Holiday 2012: Part 2–Devon & Cornwall

 

On the Monday we got up, packed, grabbed our bags and headed down the M5 towards Plymouth.

I didn’t really know what to expect with Plymouth. It has been on my list of “Places to Visit” since I was about 8 or 9. Mostly because of the Smeaton Tower on Plymouth Hoe and my love of lighthouses. But more of that later.

We had booked a five night stay at the Elfordleigh Golf and Country Club in Plymouth which, looking at the website, seemed to tick all our boxes. Those being:- Spa, Pool, Comfortable, Quiet and Affordable. So after a three or four hour drive we arrived in the vicinity of the Hotel. At first we thought we had been given the wrong directions or something. Reason being that the sat-nav had us going through what appeared to be a residential estate of the social kind. But within a few minutes the estate gave way to rural lanes, farms and country manses before we arrived at the bright pink rendered gateway of the Elfordleigh Golf and Country Club.

View from the window

The room was lovely and cosy with two windows and a small canopy over the bed. The bathroom long. The shower powerful and hot.

View from window

As usual we perused the room literature, no, not the Gideon Bible; the leaflets hotels like to leave with the bar and restaurant menus and suggestions of places to visit. In this case they had left a magazine detailing the local eateries. Having settled on possible contenders for dinner we headed out to Plymouth’s Barbican district for a bit of an explore and a look around.

Plymouth’s Barbican district is a proper touristy area. Think Albert Dock in Liverpool only not as enclosed and lots more interesting buildings. There are many nice looking bars and restaurants there. So many, we had difficulty deciding which restaurant was going to be our definitive choice of the evening.

We settled on Rocky’s Grill for our first night. I had the 16oz T Bone Steak, Zoe had the mammoth mixed grill. Following dinner we went for a walk around the Royal Citadel towards the Hoe and did a small bit of Geocaching on the way. Unfortunately, Zoe’s food may have been closer to dairy products than she had hoped and so we cut our walk short and headed back to the hotel.

Smeaton’s Tower

Plymouth Wheel and Memorial

Coming soon-> Day 2: Rain Rain Go Away

Holiday 2012–Part 1: A Walk in the Rain

Rain. It comes and washes away the summer dreams like a proper spoil sport.

My calculations that the time between Wimbledon and the Olympics yet before the school holidays would be a gloriously sunny time were completely out. Beyond out.

And so it came to pass that on Saturday 14th July I loaded up the car for the next leg of my annual Welsh Costal Walk with Nick. With the car laden I began the four hour journey to the north west of Wales via Betws-y-Coed.

Omens and foresight should have shown me that the weekend was to be a tricky one. When I was about an hour into my journey to my first port of call, a text arrived from my colleague to announce he was running late and would be setting off shortly. Fine, I thought, this will give me a chance to mooch about the camping shops in Betws-y-Coed and therein maybe purchase some gas canisters for the camping stove.

On my arrival the rains began. Fair enough, I thought, this is Betws-y-Coed which is renown for rain as the clouds empty their load onto the Snowdonian foot hills so a bit of precipitation is bound to occur in these here parts.

Two hours, a very expensive bacon sandwich (£4.50 for two bits of soggy bacon between cheap slices of bread) and a cup of tea (£1.50 for an egg cup with a splash of milky brown liquid) and several Radio 4 programmes later, Nick arrived and negotiations began for further travel to Porthmadoc where we could buy provisions for the break and some beer. Before following Mr Sat Nav’s directions to Aberdaron and the campsite.

A few days before departure I had placed a reservation as usual at Mynnedd Mawr Campsite only to be told “Just turn up”. So we did. And managed to get one of the last good spots for the tent. The majority of the campsite seemed to be taken up by two very large 10 men trailer tents pitched slap bang in the middle of the site. The thoughtful owners (two Jewish couples in their late fifties/early sixties) had blocked out the lovely view so I didn’t have to look at it. That was very kind of them.

The following day, glorious sunshine blessed our walk which commenced from the end of the last walk (Porth Oer) up the coast toward Porth Tywyn. A good 15 miles of coastal path. The weeks of torrential rain over the previous weeks had made the going quite boggy and our initial steps seemed thwarted but following a brief detour along the beach we were back on the trail in no time.

 

Glorious views were beheld. Glorious weather too.

Looking North

Nick enjoying a well earned break

There are many mysterious places along that stretch of coast. For example these stairs cut into the hill side and seemingly inaccessible static caravans.

Or you would be trudging along and have to follow the path through a field of cows…

It’s such a lovely piece of coast line. But the weather there can be unpredictable. By 3pm the clouds were already gathering and the wind had picked up. On our return to the tent it was decided that it was too cold to sit outside drinking beer and that we should retire to the interior of the tent, therein to play dominoes.

I was winning, 10 rounds up, the wind brought with it rain and clouds to further darken the skies. By morning the tent had nearly taken off had it not been laden with the previous evening and early morning rain. The outlook seemed bleak. Further bad weather due.

Rain stopped play. We decamped and returned to our respective homes.

 

Coming soon – Holiday 2012: Part 2 Devon and Cornwall.

Local? Elections?

 

Apparently there are local elections coming up soon. I say apparently because as most of Warwickshire aren’t having any, there is very little in the way of posterage, bannerage or flyerage in the sleepy semi-rural area of Leamington Spa that is Radford Semele.

Ah, Radford Semele. You know? I thought Brierley in South Yorkshire was a sleepy little insignificant village, but that was a nuclear political battle ground compared to here. I suppose the difference may be because in Barnsley the local press is still mostly independent and local politicians vie for column space to show how good a job they do or, as in the “mayor” of Brierley’s case, how many fat fingers he had in juicy local pies.

Radford Semele. Well, there’s nothing much political about it. There is a parish council and a handy, recently vandalised, village notice board. But other than that, nothing. I think at the last election I saw one flyer, but that was for the BNP so that doesn’t count.

Now, regular readers, not that there are any, would probably remember my foray into the world of poking local politicians into action when I emailed the “Mayor” of Brierley, Alex Vodden,  and asked such questions as: “Why don’t you have a website?”, “What exactly do you do?” and “Why does a small insignificant village on the outskirts of Barnsley need an expensive mayor?”. But you would be forgiven in forgetting as I recall I did not receive a reply anyway (possibly because of my name). Though a few months later a website did appear which, curiously, hasn’t been updated in 2 years.

Then there was the time at the General election where I invited the MPs vying for my vote to attend at my local pub for a chat and a pint to convince me why I should vote for them in the first place. I attended. They didn’t. So I didn’t vote for any of them.

Now I am based in this tiny speck on the map next to ROYAL Leamington Spa and I’m kind of sad that I haven’t bitten into the bitter apple of local politics in the same way. It could be that the local press, well the Leamington Observer, is more of a “ONOES DOG MESS ON MY PAVEMENT” kind of rag compared to the Barnsley Chronicle. It could be that ROYAL Leamington Spa is just too posh for local politics. Or it could be that I have been too busy re-establishing a career to fuck about with local politicians. I suspect the latter.

So I took it upon myself to find out about the local parish council and started with my good old friend Mr Google. I asked Mr Google to search for “Radford Semele Parish Council”. The hits I received were a bit disappointing, a few mentions in old PDFs and a bit about the contact details for the Parish Council clerk on the Warwickshire Council website. The parish clerk, it appears, is some jobbing due-for-retirement-solicitor, but that’s all there is. Disappointed? Not really. I’ve come to expect that sort of thing with local democracy over the years.

I mean, here we are with the most powerful communication tool ever and what do local politicians do? Ignore the marketing power of it! What better platform to get your message across than the Internet?

Fair enough, I thought. Maybe I’m looking too local and so I widened my search into the local Parliamentarians. It was then I discovered the wonderfully lazy conservative MP, Jeremy Wright. Ah, Jeremy. What do you actually do in the big house in Westminster? Not very much it seems, if theyworkforyou.com is any indication.

 

As it states on his page (http://www.theyworkforyou.com/mp/jeremy_wright/kenilworth_and_southam):-

 

 

Numerology

Please note that numbers do not measure quality. Also, representatives may do other things not currently covered by this site. (More about this)

• Has spoken in 1 debate in the last year — well below average amongst MPs.
• Has received answers to 0 written questions in the last year — well below average amongst MPs.
• Replied within 2 or 3 weeks to a high number of messages sent via WriteToThem.com during 2008, according to constituents.
• Has voted in 81.15% of votes in this Parliament with this affiliation — above average amongst MPs. (From Public Whip)
• People have made 1 annotation on this MP’s speeches — below average amongst MPs.
• This MP's speeches, in Hansard, are readable by an average 18–19 year old, going by the Flesch-Kincaid Grade Level score.
• 111 people are tracking this MP — email me updates on Jeremy Wright’s activity.
• Has used three-word alliterative phrases (e.g. "she sells seashells") 92 times in debates — below average amongst MPs.

Source: theyworkforyou.com

Now to give him his due, Jeremy is a bit of a voter, however, it appears that he doesn’t say much in the big house really. To further illustrate, you see the bit that says “111 people are tracking this MP”. Well I’m one of them. I have been for almost 2 years now. Do you know what? I haven’t had an update about him in ages. I suspect he may have lost his voice, so when I contact him, I might offer him a Zube or something. And yes, he does sometimes bitch and moan about the inconvenient HS2 running through his back garden with some opposed to the scheme, but with added “But it’s tough, it’s for the good of the country….vote for me anyway”.

Anyway, I had a bit more of a poke about to see what old Jezza has been up to. Where he lives. What his interests are. But that would mean writing lots more and, no doubt, you are already bored of reading this. So I’ll leave that….analysis….for a future date.

Oh, and Jeremy? Don’t go changing stuff….I’ve made copies…..

Sundae Sunday

On Sunday I was overcome with the burning desire for an ice cream sundae. The urge took me much in the same way as I imagine a smack head might desire heroin. So, jumping into the car, I made headway to Sainsbury’s wherein I purchased the necessary ingredients to make a delicious raspberry ice cream sundae.

As you can see I bought all the necessary ingredients including some essential for a dairy free sundae Sunday treat for Zoe, who is allergic to dairy.
Ten minutes of sculpting ice cream, poking flakes and scattering chopped nuts the results emerged.

The one on the right is the dairy free one.

They were both devoured with a speed faster than the two donkeys I got in the Grand National office sweepstakes.

Horse

You probably won't remember, in fact I probably didn't relate to you, that the smelly old man downstairs was carted off to the knackers yard last year because he got stuck in the bath.

Briefly, for those who don't remember, I was “home alone” and heard some banging that I initially thought was someone doing some DIY. It wasn’t until 11pm when the banging continued that I realised something was amiss. Nipping outside I managed to determine that the banging wasn’t some late night Tommy Walsh but probably the old man in the flat below had come into some sort of mischief. The police were called, who in turn called an ambulance and, long story short, the old man was prised out of his cold bath, bundled into an ambulance and shoved into some sort of “sheltered housing” wherein he now shits and spits where disgruntled Polish nurses can clean up after him. No doubt they also force feed him pureed parsnips in some sort of perverse preparation for my turn in the Old People’s Home Of No Return.

Since those heady days of loud televisions, constant coughing and infestations of rats, wasps and mice we have had some new neighbours in Gnome-cake Towers. A young-(44)-ish mother and her teenage daughter. Out goes the loud telly and farting and in come the late night Mother-Daughter arguments, door slamming and complimentary sobbing.

Last week, Mrs Downstairs went to Ireland. It transpires that previously they (or at least she) lived in some remote part of southern Ireland wherein the nearest neighbour was some distance away. Mrs Downstairs returned to the Emerald Isle with a van in an attempt to fetch the remainder of her stuff, which I assume was in storage.

This left Teen alone.

A whole week with no shouting, no loud telly but just the occasional slamming of badly council fitted windows and doors. With Thursday being the exception when, Teen being a teen, a small soiree took place. Five girls, the Glee soundtrack, cigarettes (possibly some dope) and a bottle or two of Blue Lightning or White Nun or whatever underage beverages are of choice today (In my time it was kiwi MD20/20).

Fruitcake was getting a bit tense by about 10pm when the noise hadn’t abated but by 10.20 the doors were banged and I assume the teens reduced their noise with some consideration culminating in peace and quiet returning to Warwickshire at about 10.40pm. By morning, the only sign of late evening revelry was a couple of fag buts and an empty bottle, possibly Tesco’s Value Turpentine substitute.

In the mid morning I saw the Teen. Smiling sheepishly at me, as she does, she politely said hello. I asked her how her party went the previous night. She replied with apologies and platitudes for any noise and explained that her mum was away in Ireland and was back later that afternoon. We chatted lightly and, using my journalistic skills, I managed to glean further information from our mysterious new neighbours while pointing out that the scary tapping she had heard at night was Quincy the cat trying to get out of the cat flap and the hint that the walls were like paper.

A penny seemed to drop.

I let it lie there.

Spin forward in time in one of those wibbly wobbly screen dissolves to today.

There comes a tap tap tapping at my chamber door. No, not the Raven, but Mrs Downstairs. Chip on her shoulder apparent immediately. Not something I had said or done rather something that Mr Gardener-Nextdoor had obviously said to her regarding the mass of branches felled from the tree out at the front which had lain their since the Autumn.

Promises were made. Promises backed by annoyance at having been told off by someone who seemingly has no business complaining about piles of decaying leylandii. Excuses given. Given to both the right person and the wrong person.

Mentions of the back garden.

Did I mention the back garden? No it seems I didn’t.

During the summer, house clearance people came and cleared the old man’s flat out and demolished and emptied his two sheds. Apples were thrown about the place, larks were had and a couple of trees and a fence saw their demise. Before the new people moved in, the garden looked rather good, if not still a little overgrown.

Wibbly wobbly screen dissolves again.

Now, it seems, Steptoe and son have come to some arrangement with Mrs Downstairs. Instead of useful stuff from storage, the silly bint has brought, what can only be described as, a scrap yard over on the ferry. Perhaps she emptied the wrong lock up. Who knows.

As I said, apologies were given about the kip of the back garden. Promises made regarding the imminent arrival of fencing material, a six foot gate and some tree felling. Apologies regarding any noise.

In return I listened, placated and smiled reassuringly while inserting titbits into the conversation regarding reciprocal noise, door slamming, rampant terriers and nosey busy body neighbours. Seeds were sown. Hints were dropped. Deals alluded to.

On her side? Promises.

As I frequently say “Words are but wind”

Developments, like photography,  remain to be seen.

Birthday Post

It’s bad enough, when born this time of year, to be told “Oh I’d have got you a birthday present but I’ve got you a bigger Christmas present” by cheap skates hoping to pull the wool over already tried before eyes. But what’s worse, especially recently in the UK, is the chuffing post.

 

While all around me are putting up their Christmas cards in displays of social popularity I have to hold off opening cards I receive before my birthday, which, if you didn’t know, is today. A few years back I realised that when my birthday arrived I had fewer birthday cards to open on the actual day than my peers because I had opened mine by accident thinking “Oh it’s a Christmas card, it should be safe”. So recently I have taken to stock piling the cards received through the mail until the actual day and then I have a mass card opening ceremony.

 

Usually I get about a 3:2 birthday/Christmas card mix with some cheeky sods trying to sneak a Christmas card in with the birthday card or, if they’ve thought ahead they put the birthday card in with the Christmas card (which I don’t mind as long as that’s in an envelope marked “birthday”). However, over recent years the Post Office in Warwickshire have been a bit shit and cards sent way in advance don’t arrive until way into the later weeks so my pre-birthday Christmas card opening abstinence seems to be a bit futile.

 

Last year the postie had a good excuse. Most of the UK and Warwickshire was under a thick blanket of snow and poor Postman Pat was at risk of slipping on the pavement. Meaning they would be having to take time off work with a sprained foot and a personal injury claim. Fair enough. This modern snow can be lethal. Those Victorian and postWW2-pre HSWA(1974) postmen had it easy. I’m surprised today’s postmen don’t have to wear special wire lined gloves in case they get a rather nasty infected paper cut from an overtly sharp envelope.

 

Last year’s snows and postage backlogs meant that I was getting birthday cards well into the New Year, which was nice. Amusing in a “Ne’r mind eh?” kind of way.

 

This year though, I thought it would be better. No snow in the midlands. Not a drop. Well at least in Leamington Spa at any rate. Through the week I had received a good few cards through the mail. I’d say about 9 or so. A few who’s origins I could guess and a few I could not. It was going to be a good birthday morning, opening these cards.

 

Just after my breakfast of Cinnamon Grahams and a cup of tea, I began the opening ceremony. One by one I gingerly teased each card out of it’s envelope revealing either ageist birthday mirth or greetings of seasonal persuasion.

 

The score was roughly

 

BIRTHDAY CARDS 6

CHRISTMAS CARDS 5

 

A nice balance. But no fear, I thought, it is Saturday today! The Royal Mail still deliver on a Saturday. Maybe I’ll get some in the post today!

 

Of course, sitting round expectantly is not something I can do these days, so we opted to brave the early morning cold and penultimate-Christmas-weekend  shoppers and grab a few things before we came home for the afternoon to see what exciting things were in line for the rest of the day.

All the while I was like “heheh I can’t wait to get home to the mountain of cards that will be awaiting me on my doorstep”.

 

It was the spirit that enabled me to battle through the shuffling horde of consumer zombies.

 

The vim that vigorously calmed my need to vent venom at gawping gormers goggling at festive gifts of grot.

 

The spice that added fire to my mental curry of warmth empowering me through the ice knife cold Warwickshire winds. 

 

So you can imagine my face when I opened the front door with the eagerness of an expectant child on Christmas morning only to find….

 

EVERY

 

SINGLE


STUFFING

 

ENVELOPED

 

CARD

 

THERE…….

 

 

there was for Fruitcake.

Chuffing Nora.

 

NOT A SINGLE ONE delivered today was for me. NOT ONE.

 

ON MY BIRTHDAY!

 

***Frump***

 

***SULK***

Spare not the children, lest the evil persist

The other week, Zoefruitcake and I visited our local Frankie and Benny's for a bit of a post payday treat.

It was busy; mostly because it was Halloween but also because it was the day after pay day and the world, his wife, their neighbours and their best friend's uncle's favourite mechanic's son also had the same idea.

Because it was Halloween weekend there were many children present. A good deal of these children were sat, well behaved and happy to be out with their family. There was, however, a pair of little shits present whose parents obviously went to the "freedom of expression" school of parenting. These delightful little darlings thought it fun to run rampant around the restaurant squealing with glee instead of remaining seated and only speaking when spoken to.

Spoilt shits.

You know the type. They usually have traditionally cheeky scamp names like Bob or Tommy. The type of names traditionally apportioned to working class flat cap wearing, roll-up cigarette smoking betting shop regulars but, for some bizarre reason only known to fashionable middle class Guardian readers, deemed preferable to Tarquin, Charles and Gordon.

The type whose parents, as stated previously, believe in "freedom of expression". The same parents who probably inexplicably develop a "cough" when walking near smokers. Or fuss about their children and whatever food allergy or intollerance may be fashionable at the time. The type of parent that any normal person would want to smash into a granite table face first before flushing their head repeatedly down a particularly dirty toilet.

The type of child who runs around restaurants unbidden. Screaming and tripping up waitresses. Any accidents that arise are clearly the fault of the waiting staff not taking care when carrying a tureen of boiling soup or molten lard.

That got me thinking.

Bloody kids.

When I was a kid at a restaurant (or, more likely, a Berni Inn) , if I didn't sit straight, shut up and eat my greens provided with my scampi and chips the likelihood of eating out again would diminish to the point of never again. But no, not these chuffing days. Noooo. These days it seems it is totally socially acceptable to allow your child to run rampant with no regard for other diners or waiting staff.

All in the name of "freedom of expression".

So to express my own freedom, I rose from my chair, went over to the little shits, grabbed them by the collars. Dragged them over to their parents who were sat, jaws agape in protest. Threw them into their seats and said: "If you don't fucking control your children I will pickle them and feed them to the tramps."

"Oh but they're only expressing themselves" came the protest.

"Yeah well I'm expressing myself freely too." I retorted as I stabbed the father in the nose with his blunt steak knife and forced the mother to swallow her barbequed rib bones whole. Sideways.

"Do you want a starter?" Zoe asked, snapping me out of my daydream.

"No, let's get straight to mains" I replied.