meet" and "Gentle" redefined.
My last descent of the day was horrendous, I returned to the hotel and attempted to test the energizing effects of my Energizing Shampoo and Shower gel (available as part of the Nixco Acquired Hotel Products range), it didn't work. In the evening we ended up in a hotel full of Geordies where the presence of some pink shirts pinged loudly on Steve's Gaydar. I should point out that Steve's Gaydar works oppositely to normal Gaydar, think magnets, normal :- N to S, Steve's N to N. Hetty meanwhile had had a day of meditation, and was now picking up auras, we resolved to check her painkillers.
Day 4, I commit a Cardinal Sin, see Para 1
We skied over to the next valley, Scheffau, it takes so long that we have lunch and ski back.
Day 5, I am reminded that on Day 4 I committed a Cardinal Sin, I am not forgiven, sniping continues. We meet Dave and Nick in the bar, every time we return to the bar we will meet Dave and Nick. Dave and Nick stay in the bar all day. Sometimes Colin comes to see if they are still in the bar - they are. At one point Steve unwisely starts to imitate Colin, Nick's rejoinder of, "He's behind you" causes the best reaction most people can remember. Aye, you dinna mess with Colin.
Day 6, I am reminded that on Day 4 I committed a Cardinal Sin.We tour, I nearly die of exhaustion but decide not to. The sniper seems to have taken an evening off.
The next day we go home, Steve's luggage still weighs a perfect 20 kilos.
Tuesday, May 07, 2013
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
A hazy account of a week in the Lakes.
A man is standing on the top of a mountain, the wind is blowing through his tight blonde crop and running across the Gallic pout produced by his quizzical stare back down the path. It is Ben Louvet, he has just summited Wetherlam and is now looking for the rest of the party somewhere in the middle distance. The party that is being led by the Captain from the rear. The Captain will summit in about five minutes by which time everyone will have had their fill of the view and be planning their accidental visit to the pub on the way back.
"Where's the way down?"
I fumble in my pack for the map, cover for the puce face to descend to scarlet, and gesture at the only obvious path I can see.
"Ack!"
They start and begin their descent, I, Nick, the Captain, watch them disappear out of sight, and then reconsult the map, just to check, then consults the compass, amazingly he has guessed right and sent them in the correct direction. Tightening girths and lengthening sticks they set off behind.
It is the annual trip to the Lakes, the time when they bring blessed rain to the drought-riddled farms of the North-West, at the time of writing they are being particularly successful. They had arrived on Friday to coincide with the Tesco delivery (a melange of too many crisps, too many yoghurts and too much lettuce according to his detractors. In reality - it is Tuesday today- there is a dearth of wine), and to juxtapose some scones, jam and cream between their upper and lower mandibles. The evening is spent in the Black Bull, boosting the local economy.
Saturday sees the tops visible, a walk is declared and the majority ascend Wetherlam, and come back to Cottage Pie with a selection of wine, and Summer Pudding with a selection of wine. Various games are played (with a selection of wine) and the to bed, with snoring, due to a selection of wine.
Sunday is a rather glum day meteorologically, the morning is spent eating (brunch extends from 7.30 until 13.30), and the afternoon is spent at the Coniston Country Show for the Countryside Alliance Party Political Broadcast* followed by Cumberland and Westmorland Wrestling where men in their underwear try and throw each other to the ground, something that seems to fascinate Helen, leading to unkind remarks about how much she likes Cumberland sausage.
*As the announcer rambles on about the foxhunting ban (though at one point admits that the population of rural foxes has dropped since the ban - apparently this is a reason to re-instigate hunting with dogs) I become aware of one of the hazards of the countryside, namely Sheila, who begins to fulminate as the announcer drones on:
"Blah blah blah ridiculous curtailment of traditional pursuits....."
"BOLLOCKS!"
My gaze travels to the tweed-clad man next door, and comes to rest, with a sigh of relief, on the deaf-aid lodged in his ear.
In the evening Andy and I cook risotto, such is the complexity of the culinary science that we end up with the usual bevy of sous chefs, and a wine selection. Here endeth the live portion of the blog.
Here beginneth the stretched memory portion of the blog.
Monday, the weather is execrable, after several hours some of us break and say that we will sail with Sheila. I squeeze into my wetsuit ending up looking like a sausage about to burst, and follow Julian and Sheila to the boat, as I faff, I become aware that something is not right between the two, there has been some sort of rift during last night's games. Tight-lipped the boat is launched and floated round to the jetty, people climb aboard and the sails are raised. The boat streaks like a scalded cat across the lake, plunging and yawing, we turn round and plunge back, round up to the quay and get out. At this moment Julian decides to apologise, I point out that perhaps the apology could have come before his wife took him out to drown him, and by extension, his cousin.
The young people decamp into town to watch Batman, the Captain goes for a stroll up to Tarn Hows through the woods I go with him to keep him company. A first; Tarn Hows is (nearly) deserted, so we came back. Later, my cousin Simon will arrive, fresh from driving various steam trains around short, narrow Welsh tracks, he will bring his treasured possessions of guitar and wife Nia, however it is anyone's guess as to what order they come in. The Captain is always nervous around Simon, their growing up being slightly one-sided (see comment about the lake on Tuesday, and extrapolate). Lasagne is eaten (with a selection of wine), followed by a vanilla cheesecake with profligate raspberries and more wine. Day three and no more red!
Tuesday, the weather is vaguely less execrable than the day before, so much so that a further attempt at sailing takes place, it is so successful that Tom nearly misses his student account appointment
with the bank, however the bank (Barclays BTW) assure the assembled Louvet family that they can come later, sadly they fail to inform the student account lady that the Louvet family will be coming later, so she's buggered off by the time they get there, my Barclays shares suffer a small dip. Gallic temperament flares, so we shelter in a game of crib.
In the evening we dive into chicken and leek pie (with a new selection of wine), we also dive into the lake, Ben, testosterone aroused by Catherine's nubility, shows off in the only way a large teenage boy knows how; he bullies the weak and helpless. The view from under the lake is green, cool and tinged with bubbles - mine.
After the meal Peter and I decide that enough wine has been drunk, so we go to the honesty bar and drink beer.
Wednesday, people get up early, climb into cars and head off for Haystacks (burial, well, scattering place of Wainwright). It's a long drive but a pretty one. Andy makes it seven eighths of the way up, and is suitably thrilled. People are declared satisfied, apart from Catherine whose sense of danger has not been piqued sufficiently, she ought to have been in the boat on Monday!
It is the Louvets turn to cook, they have squandered Tom's tuition fees and a large portion of his inheritance on a leg of local lamb.
Thursday - sunny! Some boating is done, young people hire kayaks, so that they can be tipped off. The Captain and I take Trenchfoot for a row, rescuing the odd bumblebee, whilst waiting for Julian and Sheila to turn up with petrol. When they arrive, the motor is shipped and a wave of pollution placed in the lake as they motor to Wildcat Island (aka Peel island). Trenchfoot is parked in the secret harbour and the island suitably explored. The lake is re-polluted, people (who should know better) who have been waiting on the quay for a lift back across the lake are picked up and returned to Bank Ground. The boat is packed away. Tomorrow we will leave.....
But before we do, the Captain has insisted that I share a couple of Andyisms with you:
Sheila is a good Christian woman, and as such thinks that one should not take the Lord's name in vain, Michael: "Oh for God's sake!"
Nick: "Umm Mike, try not to do that in front of Sheila, she's a bit twitchy about that sort of thing."
Michael: "Really?"
Nick: "Yeah. Andy your Mum's a Godfearing lady isn't she?"
Andy: "........................?"
Nick: " Your Mum loves Jesus doesn't she?"
Andy: "................. Ye-es? We brought some up with us out of the fridge."
Slight collapse of other parties.
On driving past Cockermouth, much was made of its potential rudity... followed by:
Andy: "It would be much funnier if it was just called Cock."
Andy: "Molly [the cat] loves Nick, before we came up she shoved her head right in his... ... .... .. hand!"
it was actually my groin but this would have been going too far.
"Where's the way down?"
I fumble in my pack for the map, cover for the puce face to descend to scarlet, and gesture at the only obvious path I can see.
"Ack!"
They start and begin their descent, I, Nick, the Captain, watch them disappear out of sight, and then reconsult the map, just to check, then consults the compass, amazingly he has guessed right and sent them in the correct direction. Tightening girths and lengthening sticks they set off behind.
It is the annual trip to the Lakes, the time when they bring blessed rain to the drought-riddled farms of the North-West, at the time of writing they are being particularly successful. They had arrived on Friday to coincide with the Tesco delivery (a melange of too many crisps, too many yoghurts and too much lettuce according to his detractors. In reality - it is Tuesday today- there is a dearth of wine), and to juxtapose some scones, jam and cream between their upper and lower mandibles. The evening is spent in the Black Bull, boosting the local economy.
Saturday sees the tops visible, a walk is declared and the majority ascend Wetherlam, and come back to Cottage Pie with a selection of wine, and Summer Pudding with a selection of wine. Various games are played (with a selection of wine) and the to bed, with snoring, due to a selection of wine.
Sunday is a rather glum day meteorologically, the morning is spent eating (brunch extends from 7.30 until 13.30), and the afternoon is spent at the Coniston Country Show for the Countryside Alliance Party Political Broadcast* followed by Cumberland and Westmorland Wrestling where men in their underwear try and throw each other to the ground, something that seems to fascinate Helen, leading to unkind remarks about how much she likes Cumberland sausage.
*As the announcer rambles on about the foxhunting ban (though at one point admits that the population of rural foxes has dropped since the ban - apparently this is a reason to re-instigate hunting with dogs) I become aware of one of the hazards of the countryside, namely Sheila, who begins to fulminate as the announcer drones on:
"Blah blah blah ridiculous curtailment of traditional pursuits....."
"BOLLOCKS!"
My gaze travels to the tweed-clad man next door, and comes to rest, with a sigh of relief, on the deaf-aid lodged in his ear.
In the evening Andy and I cook risotto, such is the complexity of the culinary science that we end up with the usual bevy of sous chefs, and a wine selection. Here endeth the live portion of the blog.
Here beginneth the stretched memory portion of the blog.
Monday, the weather is execrable, after several hours some of us break and say that we will sail with Sheila. I squeeze into my wetsuit ending up looking like a sausage about to burst, and follow Julian and Sheila to the boat, as I faff, I become aware that something is not right between the two, there has been some sort of rift during last night's games. Tight-lipped the boat is launched and floated round to the jetty, people climb aboard and the sails are raised. The boat streaks like a scalded cat across the lake, plunging and yawing, we turn round and plunge back, round up to the quay and get out. At this moment Julian decides to apologise, I point out that perhaps the apology could have come before his wife took him out to drown him, and by extension, his cousin.
The young people decamp into town to watch Batman, the Captain goes for a stroll up to Tarn Hows through the woods I go with him to keep him company. A first; Tarn Hows is (nearly) deserted, so we came back. Later, my cousin Simon will arrive, fresh from driving various steam trains around short, narrow Welsh tracks, he will bring his treasured possessions of guitar and wife Nia, however it is anyone's guess as to what order they come in. The Captain is always nervous around Simon, their growing up being slightly one-sided (see comment about the lake on Tuesday, and extrapolate). Lasagne is eaten (with a selection of wine), followed by a vanilla cheesecake with profligate raspberries and more wine. Day three and no more red!
Tuesday, the weather is vaguely less execrable than the day before, so much so that a further attempt at sailing takes place, it is so successful that Tom nearly misses his student account appointment
with the bank, however the bank (Barclays BTW) assure the assembled Louvet family that they can come later, sadly they fail to inform the student account lady that the Louvet family will be coming later, so she's buggered off by the time they get there, my Barclays shares suffer a small dip. Gallic temperament flares, so we shelter in a game of crib.
In the evening we dive into chicken and leek pie (with a new selection of wine), we also dive into the lake, Ben, testosterone aroused by Catherine's nubility, shows off in the only way a large teenage boy knows how; he bullies the weak and helpless. The view from under the lake is green, cool and tinged with bubbles - mine.
After the meal Peter and I decide that enough wine has been drunk, so we go to the honesty bar and drink beer.
Wednesday, people get up early, climb into cars and head off for Haystacks (burial, well, scattering place of Wainwright). It's a long drive but a pretty one. Andy makes it seven eighths of the way up, and is suitably thrilled. People are declared satisfied, apart from Catherine whose sense of danger has not been piqued sufficiently, she ought to have been in the boat on Monday!
It is the Louvets turn to cook, they have squandered Tom's tuition fees and a large portion of his inheritance on a leg of local lamb.
Thursday - sunny! Some boating is done, young people hire kayaks, so that they can be tipped off. The Captain and I take Trenchfoot for a row, rescuing the odd bumblebee, whilst waiting for Julian and Sheila to turn up with petrol. When they arrive, the motor is shipped and a wave of pollution placed in the lake as they motor to Wildcat Island (aka Peel island). Trenchfoot is parked in the secret harbour and the island suitably explored. The lake is re-polluted, people (who should know better) who have been waiting on the quay for a lift back across the lake are picked up and returned to Bank Ground. The boat is packed away. Tomorrow we will leave.....
But before we do, the Captain has insisted that I share a couple of Andyisms with you:
Sheila is a good Christian woman, and as such thinks that one should not take the Lord's name in vain, Michael: "Oh for God's sake!"
Nick: "Umm Mike, try not to do that in front of Sheila, she's a bit twitchy about that sort of thing."
Michael: "Really?"
Nick: "Yeah. Andy your Mum's a Godfearing lady isn't she?"
Andy: "........................?"
Nick: " Your Mum loves Jesus doesn't she?"
Andy: "................. Ye-es? We brought some up with us out of the fridge."
Slight collapse of other parties.
On driving past Cockermouth, much was made of its potential rudity... followed by:
Andy: "It would be much funnier if it was just called Cock."
Andy: "Molly [the cat] loves Nick, before we came up she shoved her head right in his... ... .... .. hand!"
it was actually my groin but this would have been going too far.
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Stiff Peaks
A girl, no a woman*, is sitting on a railway platform, a cool breeze ruffles her light brown hair, partly covered with her angora cap, and cools the cup of early morning coffee clasped in her hand. Her fleece chimes nicely with the red of the Derbyshire brick, for we are at St Pancras: built of bricks from Derbyshire under the instruction of the Prince Consort in an attempt to shake up the parochiality of the Londoner - it failed. It is Liz, and she is frowning, she is frowning as she has just seen the Captain emerge from the top of the staircase, the bright red blazon of effort on his cheeks contrasting nicely with the bright red of the waterproof he is sporting....Emerge from the top of the staircase and promptly disappear, "Why?" Why, for he has been told to that Liz is at a cafe opposite the champagne bar, the longest champagne bar in Europe, and he is checking out the first, of three, cafes opposite it. Eventually he spots her, they ply themselves with diuretics and mount the 9.55 to Sheffield.
Liz and the Captain are off for an extended Easter Break in the Peak District, Liz has been given husbandorial permission to assist the Captain as he perambulates from Youth Hostel to Youth Hostel, in his dotage.
After an uneventful trip they mount the rattler to Manchester and decamp at Grindleford (site of a famous Greasy Spoon last visited by the Captain in the 70's), where they start up the Derwent Valley to Hathersage. Liz eyes the mud, the puddles, the water running off the hillsides, and her fabric boots, fond memories of wellies frolic through her mind like a lamb through clover, neither of which are visible. What is visible is the snow on the hillsides and the tips of bluebell spears struggling through the mud in the woods.
When they arrive at Hathersage they are greeted by the whiff from a bank of wild garlic and a stab of icy rain, what they are not greeted by is the appearance of the Youth Hostel. Liz recommends a path up the hill which they take, up the hill, still no Hostel. The Captain stops a dog with a girl attached, and asks, she directs them down the hill to the Ecology Centre. After a few more moments they find the butchers, through a farmhouse door the butchers are visible trimming a beef carcase in the back of the shop.
"Hello, I'm going to ask you a question that you've probably been asked a hundred times."
"What's that then?"
"Where's the Youth Hostel?"
"No, I've never been asked that before. It's....."
By this time Liz has spotted the large "Youth Hostel 100yds" sign fixed to the lampost, and has started to snigger. They arrive, about 50m from where they ascended up the path, and find the Hostel shut, apart from the drying room, after dumping their packs they move on to the first coffee shop (of six) and have a cream tea - it is 2.30.
Slightly moribund they then explore the town, and the church featuring Little John's (he of Robin Hood fame) grave, it is nine feet (3M) long (and empty), and some 14th Century gargoyles. Liz is distressed by the Captain's cavalier attitude to the guide book for the church, i.e. to borrow it rather than purchase it, racked with Christian duty, she buys it and then carries it around the church unread. They return to "town" and mooch around the shops avoiding the showers. The Captain is delighted to find the Walnut Club Brassiere but discomfited by the thought of the "T" cup (they will in fact see a woman who may well use the Walnut Club Brassiere on the top of Mam Tor - no, it's true).
Finally they return to the Hostel and sign in, as Liz flashes the paperwork the Captain peruses the comments book and is met with a picture of lots of circles bearing the legend, in the shaky handwriting of an eight year old, "Looking down the Devil's Arse" he closes the book, "Better than up maybe." he thinks.
After sorting out, they sit in the lounge and watch TV - for the news - then, having asked, they set off for the Little John pub, now LJ's, where they find a wake, a wake that has been going on for some time, a wake where some of the celebrants have either, or will soon be joining, the wakee. They manoeuvre around the bar-holderoners, and peruse the pints, one local and three from down South. After that, there is a problem with the menu - it is too long. Eventually Liz plumps for the tuna and a suet pudding plumps the Captain both portions are huge. Eventually they retire back to the Hostel to digest, to be taught crib, and to attempt the descent into the arms of Morpheus, re-ascend into the kidneys of Dionysus, and finally get reacquainted with Morpheus, whom they greatly prefer.
The breakfast chef is very excitable, after sampling his coffee, Liz realizes why and leaving her coffee for the Captain (who has eschewed breakfast and is hoping to rely on ketosis) shifts to tea. Others arrive, and chef moves to new heights of bonhomie with the six year olds, "Do you want some hash browns, nothing like a bit of hash first thing in the morning. Who wants some arsehole wrapped in pigskin?" The children's concept of breakfast moves rapidly towards a bit of dry toast. Liz and the Captain leave, secure in the knowledge that he will crash by eleven.
Having previously determined that the stepping stones across the river will be a bad idea (they are actually one foot (30cm) underwater, they reverse reprise their route of the previous day back to the roadbridge, and then struggle along the riverside path. After an hour or two the small amount of coffee that the Captain has consumed makes its presence felt, such is its caffeinic potency, he sends Liz ahead, checks behind and finds a suitable wall. As he leaves, he looks across the river towards the cafe "boasting river view" that has just swum into focus behind the trees, "Ho hum".
They continue towards Castleton.... TOWARDS CASTLETON!
"Oh sorry, Got my roads confused a bit, let me just check the GPS, right! Back this way then, follow me."
Mam Tor swings snowily into view. On the trip they see mud, dippers, mud, lambs, mud, hardy souls and more mud. It takes four hours to do the seven miles (11.6km) to Castleton, fortunately the Hostel is open, so they check in, have a cup of tea, and move to the dorms. The Captain's room has a pair of "lads" in it, he keeps his fingers crossed - it doesn't work, the lads will re-emerge at 12 and 2 am - drunk.
After settling in the Captain meets Liz in the Quiet Room. Definition of the Quiet Room: Somewhere to dump the kids so that they can play giant Connect Four, or Jenga, or run riot and disturb people who are after a genuine bit of peace and quiet. Frowning works until a family of five arrive and scream. The Captain and Liz retreat to town for a bite of lunch, lunch which is late, heavy on cake and the wallet. Later after a snooze - in the Common Room which is devoid of people (who are all whooping it up in the Quiet room) dinner is declared, they trip down to the Cheshire Cheese which is promptly deemed to expensive, so they only stop for a pint. Then they return to The Castle where Kaylie manages to squeeze them in to a table reserved for four other people. This is an ongoing problem, starvation and boredom drive them out of the hostels at the same time as people are feeding their children - selfish bastards. Kaylie returns with menus, and Liz prepares to wince as the Captain revs up what he thinks is wit, and everyone else recognises as smart-alecry and pedanticism. The menu states "Please tell us if you have any allergies."
"Kaylie, I have to tell you that I'm allergic to guinea pigs!"
Wince.
"Oh, hahahah...." from Kaylie.
At this point Liz contemplates whether the Captain should have said he was allergic to human saliva. As they masticate their way through another pound (454g) or two (908g) of food they watch a father on the next table with three kids. The children start their meal, another punter drifts to the previously unnoticed sweet cabinet and starts shouting back the choice to his group. The children stop eating, the youngest declaring that, while he is full to bursting, that he thinks he could manage a bit of Rocky Road cheesecake. Pa watches Kaylie take away a large part of his income - uneaten and replace it with several things that will have the family bouncing off the walls for the next five hours, before being sick - or vic- versa.
After a last half in the George they return for more cribbage, first they have to combine the three decks of cards, defacing a few to make up a full set. Steam runs out, and, at eleven, they go to bed, the Captain stares gloomily at the bunk spaces where the "Lads" should be, they are empty. The room however is full of a fug of socks, and Lynx, quite a lot of Lynx. The Captain muses that, if their advertising has any value, scantily clad women will launch themselves across the breakfast table towards him every time he exhales.
12.10 am. Door bursts open slamming into end of bunk, resulting tectonic shift causing startling wakefulness in the Captain and superior bedfellow. Light turned on to wake others.
12.30 am. Door bursts open, Liz wakes up to find man in room, standing in alcoholic daze, she bundles him out and locks the door.
02.20 am. Door bursts open slamming into end of bunk, resulting tectonic shift causing startling wakefulness in the Captain and superior bedfellow. Bunk occupied.
07.00 am. Lad 2 arrives with attendant Totty for loud conversation. Everyone else gets up and leaves.
Over breakfast the "Lads" are mentioned to the staff with variable degrees of forcefulness by several different people. Amazingly, the staff decamp to evict the "Lads" plus Totty, though not without protest ("I don't know what the fuck you're on about mate!").
Slightly exhausted after two nights interrupted sleep, Liz and the Captain lurch up Cave Dale to emerge onto the lead-mine strewn plateau, as they plod along they become aware of a minor miracle, they can see their shadows! The afternoon continues sunny but with a vicious wind, they stop for a pee and a cup of tea (well a thin plastic vessel that is extraordinarily good at conducting heat into the fingers full of tea) before continuing down to Treak Cliff Cavern. Half mine half cave the cavern places the Captain firmly in spelio-/geological heaven, Liz however, is in Easter Egg hunt chocolate heaven, shouldering aside small children for not very cocoa-laden goodies, poorly hidden by a girl in a bunny suit (that's the full-body big ears and feet sort), soon they will both be in another cup of tea heaven. Treak Cliff boasts the largest chunk of Blue John in the World - it holds the roof up. Afterwards they stroll (squelch actually) into town for a sandwich from the grocery store, a pint in the Cheddar Cheese and an ice-cream from the sweet shop. Beer ice cream is advertised, it is flavoured with Pride of Sheffield but the shopkeeper does not know the brewery, mentally flipping through his arcania, the Captain volunteers that it may be Kelham Island (the only Sheffield brewery he knows - apart from Wards, Stones, Gilmours and Tennants - now defunct, oh, and Tomlinsons). On their way out they encounter a pair of Lad-embattled Hostellites on their way in. When the Captain encounters them later, and beer ice-cream is discussed, he will be told that it is Pride of Sheffield from Kelham Island - according to the woman in the shop.
In the evening they once again arrive at the Castle ten minutes behind everyone else and so end up in the Nag's Head where Liz decamps to wine in an attempt to ameliorate nightime anxiety.
It is morning, the Captain has finished his breakfast, and has started to fret, eventually he goes and knocks on the door of Room 1.
"Hello?"
"Umm. Is Liz there?"
"She's still asleep."
"Come in."
"Oh, er, oh."
A duvet is sprawled across the bed, the Captain takes a finger and pokes what he hopes is a neutral part of Liz's anatomy.
"Mwah!"
"It's nine o'clock!"
"-----------"
Another poke.
"I'M AWAKE!"
"..... mmmm. You'll miss breakfast."
Ten minutes later she is there - in the flesh but not in spirit. An hour and a half later they leave and venture forth to the Farmer's Market (two butchers, two cake stands) and the sweet shop (for fruit liquorice). The weather is overcast with spits of icy rain, as soon as they leave the road it tries harder, forcing them both into the exquisite torture that is putting on overtrousers. As soon ("soon" here being a relative term, including hopping, banging elbows on dry stone walls and cursing) as they are on - it stops - naturally, c'est normal as they say in/en France. There is a moment's unspoken consultation - conclusion - "Bollocks to that for a game of soldiers!", and they continue, backtracking yesterday's route and then ascending Mam Tor via the erosion-dampening steps. At the summit, the Captain points to the weather tracking in from Kinderscout, a few moments later it hits them, 40+ miles per hour (64+ KPH) winds laden with fine rain and spiky hail. The Captain tries to see how many degrees of lean he can get, when he attempts the same leaning back into the wind he notices that his partner in crime has hit the deck, the gust has caught the sail of her pack and punched a large dint in her confidence. He hunkers and explains an old mountain man technique (the technique not the man), the problem with OMMT's is that is that they require the invasion of Liz's personal space, something that has only been successfully achieved by her husband. The Captain explains that in order to get out of the wind they will have to progress and that the best way to progress is to link arms, and battle forward, he assures her that while the view over the Derbyshire Dales from her personal ascent may be breathtaking, there will be considerably more breath taken from her on landing, and that it probably won't be returned. He also invokes the biscuits that are in her pack, and that can't be accessed until they are out of the wind, and the ridicule that she will be subjected to by hardy Northerners if she crawls. They link arms and ten paces later are in the lee of the slope, though it is still quite exciting to stick a stick above their heads to pick up the actual wind. There follows a squally procession along the ridge until they find a wall that is tall and sturdy enough to give cover for the biscuit stop. Then on to Back tor where they turn into the, now moderated, wind, descend to the valley bottom and the Youth Hostel at Edale.
The YH at Edale is not as nice as the one at Castleton, a spotty youth (whom the Captain will see later at the kitchen door in his Chef's duds having a quick break from culinary masterdom via a cigarette) signs them in . They ensconce and head off to the "town", only losing the footpath once (the marker was hidden behind the marker that said "Footpath"). Another Nags Head (1577) is full of families, they order a half of the 1577 (5.7% probably OG of 1057 a favourite brewers joke) for Liz, and a pint of Black (3.5%) for the Captain. Afterwards the Captain is convinced that the heads on the pumps were the wrong way round for when he staggers further into town looking for the other pub they find the Mountain Rescue team on their third call-out of the day, with them there is a rescue dog, one of those in-bred Border Collies that have thrown one blue and one brown eye. Having ascertained his nature, the Captain assaults him both physically and emotionally.
"Have you got a wall-eye, have you, have you? You have. Whose got a wall-eye? Yes, you have!"
Liz is both horrified and delighted: horrified as she can see the Captain on the wards,"Whose got diabetes? You have, yes you have!", delighted for she knows that she can, and will, use this against him for several months, probably at least ninety. "Yes, whose got rogue genes? Now then can you tell me where the other pub is?" The dog can't but it's bemused owner can, having ascertained directions they try it out, it is far superior to the first one, and features beers from Thornbridge Brewery, of which they have a small sample. They return to the Hostel for dinner, it is average (if that) but features Cauliflower and Broccoli soup, which appears to be what you get if you boil cauliflower and broccoli for too long.
A brief discursion into YH meals, why on earth, when people are sleeping in dorms, do you have cauliflower and broccoli soup, lentil cottage pie and vegetable curry?
The pair play some more cards and head off to bed.
The next day, and Liz has not booked breakfast, at breakfast time Liz wishes she had booked breakfast, so buys eggs, a tea bag and a loaf of bread, they give half of the loaf to some other kitchen users and receive a slab of moderately frozen turkey in return. After that they set off to walk to the station at Hope along the old Roman road route along the tops. This is a mountain bikers route and is full of pairs of mountain bikers, they always seem to come in pairs: Adonis accompanied by Bacchus. Adonis cycles past, "Good Morning! What a breezy day, do you think it will cheer up later?". Several minutes later and here come Bacchus, rubicund, blowing, hunched, "Ark!"
It's as if Adonis invited out his fat mate to make him look good - surely not.
At Hope, the tea shop is investigated for tea-cakes, they have some and some tea, then the station is investigated for trains, they also have some, finally Sheffield is investigated for pubs, a result, they have several, and the Station Tap is run by Thornbridge - hoorah!
On returning to London, there are no tubes, life has returned to normal.
* I'd just like to say that I was there when Liz became a woman, we were on a bike ride together and went past a family, one child turned to the other and said, "Did you see that woman on the bicycle?" the first time Liz had ever been addressed as anything but a girl (insults apart). She has moped ever since. "Whose a woman? You are, yes you are - a woman. Yes."
Liz and the Captain are off for an extended Easter Break in the Peak District, Liz has been given husbandorial permission to assist the Captain as he perambulates from Youth Hostel to Youth Hostel, in his dotage.
After an uneventful trip they mount the rattler to Manchester and decamp at Grindleford (site of a famous Greasy Spoon last visited by the Captain in the 70's), where they start up the Derwent Valley to Hathersage. Liz eyes the mud, the puddles, the water running off the hillsides, and her fabric boots, fond memories of wellies frolic through her mind like a lamb through clover, neither of which are visible. What is visible is the snow on the hillsides and the tips of bluebell spears struggling through the mud in the woods.
When they arrive at Hathersage they are greeted by the whiff from a bank of wild garlic and a stab of icy rain, what they are not greeted by is the appearance of the Youth Hostel. Liz recommends a path up the hill which they take, up the hill, still no Hostel. The Captain stops a dog with a girl attached, and asks, she directs them down the hill to the Ecology Centre. After a few more moments they find the butchers, through a farmhouse door the butchers are visible trimming a beef carcase in the back of the shop.
"Hello, I'm going to ask you a question that you've probably been asked a hundred times."
"What's that then?"
"Where's the Youth Hostel?"
"No, I've never been asked that before. It's....."
By this time Liz has spotted the large "Youth Hostel 100yds" sign fixed to the lampost, and has started to snigger. They arrive, about 50m from where they ascended up the path, and find the Hostel shut, apart from the drying room, after dumping their packs they move on to the first coffee shop (of six) and have a cream tea - it is 2.30.
Slightly moribund they then explore the town, and the church featuring Little John's (he of Robin Hood fame) grave, it is nine feet (3M) long (and empty), and some 14th Century gargoyles. Liz is distressed by the Captain's cavalier attitude to the guide book for the church, i.e. to borrow it rather than purchase it, racked with Christian duty, she buys it and then carries it around the church unread. They return to "town" and mooch around the shops avoiding the showers. The Captain is delighted to find the Walnut Club Brassiere but discomfited by the thought of the "T" cup (they will in fact see a woman who may well use the Walnut Club Brassiere on the top of Mam Tor - no, it's true).
Finally they return to the Hostel and sign in, as Liz flashes the paperwork the Captain peruses the comments book and is met with a picture of lots of circles bearing the legend, in the shaky handwriting of an eight year old, "Looking down the Devil's Arse" he closes the book, "Better than up maybe." he thinks.
After sorting out, they sit in the lounge and watch TV - for the news - then, having asked, they set off for the Little John pub, now LJ's, where they find a wake, a wake that has been going on for some time, a wake where some of the celebrants have either, or will soon be joining, the wakee. They manoeuvre around the bar-holderoners, and peruse the pints, one local and three from down South. After that, there is a problem with the menu - it is too long. Eventually Liz plumps for the tuna and a suet pudding plumps the Captain both portions are huge. Eventually they retire back to the Hostel to digest, to be taught crib, and to attempt the descent into the arms of Morpheus, re-ascend into the kidneys of Dionysus, and finally get reacquainted with Morpheus, whom they greatly prefer.
The breakfast chef is very excitable, after sampling his coffee, Liz realizes why and leaving her coffee for the Captain (who has eschewed breakfast and is hoping to rely on ketosis) shifts to tea. Others arrive, and chef moves to new heights of bonhomie with the six year olds, "Do you want some hash browns, nothing like a bit of hash first thing in the morning. Who wants some arsehole wrapped in pigskin?" The children's concept of breakfast moves rapidly towards a bit of dry toast. Liz and the Captain leave, secure in the knowledge that he will crash by eleven.
Having previously determined that the stepping stones across the river will be a bad idea (they are actually one foot (30cm) underwater, they reverse reprise their route of the previous day back to the roadbridge, and then struggle along the riverside path. After an hour or two the small amount of coffee that the Captain has consumed makes its presence felt, such is its caffeinic potency, he sends Liz ahead, checks behind and finds a suitable wall. As he leaves, he looks across the river towards the cafe "boasting river view" that has just swum into focus behind the trees, "Ho hum".
They continue towards Castleton.... TOWARDS CASTLETON!
"Oh sorry, Got my roads confused a bit, let me just check the GPS, right! Back this way then, follow me."
Mam Tor swings snowily into view. On the trip they see mud, dippers, mud, lambs, mud, hardy souls and more mud. It takes four hours to do the seven miles (11.6km) to Castleton, fortunately the Hostel is open, so they check in, have a cup of tea, and move to the dorms. The Captain's room has a pair of "lads" in it, he keeps his fingers crossed - it doesn't work, the lads will re-emerge at 12 and 2 am - drunk.
After settling in the Captain meets Liz in the Quiet Room. Definition of the Quiet Room: Somewhere to dump the kids so that they can play giant Connect Four, or Jenga, or run riot and disturb people who are after a genuine bit of peace and quiet. Frowning works until a family of five arrive and scream. The Captain and Liz retreat to town for a bite of lunch, lunch which is late, heavy on cake and the wallet. Later after a snooze - in the Common Room which is devoid of people (who are all whooping it up in the Quiet room) dinner is declared, they trip down to the Cheshire Cheese which is promptly deemed to expensive, so they only stop for a pint. Then they return to The Castle where Kaylie manages to squeeze them in to a table reserved for four other people. This is an ongoing problem, starvation and boredom drive them out of the hostels at the same time as people are feeding their children - selfish bastards. Kaylie returns with menus, and Liz prepares to wince as the Captain revs up what he thinks is wit, and everyone else recognises as smart-alecry and pedanticism. The menu states "Please tell us if you have any allergies."
"Kaylie, I have to tell you that I'm allergic to guinea pigs!"
Wince.
"Oh, hahahah...." from Kaylie.
At this point Liz contemplates whether the Captain should have said he was allergic to human saliva. As they masticate their way through another pound (454g) or two (908g) of food they watch a father on the next table with three kids. The children start their meal, another punter drifts to the previously unnoticed sweet cabinet and starts shouting back the choice to his group. The children stop eating, the youngest declaring that, while he is full to bursting, that he thinks he could manage a bit of Rocky Road cheesecake. Pa watches Kaylie take away a large part of his income - uneaten and replace it with several things that will have the family bouncing off the walls for the next five hours, before being sick - or vic- versa.
After a last half in the George they return for more cribbage, first they have to combine the three decks of cards, defacing a few to make up a full set. Steam runs out, and, at eleven, they go to bed, the Captain stares gloomily at the bunk spaces where the "Lads" should be, they are empty. The room however is full of a fug of socks, and Lynx, quite a lot of Lynx. The Captain muses that, if their advertising has any value, scantily clad women will launch themselves across the breakfast table towards him every time he exhales.
12.10 am. Door bursts open slamming into end of bunk, resulting tectonic shift causing startling wakefulness in the Captain and superior bedfellow. Light turned on to wake others.
12.30 am. Door bursts open, Liz wakes up to find man in room, standing in alcoholic daze, she bundles him out and locks the door.
02.20 am. Door bursts open slamming into end of bunk, resulting tectonic shift causing startling wakefulness in the Captain and superior bedfellow. Bunk occupied.
07.00 am. Lad 2 arrives with attendant Totty for loud conversation. Everyone else gets up and leaves.
Over breakfast the "Lads" are mentioned to the staff with variable degrees of forcefulness by several different people. Amazingly, the staff decamp to evict the "Lads" plus Totty, though not without protest ("I don't know what the fuck you're on about mate!").
Slightly exhausted after two nights interrupted sleep, Liz and the Captain lurch up Cave Dale to emerge onto the lead-mine strewn plateau, as they plod along they become aware of a minor miracle, they can see their shadows! The afternoon continues sunny but with a vicious wind, they stop for a pee and a cup of tea (well a thin plastic vessel that is extraordinarily good at conducting heat into the fingers full of tea) before continuing down to Treak Cliff Cavern. Half mine half cave the cavern places the Captain firmly in spelio-/geological heaven, Liz however, is in Easter Egg hunt chocolate heaven, shouldering aside small children for not very cocoa-laden goodies, poorly hidden by a girl in a bunny suit (that's the full-body big ears and feet sort), soon they will both be in another cup of tea heaven. Treak Cliff boasts the largest chunk of Blue John in the World - it holds the roof up. Afterwards they stroll (squelch actually) into town for a sandwich from the grocery store, a pint in the Cheddar Cheese and an ice-cream from the sweet shop. Beer ice cream is advertised, it is flavoured with Pride of Sheffield but the shopkeeper does not know the brewery, mentally flipping through his arcania, the Captain volunteers that it may be Kelham Island (the only Sheffield brewery he knows - apart from Wards, Stones, Gilmours and Tennants - now defunct, oh, and Tomlinsons). On their way out they encounter a pair of Lad-embattled Hostellites on their way in. When the Captain encounters them later, and beer ice-cream is discussed, he will be told that it is Pride of Sheffield from Kelham Island - according to the woman in the shop.
In the evening they once again arrive at the Castle ten minutes behind everyone else and so end up in the Nag's Head where Liz decamps to wine in an attempt to ameliorate nightime anxiety.
It is morning, the Captain has finished his breakfast, and has started to fret, eventually he goes and knocks on the door of Room 1.
"Hello?"
"Umm. Is Liz there?"
"She's still asleep."
"Come in."
"Oh, er, oh."
A duvet is sprawled across the bed, the Captain takes a finger and pokes what he hopes is a neutral part of Liz's anatomy.
"Mwah!"
"It's nine o'clock!"
"-----------"
Another poke.
"I'M AWAKE!"
"..... mmmm. You'll miss breakfast."
Ten minutes later she is there - in the flesh but not in spirit. An hour and a half later they leave and venture forth to the Farmer's Market (two butchers, two cake stands) and the sweet shop (for fruit liquorice). The weather is overcast with spits of icy rain, as soon as they leave the road it tries harder, forcing them both into the exquisite torture that is putting on overtrousers. As soon ("soon" here being a relative term, including hopping, banging elbows on dry stone walls and cursing) as they are on - it stops - naturally, c'est normal as they say in/en France. There is a moment's unspoken consultation - conclusion - "Bollocks to that for a game of soldiers!", and they continue, backtracking yesterday's route and then ascending Mam Tor via the erosion-dampening steps. At the summit, the Captain points to the weather tracking in from Kinderscout, a few moments later it hits them, 40+ miles per hour (64+ KPH) winds laden with fine rain and spiky hail. The Captain tries to see how many degrees of lean he can get, when he attempts the same leaning back into the wind he notices that his partner in crime has hit the deck, the gust has caught the sail of her pack and punched a large dint in her confidence. He hunkers and explains an old mountain man technique (the technique not the man), the problem with OMMT's is that is that they require the invasion of Liz's personal space, something that has only been successfully achieved by her husband. The Captain explains that in order to get out of the wind they will have to progress and that the best way to progress is to link arms, and battle forward, he assures her that while the view over the Derbyshire Dales from her personal ascent may be breathtaking, there will be considerably more breath taken from her on landing, and that it probably won't be returned. He also invokes the biscuits that are in her pack, and that can't be accessed until they are out of the wind, and the ridicule that she will be subjected to by hardy Northerners if she crawls. They link arms and ten paces later are in the lee of the slope, though it is still quite exciting to stick a stick above their heads to pick up the actual wind. There follows a squally procession along the ridge until they find a wall that is tall and sturdy enough to give cover for the biscuit stop. Then on to Back tor where they turn into the, now moderated, wind, descend to the valley bottom and the Youth Hostel at Edale.
The YH at Edale is not as nice as the one at Castleton, a spotty youth (whom the Captain will see later at the kitchen door in his Chef's duds having a quick break from culinary masterdom via a cigarette) signs them in . They ensconce and head off to the "town", only losing the footpath once (the marker was hidden behind the marker that said "Footpath"). Another Nags Head (1577) is full of families, they order a half of the 1577 (5.7% probably OG of 1057 a favourite brewers joke) for Liz, and a pint of Black (3.5%) for the Captain. Afterwards the Captain is convinced that the heads on the pumps were the wrong way round for when he staggers further into town looking for the other pub they find the Mountain Rescue team on their third call-out of the day, with them there is a rescue dog, one of those in-bred Border Collies that have thrown one blue and one brown eye. Having ascertained his nature, the Captain assaults him both physically and emotionally.
"Have you got a wall-eye, have you, have you? You have. Whose got a wall-eye? Yes, you have!"
Liz is both horrified and delighted: horrified as she can see the Captain on the wards,"Whose got diabetes? You have, yes you have!", delighted for she knows that she can, and will, use this against him for several months, probably at least ninety. "Yes, whose got rogue genes? Now then can you tell me where the other pub is?" The dog can't but it's bemused owner can, having ascertained directions they try it out, it is far superior to the first one, and features beers from Thornbridge Brewery, of which they have a small sample. They return to the Hostel for dinner, it is average (if that) but features Cauliflower and Broccoli soup, which appears to be what you get if you boil cauliflower and broccoli for too long.
A brief discursion into YH meals, why on earth, when people are sleeping in dorms, do you have cauliflower and broccoli soup, lentil cottage pie and vegetable curry?
The pair play some more cards and head off to bed.
The next day, and Liz has not booked breakfast, at breakfast time Liz wishes she had booked breakfast, so buys eggs, a tea bag and a loaf of bread, they give half of the loaf to some other kitchen users and receive a slab of moderately frozen turkey in return. After that they set off to walk to the station at Hope along the old Roman road route along the tops. This is a mountain bikers route and is full of pairs of mountain bikers, they always seem to come in pairs: Adonis accompanied by Bacchus. Adonis cycles past, "Good Morning! What a breezy day, do you think it will cheer up later?". Several minutes later and here come Bacchus, rubicund, blowing, hunched, "Ark!"
It's as if Adonis invited out his fat mate to make him look good - surely not.
At Hope, the tea shop is investigated for tea-cakes, they have some and some tea, then the station is investigated for trains, they also have some, finally Sheffield is investigated for pubs, a result, they have several, and the Station Tap is run by Thornbridge - hoorah!
On returning to London, there are no tubes, life has returned to normal.
* I'd just like to say that I was there when Liz became a woman, we were on a bike ride together and went past a family, one child turned to the other and said, "Did you see that woman on the bicycle?" the first time Liz had ever been addressed as anything but a girl (insults apart). She has moped ever since. "Whose a woman? You are, yes you are - a woman. Yes."
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Famille en Fete
MONDAY
A man is not sitting on a train, the British countryside is not flashing past his bright clear vision, his salt-and-pepper hair is not being gently ruffled by the breeze from the air-conditioning, instead, his usual calm persona is being run roughshod over by the scrum in the P&O office. Yes, he is supposed to be travelling through France on Eurostar but apparently the normal winter weather in Northern France is proving tricky, i.e. it has snowed near the coast and nothing works. P&O have been incapable of predicting that there might be a lot of people trying to use the ferry, and also incapable of keeping an electricity supply to their computers.
Nick (for it is he), decides that it is a toss-up between a heart attack and an ulcer, it is a close run thing, the coronary might get him out of the mayhem, but no nearer his destination (not that he’s going to get there) but the ulcer will fuel his ire, plus he has the chance to puke copious amounts of blood over the wastrels (multinational) who have pushed in front of him, potentially gaining him a place or two in the queue.
Eventually he arrives at the front, “Can I have a ticket to….”
“I’m sorry Sir (my capital) this is the reservations queue, I can’t sell you a ticket.”
I appeal to his common sense, perhaps he can see my sanguinary gorge rising, for (at my suggestion) he gets the bloke next door to sell me a ticket. An hour and a half later the ferry leaves and snails its way across the Channel, all hope of any sort of movement South has gone. Brother Steve books me into an hotel in Calais (when I say books, that means he makes a reservation in my name), and I sit with my fellow refugees on the boat, waiting for a coach, after Customs I will stand in the cold with my fellow refugees, waiting for a coach.
We arrive at Calais station, I stand in a queue in order to see if I can change my tickets for the next day. A miracle I have success! I also try and pick up my tickets for return, this is a bone of contention between Rail Europe and myself, I maintain that their information does not say what they say it says, they say it does. I put in the relevant details into the machine, it just stares monoptically back at me and sticks out a verbal tongue, "No record of any transactions under this name, this reference number, this bit of plastic, anyone with your stress levels, or phenotype, now bugger off and bother one of the TEN machines!" Oh good!
Now all I have to do is find my hotel. I ask Dominique for Boulevard Jaquard, she is unsure but after consultation points me down the main drag, I discover that this is, in fact, Blvd Jaquard and that the big red “Hotel” sign that I’m standing underneath is my hotel. After an incomprehensible chat about breakfast, and five fruitless minutes of cursing as my card fails to open the wrong door (305 instead of 503 – I was fraught ok) I wander round town to look for dinner, my legacy dividend cheques are burning a hole in my pocket (actually they contribute a mild warm feeling, like a slow dance with a girl when you’re eighteen), so I plump for a restaurant boasting a 15 Euro menu, which disappears on the interior one. I come over all English, don’t ask and go a la carte, which was very nice (skate wing in black butter). In a fit of largesse (and a faulty menu memory) I opt to finish with a calvados, when the bill comes, I realise I could have bought a bottle from Tesco for the same amount. BUT, this is the first time in 24 hours that my adrenal glands have stopped squirting, in the meantime they have left my cardiovascular system in tatters, and by now probably look like the moustaches of old men draped over my kidneys rather than the plump beans they’re supposed to look like. Relative calm descends and I head back to the hotel, skidding over the rapidly freezing slush.
One dubbed Sci-Fi film later (I read the story in about 1970, A Sound of Thunder, if you’re interested) and night closes over me like it does over people who haven’t slept for the last forty hours, and are in the transcendental state where they have forgotten to be sensible about spending (Ladies, this doesn’t last, watch out for it and take advantage while it you can), I was going to say “like an iron fist in a velvet glove” but sadly this isn’t the case, surplus adrenalin still roves my body like a fox in the reeds, flushing small ducks of panic, and bringing my consciousness soaring realityward, it is a pain in the arse!,
TUESDAY
Traffic starts at 5.00, I listen to a stream of vehicles steadily crunch their way through the frozen slush, little bursts of adrenalin still ravage my body, lending my drowsy dreams a lurid colour scheme. I risk the petit dejeuner, which was fine except for the cafe execrable (it didn’t actually say that on the button but it should, I opted for Fruits of the Forest tea instead – demi-execrable), and then ventured into town, well, I wandered around Carrefour looking for treacle (suffice it to say I did not want another Purple Sprouting debacle). Thence to the station for a quick diddley-dum to Lille, where I mooched around Carrefour looking for treacle, I did find golden syrup in the World Foods section but that isn’t treacle where I come from, O Crikey, I hope it isn’t!
A slightly better cup of coffee in the station Irish Pub, and then on to the train, where I discovered that I’d been upgraded to First but sadly in the downstairs bit. One of the ways I could tell it was First is that there was no room for any luggage, I presume these people commute from house to house and wardrobe to wardrobe. I pulled out the laptop and set it up, to look seasoned-traveller savvy, I didn’t want these people to think I was the sort of person who’d spent the entire previous day cursing, instead I typed, uttering the occasional, “Oh ha ha. Jolly good.” and doing pensive chin-stroking, then I reverted to puerality and went and checked out the First Class toilet and the view from upstairs (better, bastards!), that is after I’d discovered the reclining seat button (this took up a good five minutes and distinctly reduced my S-T cred.
The North French countryside speeding past the window is dull at the best of times, the patina of snow moves it into the mind-numbingly boring. Eventually I arrive at Sete, and am met by Tessa and two excited princesses, who whisk me away through the Christmas lights to Rue d'Auvergne, Tuscan Bean soup and red wine. I sleep well.
WEDNESDAY
I emerge for a breakfast and embark on what I suspect is the start of a week-long cholesterol fest. Then we, "the boys" are dispatched into town to do the market, every time I draw breath to speak, people start to talk to me in English, I begin to suspect that my neice, or even my brother, has perhaps tattooed me with a Union Jack during my unconsciousness. We return for lunch and are then dispatched to the hypermarche for an ubershop. Shopped out we succumb to pizza followed by cheese, a chat in the bath with the neices and a couple of choice readings par l'Oncle Nick.
In bed I decide to pad out the reportage of the day, hence: The house has changed since my last visit, so that the guest bedroom has changed ends of the building, it has an en-suite shower and basin and an adjacent toilet. Now I say en-suite, there is a room off the bedroom that does indeed feature a shower and basin, it also features a large window that opens onto the kitchen (very handy for instance when you're shaving and are asked how many slices of toast do you want, unable to verbally reply one can merely open the window and hold up the requisite amount of fingers, though, in reverse, kitchen users may feel an unsolicited desire for sausages, or in my case salami).
The bathroom door is also noticeably shorter than its counterpart leaving one with the distinct feeling of going down into the bathroom, contrast this with the toilet which, though adjacent, is under the stairs, I can foresee unpleasant incidents involving the quaffing of an excessive amount of wine, and a drunken attempt the keep the ceiling parallel to the top of one's head. I'll let you know after tomorrow.
Finally, the bathroom features some squirty handsoap, a transient phenomenon I realise but still worth mentioning. The soap is vanilla-flavoured but is also yellow, so every time you use it you have the strange sensation of squirting some Birds Custard onto your outstretched palms, I feel like turning to the left, opening the window and appealing for some rhubarb crumble.
THURSDAY 24th December -MY BIRTHDAY.
The dawn chorus appears to consist of a selection of small girls singing "Happy Birthday", realising that it is mine, the birthday not the selection, I join in. After that I am inviegled through various orifices (see above) to "Hurry up!". At breakfast, after I have donned a pair of antlers (though this sits uncomfortably with the concept of a horned man) there are presents, all edible, I count the number of marzipan fruits and, while tempering my face into an amiable rictus, gloomily survey the number round the table, I resolve that my brother will receive the banana one.
After a few more renditions of HB, Steve goes into town to pick up a prescription and most of a chocolate shop (I remember this, and perk up, fruitwise, there may be a trade off) and the rest of us head off to listen to rival brass bands (Santas vs Santa's Elves) and chat to school friends, after this we have some exertion in the playground before returning for lunch and Tessa's first piece-de-resistance of the day (versatile huh?) a version of my favourite chocolate cake, made from Great Aunt May's recipe, which features no instructions. For a first attempt it is a masterpiece, though I expect better in the years to come....if I'm allowed to live that long.
In the afternoon, after some playing, Tessa and I sneak out for a stroll along the sea-front to admire the biggest sea I've ever seen in the Med. There are sneaky blow holes that go off when you least expect them, and interesting explosions of spray. When we round the bend we indulge ourselves by rescuing a kite surfer.
How to rescue a kite surfer:
1. Watch them get into difficulty when they lose their board.
2. Point helpfully at the board as it wilfully avoids contact with its master (point from two angles to allow cross bearings.
3. Keep pointing as the kite surfer gets dragged to another bit of beach by his kite, and another surfer comes up to find out what you're pointing at .
4. Indicate to finder surfer when an enormous wave is about to crush him against the breakwater, there are two ways to do this, one is to point dramatically behind them, the other is to skip backward at high speed, the latter, with its sense of purpose is probably more effective - and drier.
5.Retrieve board from battered surfer and reply to comment/interrogation with non-commital non-verbal Gallic sign-language.
6.Return board to effusive dragee.
7.Become bathed in self-glorification, ignoring the fact that you only pointed.
8.Return to Family Home for a levelling bout of disinterest from dry, occupying family members.
After more playing we were forced to eat again, another P-d-R of sushi and some more cake. The day is rounded off with a rendition (en francais par le Birthday Boy [le garcon anniversaire doesn't alliterate]) of Barbie le Mousquetaire, and a film for the adults. I have to confess that I made a bit of a cods by getting "Enchanted" and the "Princess Diaries" confused, still isn't Ann Hathaway lovely (and doesn't she have an enormous gob?).
Finally, we helped Santa drink his drink and eat his biscuit, and I went to bed, listening to the traditional Christmas sounds of my Brother wrapping his presents at the last minute, until he starts to read one of the books that he's bought.
FRIDAY - CHRISTMAS DAY
Such has been the excitement of the previous day, that the Princesses don't rise before the dawn. Christmas Day is a well-regimented affair. Presents are viewed before breakfast, a single present is allowed to be opened after breakfast, lunch is taken and followed by an orgy of ripped paper, after which there is playing before supper. After supper all those under the age of twenty go to bed, and those over, go to seed over chocolate, liquorice and a selection of books.
I stare at the mound of presents under the tree, thinking that Christmas is a time for children - the lucky bastards! After breakfast, and some sliding on the slide that seems to have fallen off Santa's sleigh into the back garden, Steve and I head off to the Patisserie/Boulangerie for some bread, I festively sport my dishevelled deely-boppers as I can no longer find my birthday antlers. On our return we meet a Tennis Player (as explained in previous posts they know a lot of Tennis Players) who has a chat with Steve peppered with a few asides to me, my translational lag means that the conversation becomes disjointed, and the TP's gaze keeps wandering back to my boppers, I begin to suspect that for him they have moved from the realms of British frivolity to the slightly marshier grounds of British Care in the Community.
We return and a family present is opened, it is a briefcase-sized table tennis table, this will partially occupy us as Tessa retreats to the kitchen armed with a timer and no-nonsense attitude. Vegetables roast perfectly, on pain of death, on the strength of this (and other miracles of will - for details send an SAE to me marked "Steve") I intend to take Tessa to Hastings on a rising tide, and dependant on the outcome make a bid for the Danish throne.
Dinner is, of course, immaculate, even the bit of animal has been cooked to perfection (by the vegetarian). As the table is cleared tension mounts, soon there will be presents. Even I get some, a selection of liquorice and some truffles. As the whiff of paper-rending adrenaline subsides, Steve and I are dispatched for a post-prandial walk in the afternoon sunshine (cf Thursday), I offer a truffle, the cocoa hit is overwhelming, like being banged over the head with an expresso machine, small objects (like atoms) stand out in sharp relief, the slightly cool air tornados in and out, neurons die of ecstasy.
Later we will eat more, starting with oysters and finishing with mercifully milky chocolate.
SATURDAY - BOXING DAY
After breakfast I went and got the bread, honing my one sentence of French and reprising it by substituting "bread" for "beer". I then went and got exposure with the children at the tennis club, before returning for lunch of a cold collation.
After lunch I began to fret about my non-existent return ticket and so Steve and I went off to the Station. First we tried the self-service machine, "Oh hello Mr Hayes, here's your ticket!" We came back from the station and ate - Chinese. You see this is how JK manages to make Potter so thick, I say Chinese, she bangs on for five pages and may even drop in a fart joke (Expelliarmus Fortissimo).
Then we did some playing and had a bath and watched another of my choices (The Life Aquatic) (with chocolate) and went to bed.
SUNDAY
Walk Day, we had trawled through the walk book and re-elected to go back near Salagou (where we went earlier in the year) in fact to a village called Liausson, where we were to traverse le petit montagne. The sun was out, God wasn't in his heaven (the atheist view) and all was temporarily right with the world. Off we went along a driveway before ascending up what was probably the donkey track between Liausson and Mouzeres. It became clear as we progressed that my brother made a significant contribution to global warming. When the track swung through 180 degrees he allowed me to move in front, still downwind, such generosity of spirit, fifty six years later and it's still my fault for being born.
We ascended until the trees thinned out, and the view crept in, eventually reaching a small col, where we turned left (East) along the spine while the trees thinned and the view over Mouzeres and its garden of dolomite pillars appeared. The path became slightly more scrambly until we popped out on the top (when I say "popped out", I mean that a thin streamer of methane was wafted towards Savoie). We declared it lunchtime and sat to eat our frugal repast of, bread, saucisson, clementine and liquorice.
After lunch we moved on through scrub oak and the odd juniper, meeting lots of people coming the other way, and began our descent until we came to the Grotte de Liausson, a small hole. I investigated using the flashlight feature of my phone and found a hole that went about 5 metres with a possible (very) tight extension, and a few formations (mainly caught up in a boulder choke at the entrance). Grotted out we continued down into a change of rock and forest, before re-emerging at the village, it was declared a good walk.
So taken with the countryside were we, that we decided on the scenic route back, it was very scenic, bits of the GPS kept disappearing and swinging back into view from another direction, it was very exciting. Then we turned off onto a single track road littered with hunters, presumably after boar (of whom. there was a lot of evidence on the top). Fortunately the hunt had just finished so les chasseurs were still struggling into their vans rather than driving home after, I'm of the opinion that it's the French who put the "party" into hunting party.
At this point we had a 'phone call to ask where we were. Upon being told that we had decided upon the scenic route, our veracity was called into question so it was with some dudgeon that we came down to the coastal plain along roads lined with plane trees, and watched Agde and Sete disappear below the horizon before skedaddling down the motorway to make Sete reappear again.
Evening, a chick pea and aubergine curry to remind me of other stuff I forgot to bring, followed by a lengthy read to try and finish Glen David Gold (or Mr Sebold as I like to call him) 's second novel.
MONDAY
Tessa goes off to play tennis leaving me to play the "shopping game" with the children (a pictorial and exploitative version of Lotto). The first game is fine but all Hell breaks loose during the second as both children vie, first by volume, and then by lachrymation, for the card bearing the (apparently) Fabled Cake of Atlantis, guaranteed to give its owner the power of flight, a chat line to several deities, omnipotence and access to the Haribo factory. After a long session of trying to be reasonable - a dismal failure, appeals to logic - what that, an explanation of equanimity - see both of the above, I depart to one end of the room with a ball and the Mooshter, and Steve supervises some drawing with Imo.
Tessa returns, slightly miffed at allowing her opponent a couple of games (she is now known as L'Anglaise - it is used as a curse), and a small lunch is declared.
After lunch we go swimming, well, sort of swimming. We head off to the pool in time to catch the wave-machine, yes, that sort of swimming. As the pool fills up with children I am disappointed to discover that this means the flume is turned off, apparently the Lifeguards attention is turned towards the child-destroying swell. In fact it’s most unpleasant in the shallows, where the chop rolls in and pushes you up the slope past the two year olds. The wave-machine stops, and I head off for the flume, my first big one (I go to pools to swim, they’re not there for leisure y’know, they’re there to teach life skills, like suffering), it is shallow and populated by people fifty years younger than me. The family in front are too busy chatting to notice that the previous user is now down and standing dripping in the queue behind them. They ignore my “Pas de personne!” avec gesture, and appeal to the Lifeguards for an adjudication, this, of course, is reliant on the lifeguards being in the same psychological arena as everyone else, sadly they have been diverted by each other, and so we now stand around waiting for several more minutes for the Tobogganer Phantome. However, I eventually get my go, a wind up on the crossbar and a quick schusse down the sluice with suitable graceful entry into the pool. What, no applause! I eventually take Imo down, it is embarrassing, we don’t move until the last few feet, and then I forget that I should stand up, so that we both disappear in the plunge pool, though to be fair I am supporting Imo two feet above my head, sadly, I’m lying in four feet of water. Apparently the Lifeguard notices an absence of bodily presence on the surface and is nearly moved to action, probably a shrug and hand-wave.
After waiting for Steve’s towel in the Jacuzzi (a slight misunderstanding) I notice the water is brown, we quit the Jacuzzi and spend a long time under the showers. Then, pausing for bread, a quick shop for Tartiflette goodies, and we return to cook said Tartiflette plus sauté potatoes for Tessa. The concensus is that we should have added the rest of the Reblochon ten minutes before the end, still, we can have another go. I then set off on a marathon read in order to finish the book, I succeed at 11.00 pm and retire to bed to explore the next one.
TUESDAY
I arise and expose myself to shower roulette for the last time, after breakfast I mosey upstairs to harmony, Imo is writing and illustrating a story, the Mooshter is playing the shopping game, strangely the card featuring “Cake” is missing. We then troop off to the Tennis Club to watch Steve battling one of the Coaches, the sun is low in the sky, that’ll be it. The Clubhouse is full of bonhomie but ere long I have to depart.
A quick go at stopping Mooshie falling off the slide (Mooshie’s fleece trousers are the business as far as sliding goes, she keeps ending up halfway across the catchmat, cushioned by her nappy), then I get in the car and catch the train, now all I have to worry about is whether my flat has been flooded, or whether the freezer has defrosted to the point of putrefaction, that is – after Paris.
A man is not sitting on a train, the British countryside is not flashing past his bright clear vision, his salt-and-pepper hair is not being gently ruffled by the breeze from the air-conditioning, instead, his usual calm persona is being run roughshod over by the scrum in the P&O office. Yes, he is supposed to be travelling through France on Eurostar but apparently the normal winter weather in Northern France is proving tricky, i.e. it has snowed near the coast and nothing works. P&O have been incapable of predicting that there might be a lot of people trying to use the ferry, and also incapable of keeping an electricity supply to their computers.
Nick (for it is he), decides that it is a toss-up between a heart attack and an ulcer, it is a close run thing, the coronary might get him out of the mayhem, but no nearer his destination (not that he’s going to get there) but the ulcer will fuel his ire, plus he has the chance to puke copious amounts of blood over the wastrels (multinational) who have pushed in front of him, potentially gaining him a place or two in the queue.
Eventually he arrives at the front, “Can I have a ticket to….”
“I’m sorry Sir (my capital) this is the reservations queue, I can’t sell you a ticket.”
I appeal to his common sense, perhaps he can see my sanguinary gorge rising, for (at my suggestion) he gets the bloke next door to sell me a ticket. An hour and a half later the ferry leaves and snails its way across the Channel, all hope of any sort of movement South has gone. Brother Steve books me into an hotel in Calais (when I say books, that means he makes a reservation in my name), and I sit with my fellow refugees on the boat, waiting for a coach, after Customs I will stand in the cold with my fellow refugees, waiting for a coach.
We arrive at Calais station, I stand in a queue in order to see if I can change my tickets for the next day. A miracle I have success! I also try and pick up my tickets for return, this is a bone of contention between Rail Europe and myself, I maintain that their information does not say what they say it says, they say it does. I put in the relevant details into the machine, it just stares monoptically back at me and sticks out a verbal tongue, "No record of any transactions under this name, this reference number, this bit of plastic, anyone with your stress levels, or phenotype, now bugger off and bother one of the TEN machines!" Oh good!
Now all I have to do is find my hotel. I ask Dominique for Boulevard Jaquard, she is unsure but after consultation points me down the main drag, I discover that this is, in fact, Blvd Jaquard and that the big red “Hotel” sign that I’m standing underneath is my hotel. After an incomprehensible chat about breakfast, and five fruitless minutes of cursing as my card fails to open the wrong door (305 instead of 503 – I was fraught ok) I wander round town to look for dinner, my legacy dividend cheques are burning a hole in my pocket (actually they contribute a mild warm feeling, like a slow dance with a girl when you’re eighteen), so I plump for a restaurant boasting a 15 Euro menu, which disappears on the interior one. I come over all English, don’t ask and go a la carte, which was very nice (skate wing in black butter). In a fit of largesse (and a faulty menu memory) I opt to finish with a calvados, when the bill comes, I realise I could have bought a bottle from Tesco for the same amount. BUT, this is the first time in 24 hours that my adrenal glands have stopped squirting, in the meantime they have left my cardiovascular system in tatters, and by now probably look like the moustaches of old men draped over my kidneys rather than the plump beans they’re supposed to look like. Relative calm descends and I head back to the hotel, skidding over the rapidly freezing slush.
One dubbed Sci-Fi film later (I read the story in about 1970, A Sound of Thunder, if you’re interested) and night closes over me like it does over people who haven’t slept for the last forty hours, and are in the transcendental state where they have forgotten to be sensible about spending (Ladies, this doesn’t last, watch out for it and take advantage while it you can), I was going to say “like an iron fist in a velvet glove” but sadly this isn’t the case, surplus adrenalin still roves my body like a fox in the reeds, flushing small ducks of panic, and bringing my consciousness soaring realityward, it is a pain in the arse!,
TUESDAY
Traffic starts at 5.00, I listen to a stream of vehicles steadily crunch their way through the frozen slush, little bursts of adrenalin still ravage my body, lending my drowsy dreams a lurid colour scheme. I risk the petit dejeuner, which was fine except for the cafe execrable (it didn’t actually say that on the button but it should, I opted for Fruits of the Forest tea instead – demi-execrable), and then ventured into town, well, I wandered around Carrefour looking for treacle (suffice it to say I did not want another Purple Sprouting debacle). Thence to the station for a quick diddley-dum to Lille, where I mooched around Carrefour looking for treacle, I did find golden syrup in the World Foods section but that isn’t treacle where I come from, O Crikey, I hope it isn’t!
A slightly better cup of coffee in the station Irish Pub, and then on to the train, where I discovered that I’d been upgraded to First but sadly in the downstairs bit. One of the ways I could tell it was First is that there was no room for any luggage, I presume these people commute from house to house and wardrobe to wardrobe. I pulled out the laptop and set it up, to look seasoned-traveller savvy, I didn’t want these people to think I was the sort of person who’d spent the entire previous day cursing, instead I typed, uttering the occasional, “Oh ha ha. Jolly good.” and doing pensive chin-stroking, then I reverted to puerality and went and checked out the First Class toilet and the view from upstairs (better, bastards!), that is after I’d discovered the reclining seat button (this took up a good five minutes and distinctly reduced my S-T cred.
The North French countryside speeding past the window is dull at the best of times, the patina of snow moves it into the mind-numbingly boring. Eventually I arrive at Sete, and am met by Tessa and two excited princesses, who whisk me away through the Christmas lights to Rue d'Auvergne, Tuscan Bean soup and red wine. I sleep well.
WEDNESDAY
I emerge for a breakfast and embark on what I suspect is the start of a week-long cholesterol fest. Then we, "the boys" are dispatched into town to do the market, every time I draw breath to speak, people start to talk to me in English, I begin to suspect that my neice, or even my brother, has perhaps tattooed me with a Union Jack during my unconsciousness. We return for lunch and are then dispatched to the hypermarche for an ubershop. Shopped out we succumb to pizza followed by cheese, a chat in the bath with the neices and a couple of choice readings par l'Oncle Nick.
In bed I decide to pad out the reportage of the day, hence: The house has changed since my last visit, so that the guest bedroom has changed ends of the building, it has an en-suite shower and basin and an adjacent toilet. Now I say en-suite, there is a room off the bedroom that does indeed feature a shower and basin, it also features a large window that opens onto the kitchen (very handy for instance when you're shaving and are asked how many slices of toast do you want, unable to verbally reply one can merely open the window and hold up the requisite amount of fingers, though, in reverse, kitchen users may feel an unsolicited desire for sausages, or in my case salami).
The bathroom door is also noticeably shorter than its counterpart leaving one with the distinct feeling of going down into the bathroom, contrast this with the toilet which, though adjacent, is under the stairs, I can foresee unpleasant incidents involving the quaffing of an excessive amount of wine, and a drunken attempt the keep the ceiling parallel to the top of one's head. I'll let you know after tomorrow.
Finally, the bathroom features some squirty handsoap, a transient phenomenon I realise but still worth mentioning. The soap is vanilla-flavoured but is also yellow, so every time you use it you have the strange sensation of squirting some Birds Custard onto your outstretched palms, I feel like turning to the left, opening the window and appealing for some rhubarb crumble.
THURSDAY 24th December -MY BIRTHDAY.
The dawn chorus appears to consist of a selection of small girls singing "Happy Birthday", realising that it is mine, the birthday not the selection, I join in. After that I am inviegled through various orifices (see above) to "Hurry up!". At breakfast, after I have donned a pair of antlers (though this sits uncomfortably with the concept of a horned man) there are presents, all edible, I count the number of marzipan fruits and, while tempering my face into an amiable rictus, gloomily survey the number round the table, I resolve that my brother will receive the banana one.
After a few more renditions of HB, Steve goes into town to pick up a prescription and most of a chocolate shop (I remember this, and perk up, fruitwise, there may be a trade off) and the rest of us head off to listen to rival brass bands (Santas vs Santa's Elves) and chat to school friends, after this we have some exertion in the playground before returning for lunch and Tessa's first piece-de-resistance of the day (versatile huh?) a version of my favourite chocolate cake, made from Great Aunt May's recipe, which features no instructions. For a first attempt it is a masterpiece, though I expect better in the years to come....if I'm allowed to live that long.
In the afternoon, after some playing, Tessa and I sneak out for a stroll along the sea-front to admire the biggest sea I've ever seen in the Med. There are sneaky blow holes that go off when you least expect them, and interesting explosions of spray. When we round the bend we indulge ourselves by rescuing a kite surfer.
How to rescue a kite surfer:
1. Watch them get into difficulty when they lose their board.
2. Point helpfully at the board as it wilfully avoids contact with its master (point from two angles to allow cross bearings.
3. Keep pointing as the kite surfer gets dragged to another bit of beach by his kite, and another surfer comes up to find out what you're pointing at .
4. Indicate to finder surfer when an enormous wave is about to crush him against the breakwater, there are two ways to do this, one is to point dramatically behind them, the other is to skip backward at high speed, the latter, with its sense of purpose is probably more effective - and drier.
5.Retrieve board from battered surfer and reply to comment/interrogation with non-commital non-verbal Gallic sign-language.
6.Return board to effusive dragee.
7.Become bathed in self-glorification, ignoring the fact that you only pointed.
8.Return to Family Home for a levelling bout of disinterest from dry, occupying family members.
After more playing we were forced to eat again, another P-d-R of sushi and some more cake. The day is rounded off with a rendition (en francais par le Birthday Boy [le garcon anniversaire doesn't alliterate]) of Barbie le Mousquetaire, and a film for the adults. I have to confess that I made a bit of a cods by getting "Enchanted" and the "Princess Diaries" confused, still isn't Ann Hathaway lovely (and doesn't she have an enormous gob?).
Finally, we helped Santa drink his drink and eat his biscuit, and I went to bed, listening to the traditional Christmas sounds of my Brother wrapping his presents at the last minute, until he starts to read one of the books that he's bought.
FRIDAY - CHRISTMAS DAY
Such has been the excitement of the previous day, that the Princesses don't rise before the dawn. Christmas Day is a well-regimented affair. Presents are viewed before breakfast, a single present is allowed to be opened after breakfast, lunch is taken and followed by an orgy of ripped paper, after which there is playing before supper. After supper all those under the age of twenty go to bed, and those over, go to seed over chocolate, liquorice and a selection of books.
I stare at the mound of presents under the tree, thinking that Christmas is a time for children - the lucky bastards! After breakfast, and some sliding on the slide that seems to have fallen off Santa's sleigh into the back garden, Steve and I head off to the Patisserie/Boulangerie for some bread, I festively sport my dishevelled deely-boppers as I can no longer find my birthday antlers. On our return we meet a Tennis Player (as explained in previous posts they know a lot of Tennis Players) who has a chat with Steve peppered with a few asides to me, my translational lag means that the conversation becomes disjointed, and the TP's gaze keeps wandering back to my boppers, I begin to suspect that for him they have moved from the realms of British frivolity to the slightly marshier grounds of British Care in the Community.
We return and a family present is opened, it is a briefcase-sized table tennis table, this will partially occupy us as Tessa retreats to the kitchen armed with a timer and no-nonsense attitude. Vegetables roast perfectly, on pain of death, on the strength of this (and other miracles of will - for details send an SAE to me marked "Steve") I intend to take Tessa to Hastings on a rising tide, and dependant on the outcome make a bid for the Danish throne.
Dinner is, of course, immaculate, even the bit of animal has been cooked to perfection (by the vegetarian). As the table is cleared tension mounts, soon there will be presents. Even I get some, a selection of liquorice and some truffles. As the whiff of paper-rending adrenaline subsides, Steve and I are dispatched for a post-prandial walk in the afternoon sunshine (cf Thursday), I offer a truffle, the cocoa hit is overwhelming, like being banged over the head with an expresso machine, small objects (like atoms) stand out in sharp relief, the slightly cool air tornados in and out, neurons die of ecstasy.
Later we will eat more, starting with oysters and finishing with mercifully milky chocolate.
SATURDAY - BOXING DAY
After breakfast I went and got the bread, honing my one sentence of French and reprising it by substituting "bread" for "beer". I then went and got exposure with the children at the tennis club, before returning for lunch of a cold collation.
After lunch I began to fret about my non-existent return ticket and so Steve and I went off to the Station. First we tried the self-service machine, "Oh hello Mr Hayes, here's your ticket!" We came back from the station and ate - Chinese. You see this is how JK manages to make Potter so thick, I say Chinese, she bangs on for five pages and may even drop in a fart joke (Expelliarmus Fortissimo).
Then we did some playing and had a bath and watched another of my choices (The Life Aquatic) (with chocolate) and went to bed.
SUNDAY
Walk Day, we had trawled through the walk book and re-elected to go back near Salagou (where we went earlier in the year) in fact to a village called Liausson, where we were to traverse le petit montagne. The sun was out, God wasn't in his heaven (the atheist view) and all was temporarily right with the world. Off we went along a driveway before ascending up what was probably the donkey track between Liausson and Mouzeres. It became clear as we progressed that my brother made a significant contribution to global warming. When the track swung through 180 degrees he allowed me to move in front, still downwind, such generosity of spirit, fifty six years later and it's still my fault for being born.
We ascended until the trees thinned out, and the view crept in, eventually reaching a small col, where we turned left (East) along the spine while the trees thinned and the view over Mouzeres and its garden of dolomite pillars appeared. The path became slightly more scrambly until we popped out on the top (when I say "popped out", I mean that a thin streamer of methane was wafted towards Savoie). We declared it lunchtime and sat to eat our frugal repast of, bread, saucisson, clementine and liquorice.
After lunch we moved on through scrub oak and the odd juniper, meeting lots of people coming the other way, and began our descent until we came to the Grotte de Liausson, a small hole. I investigated using the flashlight feature of my phone and found a hole that went about 5 metres with a possible (very) tight extension, and a few formations (mainly caught up in a boulder choke at the entrance). Grotted out we continued down into a change of rock and forest, before re-emerging at the village, it was declared a good walk.
So taken with the countryside were we, that we decided on the scenic route back, it was very scenic, bits of the GPS kept disappearing and swinging back into view from another direction, it was very exciting. Then we turned off onto a single track road littered with hunters, presumably after boar (of whom. there was a lot of evidence on the top). Fortunately the hunt had just finished so les chasseurs were still struggling into their vans rather than driving home after, I'm of the opinion that it's the French who put the "party" into hunting party.
At this point we had a 'phone call to ask where we were. Upon being told that we had decided upon the scenic route, our veracity was called into question so it was with some dudgeon that we came down to the coastal plain along roads lined with plane trees, and watched Agde and Sete disappear below the horizon before skedaddling down the motorway to make Sete reappear again.
Evening, a chick pea and aubergine curry to remind me of other stuff I forgot to bring, followed by a lengthy read to try and finish Glen David Gold (or Mr Sebold as I like to call him) 's second novel.
MONDAY
Tessa goes off to play tennis leaving me to play the "shopping game" with the children (a pictorial and exploitative version of Lotto). The first game is fine but all Hell breaks loose during the second as both children vie, first by volume, and then by lachrymation, for the card bearing the (apparently) Fabled Cake of Atlantis, guaranteed to give its owner the power of flight, a chat line to several deities, omnipotence and access to the Haribo factory. After a long session of trying to be reasonable - a dismal failure, appeals to logic - what that, an explanation of equanimity - see both of the above, I depart to one end of the room with a ball and the Mooshter, and Steve supervises some drawing with Imo.
Tessa returns, slightly miffed at allowing her opponent a couple of games (she is now known as L'Anglaise - it is used as a curse), and a small lunch is declared.
After lunch we go swimming, well, sort of swimming. We head off to the pool in time to catch the wave-machine, yes, that sort of swimming. As the pool fills up with children I am disappointed to discover that this means the flume is turned off, apparently the Lifeguards attention is turned towards the child-destroying swell. In fact it’s most unpleasant in the shallows, where the chop rolls in and pushes you up the slope past the two year olds. The wave-machine stops, and I head off for the flume, my first big one (I go to pools to swim, they’re not there for leisure y’know, they’re there to teach life skills, like suffering), it is shallow and populated by people fifty years younger than me. The family in front are too busy chatting to notice that the previous user is now down and standing dripping in the queue behind them. They ignore my “Pas de personne!” avec gesture, and appeal to the Lifeguards for an adjudication, this, of course, is reliant on the lifeguards being in the same psychological arena as everyone else, sadly they have been diverted by each other, and so we now stand around waiting for several more minutes for the Tobogganer Phantome. However, I eventually get my go, a wind up on the crossbar and a quick schusse down the sluice with suitable graceful entry into the pool. What, no applause! I eventually take Imo down, it is embarrassing, we don’t move until the last few feet, and then I forget that I should stand up, so that we both disappear in the plunge pool, though to be fair I am supporting Imo two feet above my head, sadly, I’m lying in four feet of water. Apparently the Lifeguard notices an absence of bodily presence on the surface and is nearly moved to action, probably a shrug and hand-wave.
After waiting for Steve’s towel in the Jacuzzi (a slight misunderstanding) I notice the water is brown, we quit the Jacuzzi and spend a long time under the showers. Then, pausing for bread, a quick shop for Tartiflette goodies, and we return to cook said Tartiflette plus sauté potatoes for Tessa. The concensus is that we should have added the rest of the Reblochon ten minutes before the end, still, we can have another go. I then set off on a marathon read in order to finish the book, I succeed at 11.00 pm and retire to bed to explore the next one.
TUESDAY
I arise and expose myself to shower roulette for the last time, after breakfast I mosey upstairs to harmony, Imo is writing and illustrating a story, the Mooshter is playing the shopping game, strangely the card featuring “Cake” is missing. We then troop off to the Tennis Club to watch Steve battling one of the Coaches, the sun is low in the sky, that’ll be it. The Clubhouse is full of bonhomie but ere long I have to depart.
A quick go at stopping Mooshie falling off the slide (Mooshie’s fleece trousers are the business as far as sliding goes, she keeps ending up halfway across the catchmat, cushioned by her nappy), then I get in the car and catch the train, now all I have to worry about is whether my flat has been flooded, or whether the freezer has defrosted to the point of putrefaction, that is – after Paris.
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
Devon Coast to Coast - The Knee Trembler
A man is standing on a train, he is staring at the floor, more particularly he is staring at his cycling mitts on the floor, he is convinced they used to be on his seat. He takes one pace forward and spots the example of Exeter youth that has ejected his mitts so that he can use his mobile more easily. After ejection Nick (for it is he) regains his seat and gloves, and contemplates the countryside whizzing pas..., whizz..., the grass at the edge of the track comes into sharp relief as the train stops.Nick, being observant, part of his profession, notices the herd of bullocks thundering across the field to observe, and comment lustily upon, the train. He thinks, "Cow on the line, hope we haven't hit it!" the latter part of the thought being for the benefit of himself and the fellow passengers, as opposed to the cow. The train edges forward passed a bemused bullock that seems to have forced the hedge.
Outside Castle Cary we come to a shuddering halt again, the bovine bush telegraph has been in operation, our train has been deemed of significant interest for cows, this time a whole herd has decamped onto the line to admire the livery. The driver is unable to warn his fellow drivers as his emergency radio has broken down, necessitating the train being taken out of service at the next station. Nick fulminates but then a glimmer of light, two engineers on the train have managed to fix the radio.
"Dear Passengers, the following trains have been held at Exeter for those of you travelling to X, Y and Z, passengers for Barnstaple, there's no way we can hold the train for thirteen minutes." Nick fulminates.
So it was that I ended up in Barnstaple an hour later than I had meant to be there, I had decided to do the Devon Coast to Coast, a cycle route of 100 and something miles running from Ilfracombe in the north to Plymouth in the south, the majority of it off-road on disused railways, Barnstaple being the closest railway station. From there I had to cycle 14 miles north to Ilfracombe and then back to Barnstaple on the railway track down the Taw estuary. I had elected to go via Guineaford, a route recommended on the internet.
Barnstaple has obviously subscribed to the same Transport Policy as Harlow, there are signs for the A39 (a road) and signs for the A361 west (another road), there are no signs for anything/anywhere else. After an hour, and several enquiries (revealing a paucity of folk who have diverted from the A39 or A361) I found a roadsign for Guineaford, the first roadsign, the first roadsign that was 1.5 miles from Barnstaple, I was now another hour late, and was getting worried about getting back before dark.
The author of the internet piece had alluded to "a few climbs", one patellic explosion later and I was cursing both him and the inability of my bike to drop swiftly into the ultra-low granny gears. I appeared to summit but this was difficult to gauge as the cloud had dropped heavily onto the top of the down and the lenses of my spectacles. The descents would have been cold but for the heat generated by my brakepads. Finally I arrive at a crossroads, and am immediately abandoned by any useful roadsigns, at this point I made my first correct decision of the day and screamed down the road entitled "Harbour P" before screeching to a halt at the Tourist Information to ask where the Tarka Trail was. They pointed back up the hill, so it was with a heavy heart and bicycle that I turned and pedalled dankly upwards.
The author: "The starting gradient is 1/32, no problem for a bike but feel for the fireman stoking.....". I had a problem with 1/32, I couldn't do it in anything but low range, and I was passed by a jogger, not a runner, a jogger. Add to this the fact that I couldn't see anything through my rain-obscured glasses. Things were desperate, I foraged - a few blackberries gave me a noticeable sugar hit (it was either that or the stopping to pick them). I clicked up a gear and set off down the single track road to Buckland, meeting several short-cutting commuters coming the other way, I was of course, forced to move to the side of the road and wait their passage. Eventually I made Braunton and promptly lost the waymarking, fulminating, I cast about and discovered them lurking in some bushes. My trip down the estuary was good with frequent pauses to admire the bird life... when it swam back into focus. Soon I was re-approaching Barnstaple, my B&B was called Sandford Mount, a fact I hadn't considered up until now. I discovered it at the top of the hill, and creaked up the drive.
She stared at me as I dripped in the hallway,
"Bring your bike into the living room and park it on the mat."
"Are you sure? It'll drip!"
"Fine, what time would you like breakfast?"
"Nine?"
"Is there anything you don't eat?"
I reviewed my 1/32 debacle plus the cramps I had later, plus my general lack of energy.
"No.
Where can I eat tonight?"
At this point she should have said,
"Risk life and limb on the pavement-/sidewalk- less major road for an eon, then turn off, walk up and down to the village and get lost, and then ask a bloke with a dog."
What she said was,
"The Crown in Lynkey. Walk about half a mile down to the end of the main road, and then down into the village."
Some pate and a sea bass fillet later (carbs supplied by a pint of Doombar and a pint of Tribute) I set out on my hazardous return journey, about a quarter of a mile from the driveway I pass a roadsign, "Lynkey 1 1/2 miles" it says. I festooned the bedroom with an assortment of wet clothes and passed out.
WEDNESDAY
I awoke to a gloomy dawn chorus of several dispirited birds, and rain dripping off the eaves, that plus increasing traffic heading into Barstaple. I turned on the 'phone in the vain hope that someone might have tried to contact me - it had died, not just run out of battery, died, a non-phone, a screen blank except for one and a half straight lines, I shaved instead.
Over breakfast the gardener, drafted in to act as waiter due to a delivery of flowers - I don't know! That's just how it was - ALRIGHT? Over breakfast the gardener asked me where I was going.
"Hatherleigh."
"Oh over hill and down dale, that'll keep you fit!"
"?!"
After I had got over this shock I decided that he was wrong, it was, after all, a railway line. Well the start of it was a railway line, well, when I found the start of it, it was a railway line, and a beautifully tarmaced one at that, well. tarmaced down to Staplevale at least, and then it wasn't.
However, it was a nice run, if you like gloom and the sort of heavy dew that drops continually from the sky, on other occasions, and with the right company, it would be lovely. I'm being churlish, it was lovely but dank.
After leaving the railway it became "over hill and down dale" and also a typical Sustrans route.
At this point she should have said,
"Risk life and limb on the pavement-/sidewalk- less major road for an eon, then turn off, walk up and down to the village and get lost, and then ask a bloke with a dog."
What she said was,
"The Crown in Lynkey. Walk about half a mile down to the end of the main road, and then down into the village."
Some pate and a sea bass fillet later (carbs supplied by a pint of Doombar and a pint of Tribute) I set out on my hazardous return journey, about a quarter of a mile from the driveway I pass a roadsign, "Lynkey 1 1/2 miles" it says. I festooned the bedroom with an assortment of wet clothes and passed out.
WEDNESDAY
I awoke to a gloomy dawn chorus of several dispirited birds, and rain dripping off the eaves, that plus increasing traffic heading into Barstaple. I turned on the 'phone in the vain hope that someone might have tried to contact me - it had died, not just run out of battery, died, a non-phone, a screen blank except for one and a half straight lines, I shaved instead.
Over breakfast the gardener, drafted in to act as waiter due to a delivery of flowers - I don't know! That's just how it was - ALRIGHT? Over breakfast the gardener asked me where I was going.
"Hatherleigh."
"Oh over hill and down dale, that'll keep you fit!"
"?!"
After I had got over this shock I decided that he was wrong, it was, after all, a railway line. Well the start of it was a railway line, well, when I found the start of it, it was a railway line, and a beautifully tarmaced one at that, well. tarmaced down to Staplevale at least, and then it wasn't.
However, it was a nice run, if you like gloom and the sort of heavy dew that drops continually from the sky, on other occasions, and with the right company, it would be lovely. I'm being churlish, it was lovely but dank.
After leaving the railway it became "over hill and down dale" and also a typical Sustrans route.
A typical Sustrans route : This way. That way. This way...............................................................
....................................................................................................................................................This way. What do you mean I didn't tell you which way to go back there? Well tough! This way. That way.
The road sign said Hatherleigh to the right, Route 27 (the Devon Coast to Coast) to the left. So it was after the bliss of the railway that I started on that most typical of Nick cycling trips - like a Triathlon without the swimming - or running- or going very fast at all. I walked up steep hills, pausing to forage, and then went down a series of what they call screaming descents, well, I know I did.
By the time I got to Hatherleigh it had nearly stopped raining - nearly. I checked into theTally Ho Inn. The girl behind the bar said that she'd send up the girl with my Continental
Breakfast, it arrived, two slices of white bread wrapped in cling film, a pot of marge, plus some milk to combine with the tea and coffee already in the room. The room smelled of stale smoke (curtains not washed since the 1st July 2007), still, I made it my own by hanging wet gear everywhere, and repairing the convector heater, whose feet fell off when you picked it up, I could sympathise. I have enclosed the link so you can avoid it, though the food and beer was fine.
Breakfast, it arrived, two slices of white bread wrapped in cling film, a pot of marge, plus some milk to combine with the tea and coffee already in the room. The room smelled of stale smoke (curtains not washed since the 1st July 2007), still, I made it my own by hanging wet gear everywhere, and repairing the convector heater, whose feet fell off when you picked it up, I could sympathise. I have enclosed the link so you can avoid it, though the food and beer was fine.
I then wandered around the town (10 minutes), which gave me the opportunity to find my route out in the morning (about 1 in 7 up) and to extend my "continental breakfast" with some bananas. My dinner was extensive, a rack of barbeque pork ribs, which necessitated some shirt cleaning afterwards. As I lay in bed attempting to digest the repast, while at the same time trying to ignore the persistent buzzing from the BBQsauce sugar-rush, I was taken back to a skiing holiday in Keystone. There I shared the room with a fridge, here I shared the room with a fridge, and not only that a fridge that could shake itself with the alacrity of a post-dip cocker spaniel, that could resonate on the same frequency as my fillings (resin AND amalgam), that would wait until 10 microseconds before my sauce-addled brain shuffled through the door to dreamland, and then would clear its phlegmy throat with all the enthusiasm of a camel with chronic hayfever.
THURSDAY (just).
At 5.30 I got up and turned off the fridge. At 8.10 I got up and discovered that the clingfilm on the "continental" had proved ineffective at stemming the flood from the defrosted (probably for the first time ever) icebox - I flushed breakfast. I then tried to leave, I had keys but was somewhat disconcerted to find the pub sans staff, after another wander round the town (5 minutes) and some topping up in the co-op (a packet of Twix, for extremis situations only), I came back to find that the Chef had arrived, he allowed himself to relieve me of some cash.
It wasn't raining, I put on my shades and set off for a brisk walk up the hill out of Hatherleigh, I took the bike with me. At the top there was a view south towards Dartmoor, I turned my wheels towards it, and set off. At the bottom of the hill the sun went for a sulk behind a cloud, I took off my shades, pulled out my other glasses and watched in horror as the side arm fell off, fortunately, actually miraculously, the screw stayed in the case. I cycled crepuscularly on, until I found a roadside fruitstall where I could borrow a holeless cardboard box in which to effect a repair with my cycle multi-tool. In gratitude, and for the sugar content, I bought a couple of apples so red that I cast around for an evil stepmother, in fact, so red that the flesh was pink.
Half an hour later and I'm in Okehampton, in fact in Specsavers,
"Can I borrow a screwdriver?"
She looked at the helmet, the fleece, the sweat and snot-stained shorts (it had been cold the previous two days, my nose had run, and the panniers I was holding.
"Ummm what size?"
I took off my specs and indicated.
"Oh! Yes they look a bit loose, I'll tighten them for you."
Okehampton has a good High Street, some cast-iron pig bike-parking and a mural of Sherlock Holmes standing on (well, nearby to, the Great Grimpen Mire), oh yes and a large hill up to the start of the cycle track. After a refreshing stroll I remounted the bike, and set off down the Granite Railway, skirting the northwest edge of Dartmoor, with an absolutely delightful (the sun had come out, it could have been wall-to-wall gorse and nettles, it would still have been delightful) across-the-moor section. It was so lovely that I lost my hankie when I rolled up my sleeves in the unexpected heat. Eventually we (the bike and I) arrived in Lydford, where I promptly had a not-inconsiderable fly lodge at the back of my throat. Consequently the passing tourist were treated to a first-class display of retching and choking (perhaps this should be "wretching") as I struggled for my water bottle, they didn't say "Hello!"
Having consumed a small amount of protein I decided to have lunch, so parked the bike in the beer garden of the Castle Inn, next to Lydford Castle, which was a prison (don't ask me, this is reportage), and went inside, then I came out again, my heart swilling around inside my boots, as I failed to find my wallet. Fortunately, with the addition of sunlight, it appeared back in my pannier, wearing a smug expression, I re-entered the pub at the back of the queue again, and ordered the last chilli baked potato.
Then on to Mary Tavy, including a bit of track that people have been complaining about for ten years, yes, even full-on hardened cyclists have been forced to walk up it. Then Peter Tavy and some more typical Sustrans marking, and finally a deliriously pretty contour to my B&B The Manor (see embarrassing video) at Samford Spiney, home to horses, dogs, alpaca, and me (for one night only). The Manor was a huge farmhouse, featuring such items as bread ovens and huge granite sinks, ("That's where they used to bleed the pigs."). I washed up and chucked a couple of sticks for the dog before heading down off the moor, to Whitchurch and yet another pub. Obviously influenced by my surroundings I opted for game pie, which incidentally, came with very good chips. I then had to head back, the dusk had fallen and would soon become night, it was at this point I discovered the shortcomings of my illuminatory equipment. The lights, so useful at saying to London traffic, "Look there's a cyclist, you now have two options, one of them illegal." were so unused to the absence of streetlights that they went into a sulk and lit virtually nothing, nothing that is, apart from the all-round visibility ring which illuminated my retina so perfectly that I had to cycle with one-eye shut to retain some night vision. It is, how shall I put this? It is disconcerting when riding up a hedged road and committing the strange shape looming over the hedge to the role of tree trunk, as opposed to monster from the Cthonic reaches, to have it suddenly move. This immediately reverses the above committal until one can reclassify it as curious horse, or possibly, giraffe, this period engendering a lot of swearing and even a quick revision of atheistic tendencies. If one cannot reclassify - keep cycling!
FRIDAY
My hosts had left for a funeral, leaving me in the charge of the house-sitters,
"I couldn't find the mushrooms so I gave you an extra egg."
This was the sort of lady that appreciated a good trencherman, the dog, however, didn't, and gave me the rueful eyebrows that only a spaniel can carry off, charged with the emotion of a beau from the silent age. Before I left. I threw him a couple of sticks but I could tell that he knew it wasn't a sausage. Upon regaining my room and packing, I looked upon my statins and addressed them, "Boys, your time has come!"
Heaving myself aboard the Trusty Steed, I sallied out along the single track road and met the dustmen (garbage truck) coming the other way, I deferred to their bulk and stood to one side with extensive breath holding.
Once again the signposts let me down but I eventually found myself at the start of the track along the old Plym Valley Railway. The start was atrocious, a rubbled path descending steeply down the valleyside, a path that obviously aspired to greater things, like Annapurna but it eventually turned into a ballasted track, which then turned into an asphalt track. I zoomed but had to keep stopping to stare over the edges of the viaducts. I even took a video going through a tunnel, fulfilling all small boys' fantasies (the ones that don't involve the next door neighbour), I was at the front of the train, and driving! I suspect that tandem users may have to do the tunnel a couple of times to avoid divorce.
We emerged at Coypond outside Plymouth. It sounds delightful doesn't it? Visions of expensive and expansive carp lazily disporting themselves in gin-clear water, flicking a fin here, a whisker there. Sadly it was the recycling centre and a traveller's encampment. There followed an industrial journey into the heart of Plymouth, a cup of coffee, a failure to find the route to the official end/beginning and a failure to get on the train due to late-running and overcrowding. After an hour (I had a book) I managed to get on the next Virgin Cross-Country, the three lads two minutes behind me got thrown off, "No more than three bikes. Health and Safety!" As a Health and Safety professional - what a pile of shite.
I arrived back at Exeter at 3.30 and threw myself gratefully onto the tender and welcome mercies of Paul and Carole for the weekend.
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