tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49071620877636530462024-02-07T20:48:59.239-08:00The Journey of the Isham Gnome...Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.comBlogger81125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4907162087763653046.post-43069806273438668642023-04-11T15:27:00.003-07:002023-04-12T13:05:31.056-07:00A Day of Brilliance around Barmouth <p>Peace and quiet. Sanctity and solitude. </p><p>Not the things you associate with 150 drummers, so after a weekend of being part of this tribe, it was time to walk the less-trodden path for a day. Don't get me wrong, I adored being part of the Batala takeover of little old Barmouth: I drummed until my ears rang, I hugged more people than I thought I knew, I smiled until my cheeks hurt (despite the photos never capturing it) and I loved every second. </p><p>But the drumming ying needs a yang to balance me out. </p><p>Mild adventure and some time away in nature was much needed. What I didn't realise was how many layers of brilliance the day would keep offering. </p><p>The lovely lady in the gift shop/train station convinced me to buy a return for 10p extra "as an insurance policy" and I couldn't argue with that logic. I'd walked the bridge previously (how could I ignore such a beauty) but was excited to cross it by rail. </p><p>This was brilliant. I couldn't decide which window to watch: the estuary and mountains one side or the beach and sea the other. I endured tennis neck attempting to catch both views. </p><p>The journey across was too short and soon I had to disembark at Fairbourne. On inspection of a helpful noticeboard, I discovered a map indicating the Blue Lake. Can you even call yourself an explorer if this information is presented and you do nothing? </p><p>This was brilliant. An ad hoc side quest steered my boots inland. </p><p>Up and up I walked. Up winding hills, past streams and gardens, alongside fields and gorges. I wasn't scaling the Snowden super-highway like some of my compadres, but I was definitely moving up in the world. </p><p>This was brilliant. Sweating in the spring sunshine as my already tired thighs took me higher up the Welsh hills. At every turn I had to pause to admire the view - absolutely not just to catch my breath. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpBQldXPvXUc33wBHDXQL32DaOT4vIGAvKcwOaK0Dx2CBnEkOeY60VBAWrK4SFcvqHkw4HQXt1NJTuky7NDZFv4W1hiLeyTZ-iR6SSiGNGeATOpM9N557QoLrQl36XV4AlRinoS4Rod87GJ_tufKkTeHuTz4bioxqspSSbXwCGH5NVWOqpY5twbg/s4032/IMG_5086.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpBQldXPvXUc33wBHDXQL32DaOT4vIGAvKcwOaK0Dx2CBnEkOeY60VBAWrK4SFcvqHkw4HQXt1NJTuky7NDZFv4W1hiLeyTZ-iR6SSiGNGeATOpM9N557QoLrQl36XV4AlRinoS4Rod87GJ_tufKkTeHuTz4bioxqspSSbXwCGH5NVWOqpY5twbg/s320/IMG_5086.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>The scenery was ridiculous. Sea and sand meeting mountains and forests. And no one to spoil the views. I met exactly four people. Two lovely young people who guided this old biddy with their smartphone skills, a twitcher with whom we shared bird sightings and a long-haired older Brummie discussing her morning gardening and admiration of Freddie Mercury. </p><p>This was brilliant. Saying "Good morning!" to everyone on their own journeys. </p><p>On the way to the lake, craggy cliffs and trees adorned with miniature fir cones guide the route. Abandoned machinery loitered by the stream and signposted the steep drop to the lake. No longer accessible, I had to make do with staring down at the mineral blue water and hoping my dizziness didn't drop me down the chasm. </p><p>This was brilliant. A secret sight shared only by the sheep and singing birds. </p><p>Stumbling back down the hill was easier but no less beautiful. I was soon back in Fairbourne and diverted into the local bakery for supplies. </p><p>This was brilliant. Sticky toffee cake to power me on. </p><p>Train tracks run alongside the road to the beach. Steam was in the air and the miniature railway was full of passengers. </p><p>This was brilliant. Waving and smiling at the kids, big and small, aboard the train as it puffed and tooted towards the shore. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitPs8fPCMaq-PcmfJ7B63V4JA3i71CRxzcBNBr_uasTsis75PKFaeFx-w7TIoBHE9Cql_9s4BUne_Jpf7CArcTX75g2ed8N3X6NcjC0MfZ9l5NncdIuwClMHROhuYCd-KE9B_LmGVjZWx6ZaL8yL7YqZnq51wEOYplrtU8bQQC-2D2JZ68hooYLA/s4032/IMG_5098.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitPs8fPCMaq-PcmfJ7B63V4JA3i71CRxzcBNBr_uasTsis75PKFaeFx-w7TIoBHE9Cql_9s4BUne_Jpf7CArcTX75g2ed8N3X6NcjC0MfZ9l5NncdIuwClMHROhuYCd-KE9B_LmGVjZWx6ZaL8yL7YqZnq51wEOYplrtU8bQQC-2D2JZ68hooYLA/s320/IMG_5098.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Crossing the tracks and the sea wall, I was on the beach. Just me. Two specks in the distance were a man and his dog, but otherwise I had the whole expanse of sand and stone to myself. Striding down the shifting shingle, sloshing through the waves. It was glorious. Sheltered by the wind, I settled myself into some pebbles for a brief break and to apricate accordingly. </p><p>As much as I'd have liked to, I couldn't stop forever. I had a beach to walk. Stomping alongside the sand dunes, I headed towards the mouth of Afon Mawddach. Then things got even more brilliant. </p><p>My plan was to loop round the station and walk the return leg. But what spectacular sight greeted me? Only the blooming Barmouth ferry on its maiden voyage of the season. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDTrXzO0nUmz5jmPypLsDwu3HLsQ-m8JFpLVvd7SpaqgRSwTuC3hE1wG1zyTlswQf9u68Qhy2xGRyTCyuqlm8oSj_VhqFJCxaUAIRDu9GiztTm-URnZ3sZMu_inSMgnc2ZLtwU5rGgCvfseTYzQAShBbu_IdqPEnoKqpqm6y53Yj34xu8GZ35yJA/s4032/IMG_5126%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDTrXzO0nUmz5jmPypLsDwu3HLsQ-m8JFpLVvd7SpaqgRSwTuC3hE1wG1zyTlswQf9u68Qhy2xGRyTCyuqlm8oSj_VhqFJCxaUAIRDu9GiztTm-URnZ3sZMu_inSMgnc2ZLtwU5rGgCvfseTYzQAShBbu_IdqPEnoKqpqm6y53Yj34xu8GZ35yJA/s320/IMG_5126%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>This was brilliant. I was getting a boat trip too! </p><p>But no rush. Time for a swift ice cream and to savour the views up the estuary via the bridge. Then my peace was disturbed by the roar of some very noisy planes dicking about overhead and barrelling through the landscape.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6zlnp4sWNjtTa_LfQ36w5NbMpk4ZFWQa0C5QfbD7N-Km0o1UZV2snS6CGyrJQTX6ZLGh-att3laOobgcXGbiL2vbXPCeU2uOa1U_kzU_QNb8ipFksGYHPDWxlbdBGXH9H5U7apjmhlAsolLef2_jJprcPeg3zdA2wPC---tDZtHSVtSSUPKnaBQ/s4032/IMG_5123.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6zlnp4sWNjtTa_LfQ36w5NbMpk4ZFWQa0C5QfbD7N-Km0o1UZV2snS6CGyrJQTX6ZLGh-att3laOobgcXGbiL2vbXPCeU2uOa1U_kzU_QNb8ipFksGYHPDWxlbdBGXH9H5U7apjmhlAsolLef2_jJprcPeg3zdA2wPC---tDZtHSVtSSUPKnaBQ/s320/IMG_5123.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>This was brilliant. Planes, trains and ferry-mobiles. </p><p>I walked the gangplank (GANGPLANK!) to board the ferry and cross back into town. Then it was more walking uphill to find the panorama walk. My instructions were slightly sketchy but I followed the road and my instincts. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAdeTFzoDshhufX4aR95EW_1XWaJRjlGQ-qlDZF5udMr0HdMhCkOge6Xvkl6RF1RX57b3nJ4QmmuKhiDDU3-6DAss3ug3FcuDqBKqZgAhQa24FXyPJ2H4qBJADtJ-lvZTPNvBhCS-vJ_CQtUtZIoD2zX1TCxooJm9e_W6R4ae6NYfD7-SaRX_BcQ/s4032/IMG_5148%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAdeTFzoDshhufX4aR95EW_1XWaJRjlGQ-qlDZF5udMr0HdMhCkOge6Xvkl6RF1RX57b3nJ4QmmuKhiDDU3-6DAss3ug3FcuDqBKqZgAhQa24FXyPJ2H4qBJADtJ-lvZTPNvBhCS-vJ_CQtUtZIoD2zX1TCxooJm9e_W6R4ae6NYfD7-SaRX_BcQ/s320/IMG_5148%20(1).jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>The route led through ancient walls, antique gates and moss-upholstered steps. Eventually I stumbled out onto a lookout that was the definition of breathtaking. One of the greatest positioned benches ever tempted me in for a rest and another cake break. </p><p>This was brilliant. A perfectly framed postcard view with colours so vivid they made my eyes leak. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYMO-l5Lh_GwdWpa_RUS4kWt57iyPmNsCkSJYcnmx4NMwo0y7issS4X_McQLR4TTVroQgaA7g53BtOQfyd9fbGbaA6S1n4btpEyuNcb0NxONJuPGADQ25rhuF9dch96F5QLdGKlfohykMtIdJ9u0V33pkKYKQBn0fZR-Rh0p2J0tPYjyqGKf1Qlw/s4032/IMG_5154.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYMO-l5Lh_GwdWpa_RUS4kWt57iyPmNsCkSJYcnmx4NMwo0y7issS4X_McQLR4TTVroQgaA7g53BtOQfyd9fbGbaA6S1n4btpEyuNcb0NxONJuPGADQ25rhuF9dch96F5QLdGKlfohykMtIdJ9u0V33pkKYKQBn0fZR-Rh0p2J0tPYjyqGKf1Qlw/s320/IMG_5154.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Once I could drag myself away, the route back was shorter but a stray signpost led me down an alternative path, through the landscaped waterfalls and hills of Orielton Woods. </p><p>My return train ticket burning a hole in my pocket, I had to keep walking. I was called back to the bridge as the sun was setting. Dropping my toll to the troll, my feet slapped the boards again as I gazed through the iron girders across the bay. </p><p>This was brilliant. A perfect way to end my (first?) visit to Barmouth with a bridge sunset. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoaD5eJI28iPEg77C2eDFbwQGF0vYIpjFwAjKfNnhYjlNSm6HMtKd_MocnUXIQ4JsAb_nCUwp3ljIgyeDGIc5VHMo4Jxno_cZqZawKu-StoaQDTaaSjHxb_fjBXnTUaSeXmAZtt0pdRX8ybMbktvWGIn8woBzX0hEvyntXdsUQiGp8MBxky4BX-w/s4032/IMG_5174%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoaD5eJI28iPEg77C2eDFbwQGF0vYIpjFwAjKfNnhYjlNSm6HMtKd_MocnUXIQ4JsAb_nCUwp3ljIgyeDGIc5VHMo4Jxno_cZqZawKu-StoaQDTaaSjHxb_fjBXnTUaSeXmAZtt0pdRX8ybMbktvWGIn8woBzX0hEvyntXdsUQiGp8MBxky4BX-w/s320/IMG_5174%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>The next station is a request stop so I got there just in time, sticking my arm out and flagging down the train to deliver me back into town via a longing gaze across the blazing water. </p><p>This was brilliant. Sometimes I'm scared of the brilliant. Whenever brilliant things happen, they seem to be evened out by something not so brilliant that creeps up on me unexpectedly. But not this time. This was the kind of day that made my feet ache with miles covered and my heart ache with contentment. And I'll take that, thank you. Bloody brilliant. </p><p><br /></p>Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4907162087763653046.post-24535310767599355352022-12-31T08:31:00.005-08:002022-12-31T09:03:55.767-08:00Keep Playing Until You're Unplugged<p>Seven and a half years ago, two girls and a springer spaniel walked into a pub. No joke: that's the fact. But it's only the beginning of the story. </p><p>That pub turned out to be The Best Pub in the World. </p><p>The Horse and Groom at Westbury in Wiltshire is the pub in question. You can read about that first visit here: </p><p><a href="http://vintagegnome.blogspot.com/2015/04/the-best-pub-in-world.html">http://vintagegnome.blogspot.com/2015/04/the-best-pub-in-world.html</a></p><p>Now it's time for the sequel. </p><p>It was the weekend after my birthday. My 40th birthday in fact. I've been thinking back to my mum's 40th birthday when I was growing up. She was livid when she came home from work and found we've hung banners and balloons from the house. I'm awful at recalling memories (hence the need to record here) but my brain is burned with the act of her ripping the celebratory decorations from the ivy-clad archway. </p><p>I could never understand why she didn't want everyone to know how old she was. Was it a secret that she had been born? Was the ageing process not there for all to see? Her memories, her experiences, her children, her loves, her losses, her grey hairs: surely they gave the game away? Not our banners. We just wanted to celebrate that she'd been lucky enough to live for forty years. </p><p>Instead of balloons out the front of my imaginary house, I celebrated my birthday by being taken on a surprise road trip into deepest, darkest Wiltshire. Dark being the key word on this particular Sunday; about an hour into the road trip, the drizzle descended and visibility was tricky at best. </p><p>Light was thrown on the situation when we pulled into the White Horse car park and I was met with the sight of my waterproof-clad friends. Damp hugs and a quick trek up to "see" the horse completed, someone then made the all-important call. </p><p>"Pub?" </p><p>"Pub." </p><p>A simple descent of the hill leads you to The Horse and Groom, the reason for the trip. </p><p>It then became apparent we were visiting on a particularly important day. Nothing to do with my birthday. That day was the scheduled memorial for the beloved Nigel. </p><p>Now, if you read the previous installment, you will remember my instant love for the harmonica wielding musician that first fateful afternoon of our visit. He was my hero. This was Nigel. </p><p>Jen filled me in on the details she'd discovered when booking the table and enquiring about the Sunday afternoon music sessions. Yes, there would be music, but it would be different to usual. This Sunday was the memorial for the much-loved Nigel. </p><p>Nigel had died a few months previously and this was a chance for his friends to come together to celebrate his life and his music. We had made it back to say farewell to a legend. </p><p>I had no idea how much of a legend he was, but I was about to find out. </p><p>Above the bar, there was a beautiful photo of him in all his glory. He was playing the harmonica and had his utility belt of the instruments on full display. We grabbed a drink to wash down our roasts dinners (delicious and plentiful FYI) and squeezed into the room to pay our respects and enjoy the music. And squeeze in is the right phrase. The room was packed. You could tell how highly thought of Nigel was. People had come from all over to return to The Best Pub in the World to celebrate Nigel and his music. </p><p>We sat with a couple who had moved away from the area but said they needed to come along on this day. They told us their memories of Nigel and we listened with joy and sadness. Then sausage rolls and chicken wings were brought out (The Best Pub in the World remember) and Deefer was thrilled to discover an afternoon in the pub makes punters more generous with their table scraps. </p><p>The stage area was occupied by an endless stream of musicians setting up, playing and telling their own stories of Nigel. It was very special to be allowed a glimpse into his life and the lives of his friends, all based around this pub. They talked about his work as a cabinet maker and how handy he was. Various musicians played instruments made by Nigel himself and gifted to them. He poured love and craftsmanship into all his efforts. I listened to the cigar-box guitars continuing Nigel's legacy and was moved that I got to be there for that special day. </p><p>As the landlady walked past, we talked to her about Nigel. They'd been to plant a tree for him that morning before all decamping back to base in the pub. I love the idea of a tree growing in his memory that may one day produce wood to continue his music. </p><p>She also recalled his last gig there. Just before he died, he wanted to come back and play once more: one last hurrah. He was quite ill so they gave him a limit of a few songs to play. He played past his limit and then some. According to her story, he was still playing hours later and only stopped when he was unplugged. Nigel was the most legendary harmonica player I've ever had the honour to see perform. </p><p>Birthdays always make me feel reflective. Ageing doesn't worry me. I've known people who should have had the opportunity to have more birthdays than they did, and I'm always thankful I get to each milestone. Each year, and in fact, each day we have, to do something, to play something, to create something, is a bonus. We should celebrate the fact that we are alive and participating in this great pub jam of life. Grab an instrument, make some noise and make someone's day. </p><p>Nigel's story is one of perseverance and enthusiasm. And love. He loved his music, playing it, making the instruments and sharing it with his community at The Horse and Groom. </p><p>That pub is a magical place and I cannot believe I was in the right place at the right time again to say farewell to someone I only met once, but who taught me so much through such a small instrument: keep playing until you're unplugged. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4907162087763653046.post-62655534442471728562022-05-02T00:20:00.006-07:002022-05-02T00:21:21.493-07:00Running Away from Covid <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was the last day before the Easter holidays, a time every member of school staff in the land anticipates. Two weeks of freedom. Better than Christmas (less obligations), better than the summer (less pressure) and better than the half terms (more time). </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Then the black cloud of Covid reared its ugly head. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My housemate texted me from the other side of the wall with her "positive" news. I wished her well and plotted my escape. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It seemed extreme to run away but it was the holidays so I was free to roam in my bid to outwit the dreaded virus. And I would probably have adventured somewhere anyway, so why not turn the running away into an enforced holiday? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Now, I'm not an idiot. I wouldn't have gone spreading my viral load over little old lady bed and breakfasts. I hadn't seen my housemate since her positivity appeared and I was still a negative Nelly (both my general disposition and the LFT readings), so I had a good chance of evading this particular domestic strain. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I stuffed my bag full of random clothes, reading material and emergency biscuits before heading off into the sunset. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Now, in the media representations of people on the run, there seems to be a lot of dodgy dealings and sheltering in questionable locations. In homage to this, I booked an Airbnb in Bognor. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">To explain, I was due to be drumming at Goodwood, just down the road, on the Saturday and I bloody love the seaside so Bognor Regis seemed like the obvious choice. My single room of choice was barely bigger than a prison cell but it had a sea view - a sliver to the side, when you leaned out the window past the condensation covered glass and at the end of a wheelie-bin strewn alley, but hey, it was the sea! In fact, the name of my room (yes, it was the sort of establishment that names rather than numbers its rooms) was "Fancy". Reader, it was not. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Yet the accommodation was incidental: I was there for the location. The weather forecast being kind allowed me ample beach wandering time in the fresh air and away from others. It was cold but bright, and once the sun had warmed up, perfect weather for sitting on the beach and reading. Or finding a cafe on the edge of a park where I could greet all the dogs out for their weekend wanders whilst supping tea from a mug and eating marmalade-laden toast. Or frequenting a kiosk on the beach serving the kids' tea of champions: fish fingers, chips and beans. Did I find these gems? Of course. Did I indulge in these delights? You bet your beach huts I did. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi426l5rh6HaW7sMWKQiYRqECmp84MQ9lLZoZaLOlzMU5bD-YQJ4m5V3DEfUUTDKn8O4mpPgr0U_Jl0JX9OCtWM2a4rDqBPPtOcBWPWEN5z69WImGdXAcvMJDFgOAuZSmD7oExHSlIKjH1ZmthX_1TlOsbrzzkjWKyjimNqblm0Gn1Hp7db9BX2OQ/s4032/IMG_9720.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi426l5rh6HaW7sMWKQiYRqECmp84MQ9lLZoZaLOlzMU5bD-YQJ4m5V3DEfUUTDKn8O4mpPgr0U_Jl0JX9OCtWM2a4rDqBPPtOcBWPWEN5z69WImGdXAcvMJDFgOAuZSmD7oExHSlIKjH1ZmthX_1TlOsbrzzkjWKyjimNqblm0Gn1Hp7db9BX2OQ/s320/IMG_9720.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ULuflsvcjZKKeQKnytd25DZdvUGeY3kkIHFpgep6J53GUyiexcGB8A0HuwVjej38o0z1H_ilUNbBpnTLS1Ecu-v68WvjuSf4BpU-WcBrMsMY2s-J23Cr3FjvffHmyzgQUALFEX0Z4jTLpbTt_qnJGGYb5x2iaYXaWyhwXMJ0MujvD7SP0khU_A/s4032/IMG_9683.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ULuflsvcjZKKeQKnytd25DZdvUGeY3kkIHFpgep6J53GUyiexcGB8A0HuwVjej38o0z1H_ilUNbBpnTLS1Ecu-v68WvjuSf4BpU-WcBrMsMY2s-J23Cr3FjvffHmyzgQUALFEX0Z4jTLpbTt_qnJGGYb5x2iaYXaWyhwXMJ0MujvD7SP0khU_A/s320/IMG_9683.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">For a few days I stayed beside the seaside. Walking, pausing, eating, avoiding contact with people, listening, staring and always apricating. The sun kept me company and I basked in it hoping that the rays of vitamin D would irradiate any lingering particles of the coronavirus. I'm not a scientist but it seemed like a good use of my time. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSGAjvCNQOpXFnbXzgT03120H78yIIciTGTML5y7ssus3agkPhOB29CRiBCn7oiDHu-R1GGJTW4UI5tPyKRnwA3aZldSFa7feuJgDvcmNZyxSLKylCYCnY6TApSPLcnUJW3d65kmJhCnlTSpoO9wyRO6e5q1aUs8RvKsOixhsQkLwDRsYpEu6FuA/s4032/IMG_9747.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSGAjvCNQOpXFnbXzgT03120H78yIIciTGTML5y7ssus3agkPhOB29CRiBCn7oiDHu-R1GGJTW4UI5tPyKRnwA3aZldSFa7feuJgDvcmNZyxSLKylCYCnY6TApSPLcnUJW3d65kmJhCnlTSpoO9wyRO6e5q1aUs8RvKsOixhsQkLwDRsYpEu6FuA/s320/IMG_9747.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Morning walks were best. Up and about even before the joggers. Walk until weary in either direction. There's something about a seaside town that I adore. I have a penchant for people watching and the best place to do it is by the sea. And of course, when the people drift away, there's always the sea to soothe you. Yes, the sea is magnificent wherever, but when a grand old pier stretches into it from a shingle beach, magic is abound. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyc9Wf5P6Ulic-NWtG9oGzBPdhRStTTP_lcIX-npM22YNBV9EMakeHOA7zR8Ro81gKQJmjiKKLflhxDwlnFlvInxBh8hDQCqnczSItxibHE3gC7TOFobMdm_msVFpFVTfBzofieM5Rm67YWQttORSiMhIdtXfKZJ5jiYmqgfAproEUuTAinq44Rg/s4032/IMG_9655.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyc9Wf5P6Ulic-NWtG9oGzBPdhRStTTP_lcIX-npM22YNBV9EMakeHOA7zR8Ro81gKQJmjiKKLflhxDwlnFlvInxBh8hDQCqnczSItxibHE3gC7TOFobMdm_msVFpFVTfBzofieM5Rm67YWQttORSiMhIdtXfKZJ5jiYmqgfAproEUuTAinq44Rg/s320/IMG_9655.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Walk under it, around it and along it. There's no view of a pier that is ugly. Second only to bridges in my top five human engineering achievements. And Bognor's is a beauty, especially in the spring sunshine. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuRHRlRxuy9elD826n1TgOAA-qtJzv6wU0JnCmOuCkZGnu34cUjEM5rc043-2Cc2T5KQ_H5AwgKW5njsi3MIWW3G1ZAfYgflsWN--La_QWS7uHJajTVQ3zk9HY8K2w0KDcO9YosrWZ5ADj7Le_wFQQJNE3qAYzZhTzu0ZeiYSYlnilvc0UuTCFoA/s4032/IMG_9739.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuRHRlRxuy9elD826n1TgOAA-qtJzv6wU0JnCmOuCkZGnu34cUjEM5rc043-2Cc2T5KQ_H5AwgKW5njsi3MIWW3G1ZAfYgflsWN--La_QWS7uHJajTVQ3zk9HY8K2w0KDcO9YosrWZ5ADj7Le_wFQQJNE3qAYzZhTzu0ZeiYSYlnilvc0UuTCFoA/s320/IMG_9739.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Buggering off to Bognor had given me time to be outside and time to think. I had a sunburnt face (never forget to panic pack sun cream). a new favourite pebble and a realisation that I have anxiety issues over Covid. By the time I had to leave, I was still testing negative but I was hoping to go back to everyday life with a more positive outlook. Sometimes life is no walk on the pier but I shall endeavour to store the optimism of a blue sky for rainy days. </div><br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div></div>Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4907162087763653046.post-67035831352133346102021-01-09T07:25:00.004-08:002021-01-09T07:25:34.425-08:00The Run of the Isham Gnome <p>I run.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I run and I run. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After days inside, sat at the ta<o:p></o:p>ble, watching a screen,
opening tabs, closing tabs, crashing the system, rebooting the system, eating
toast, wearing cardigan upon cardigan, I run.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s the most wonderful journey I’ve ever taken. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I run along the bumpy pavements. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I run across the empty streets. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I run past the evidence of irresponsible dog owners. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I run because all that matters is the run. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s not the most beautiful run, but it’s <i>my</i> run. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Legs push me forward. Eyes stream in the battle
against the wind. Lungs fill with beautiful, beautiful cold air. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I pass the naked trees, still home to pigeons and squirrels.
I pass the playground, deserted and desolate in the current landscape. I pass
the pub, curtains drawn and door bolted. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I run and I remember that everything is transitory. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Everything moves. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I move. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I run. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I run and I think about the future when the trees will be awash
with resplendent greenery. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I run and I think about the future when the playground will
heave with children screaming in excitement. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I run and I think about the future when the soft glow of the
pub spills out onto the pavement. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I run and I think. All my best thinking is done when blood
is pulsing to my extremities. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My journey continues. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I know where I’m going. Where I always go. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I run to the water. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I run alongside the water and inhale the industrial sea air.
<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">It may not be very far, and it may not take very long, yet, as with all journeys, it is the movement that matters. The propulsion of existence. I exist and I run. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I run the same route. Feet take the same steps. Eyes
take in the same sights. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The broken gate, the wonky street sign, the Mr Men mosaic, the alien
sticker on the lamppost, the abandoned scooter, the teddy in the window, the
wall with the chunk missing. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I see them all. Every time. Every run. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yet I run to the water and I don’t know what will greet me. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Tide in? Tide out? Choppy? Still? Swans in? Swans out? Oystercatchers?
Sandpipers? Fishing? Beachcombers? Sea glass? Sun? Cloud? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The transient nature of the sea keeps calling me back. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I run to it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I run away from it. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But I know it won’t be long before the need to run catches me
once more. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeeGUZ95LF_ibBk0PiqrslUlqhv6QIZ2bNaoVcV2FtoLdImTht5L05YLPPeNjWaxnuIqVdscBf75X8q3Pn6Rc5xtWxEndYK51UNjrECkeEONaiBO0M_dmw6rO4A-vJPj1gY7gl389_zQ/s2048/IMG_1058.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeeGUZ95LF_ibBk0PiqrslUlqhv6QIZ2bNaoVcV2FtoLdImTht5L05YLPPeNjWaxnuIqVdscBf75X8q3Pn6Rc5xtWxEndYK51UNjrECkeEONaiBO0M_dmw6rO4A-vJPj1gY7gl389_zQ/s320/IMG_1058.jpg" width="320" /></a></p>Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4907162087763653046.post-79391138845018914422020-07-27T07:58:00.002-07:002020-07-27T08:04:10.283-07:00Turn Around I dare you to read this title without Bonnie Tyler crooning in your ears. <div><br /></div><div>That's exactly what I had the whole time I pottered around Hollam Nurseries on Sunday. Maybe it was Bonnie Tyler or maybe it was my friend Kate who had a bad case of topical lyrical diarrhoea. There's a song for every occasion right? </div><div><br /></div><div>We were out on our adventures. Not a fully fledged, passport-necessary, hotel-staying, itinerary-organised adventure, but it was definitely further than the dog walk or the supermarket, so I was very excited. </div><div><br /></div><div>A mere twenty minutes from home and I was stepping into a field that took me to another world. I could've been in Provence or Tuscany. But I wasn't. I was in good old Fareham. Well, I suppose Titchfield sounds a bit prettier so we could go with that. </div><div><br /></div><div>I stepped into a field of sunflowers, or '<i>tournesols</i>' if we want to be French about it. This is where Bonnie Tyler comes into it. The sunflowers were staring eastwards towards the rising sun, hidden at that point due to the reliable July clouds. Call me uncultured, but I never knew that the French name reflected the fact that young sunflowers turn around to follow the sun across the sky. I must've missed the horticulture lesson during French in school. </div><div><br /></div><div>Travel may not be back in our lives just yet, but there are signs that things are turning around, not just the sunflowers. To be able to spend an afternoon with friends (at a distance) wandering amongst the plants and flowers, nodding politely to the busy bees in the summer sun (read: swirling wind with fleeting moments of sunshine) was a step in the right direction. Once upon a time there was light in my life, and a trip to the sunflower fields shows that there still is light if you turn to find it. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPUTSLxcA-L3ZUWru72k0OML7Mj5wOWo5xZwL5v6NEFZODtwXlGeJwSR9wHqmemQYBvf1x0AnVvXKXDuml1QJvI7UzDhLCWXBvbv7oYOcRaXmVPe3O1OulCsP_hcYsMeV2tTqhqM0Ukw/s320/IMG_0366+%25281%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPUTSLxcA-L3ZUWru72k0OML7Mj5wOWo5xZwL5v6NEFZODtwXlGeJwSR9wHqmemQYBvf1x0AnVvXKXDuml1QJvI7UzDhLCWXBvbv7oYOcRaXmVPe3O1OulCsP_hcYsMeV2tTqhqM0Ukw/s0/IMG_0366+%25281%2529.JPG" /></a></div><div></div><div><br /></div><div>Here are five fun facts I discovered about the sunflowers:</div><div><br /></div><div>1) The French name is '<i>tournesol</i>' which literally translates to '<i>turn to the sun</i>'. Say what you see eh? </div><div><br /></div><div>2) Sunflowers are great for pretending you're a pixie. Or a mouse. Or you're in a Rick Moranis movie. You can spend hours hiding amongst the giant foliage playing jungle hide and seek. The kids there were having a blast finding flowers bigger than their heads and promising weary parents that they would carry the equivalent of a tree around the farm. </div><div><br /></div><div>3) The mutants are out there. Sunflowers, like humans, come in all shapes and sizes, including mutated poly-headed behemoths, possibly unlike humans. I enjoyed finding those with faces coming out of their armpits, so to speak. I also felt empathy for those sagging stalks, slightly past their best. I tried to cheer up this line of ladies hanging their heads in dismay. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWkLHa1Z5qyZQccrb5EO8HKDyPaxdf8iSV1m11vKjYnUqlwlSr-DXm3cc2VLVexWqHXxbPbmkGzWAxZytyVHMyqaFGZVFiwpb4oTjCnKUC7wLsjvFS3qLsGM5KOVLgwxKiAKubC9lL6w/s320/IMG_0331.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWkLHa1Z5qyZQccrb5EO8HKDyPaxdf8iSV1m11vKjYnUqlwlSr-DXm3cc2VLVexWqHXxbPbmkGzWAxZytyVHMyqaFGZVFiwpb4oTjCnKUC7wLsjvFS3qLsGM5KOVLgwxKiAKubC9lL6w/s0/IMG_0331.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>4) Sunflowers are really bloody heavy. One alone is quite hefty if you cut a stem with a considerable girth. Multiply that and they soon add up. We could pick ten for our £10 entry and by the time I got to seven, I couldn't feel my arms and balancing them whilst snipping my next victim was quite the struggle. Clearly, this is the reason to have a partner. Or children. Or a well trained dog. </div><div><br /></div><div>5) All this adventure and discovery can be yours if you visit Hollam Nurseries. Well worth a visit: copious supplies of fresh air and masses of space to distance yourself from the other pixies on their own sunflower adventures. </div><div> <a href="https://www.hollamnurseries.co.uk/">https://www.hollamnurseries.co.uk/</a></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidsjxF5HIDd6t-Ld5MNqScN9iZ2YYkAlWR1KVk7m5DO9XkuVFS0h7ZMpD3xHaiKyDrQVnkJY476jmIUsbP8Y0OCfF7JQD2XzMaNNNzeQzDB6h8AI23Ek0j0rXbAuGFHfyG4O7GRaB-Jg/s320/IMG_0350.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidsjxF5HIDd6t-Ld5MNqScN9iZ2YYkAlWR1KVk7m5DO9XkuVFS0h7ZMpD3xHaiKyDrQVnkJY476jmIUsbP8Y0OCfF7JQD2XzMaNNNzeQzDB6h8AI23Ek0j0rXbAuGFHfyG4O7GRaB-Jg/s0/IMG_0350.JPG" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4907162087763653046.post-35653428090198305742020-04-13T04:30:00.000-07:002020-04-13T04:35:50.247-07:00Supermarket Expedition <div>
It was time for the expedition of a lifetime. I had planned, I had prepared and the butterflies were well and truly holed up in my stomach. My <i>hungry</i> stomach. I had to undertake this expedition. The most important expedition of all: to find food. </div>
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This was THE BIG SHOP. </div>
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I had hand sanitiser. I had bags for life. I even had a list, and I <i>never</i> write a shopping list. </div>
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And I was still shitting myself. </div>
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But this was one journey that was essential. Obviously I was going to try to make sure it was the shortest shopping trip ever, but it was still a trip that I had to make. I looked to Supermarket Sweep as my action plan and headed out the door. </div>
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The first leg was easy. The drive to Sainsbury's (big shop = big Sainsbury's) was a breeze. Despite nearing the hour of five o'clock, there were very few cars on the road. Rush hour is furloughed. </div>
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I like to think of myself as a seasoned traveller, and as I'm British, it's also in my DNA: queuing is no problem. I saw an orderly line and I knew exactly what to do. We snaked around the car park with a good distance between participants. Well, everyone except the one knobhead directly behind me. How do I become a beacon for every mentally challenged selfish cretin who can't follow simple guidelines? The line will not move any faster if you speed up mate. I shot him a look of contempt with just a splash of unbridled fury to suggest it was best to keep his distance. </div>
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Near the entrance, a lovely supermarket assistant explained to me how to use the self-scan so I could zap and pack as I went. I revelled in holding up my friend behind me whilst she explained. Thanking her profusely, I grinned at my follower and shuffled slowly to close up the gap. We still hadn't reached the final turn even with the informative delay. </div>
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Once through the fabled automatic doors, the mission commenced. Up aisles, down aisles, checking round corners, swerving trolleys, giving the evil eye to anyone who tried to invade my two metre personal space, reversing out of potential collisions, remembering the list, checking the list, realising I forgot something off the list, cursing the bloody list. I think it went quite well. </div>
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Imagine you are Pac-Man. Imagine you have to collect fruit whilst dodging ghosts who are trying to trap you in a corner. That is the supermarket experience in this, the time of coronavirus. I tried to collect a cauliflower but I was being closed in on from all sides. Then I realised I had to weigh it. Forget it! I don't need cauliflower cheese that badly. Leave it. Get out. The cauliflower is dead to me. We're living and shopping in a real life goddamn arcade game. My adrenaline was spiking and I hadn't even got to the chilled section. </div>
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I've travelled through Central America but the danger and tension there was nothing compared to this. </div>
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Time was ticking and I had to push on. </div>
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Panic set in and I started grabbing items off shelves wherever I went, list be damned. Pringles? I only eat them at Christmas, but why not? Pop Tarts? I'm not ten and I don't fancy diabetes to add to my list of ailments, but sure! Jesus, I've been vegetarian for thirty years but I think I grabbed a gammon steak.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Past cereals, tinned goods, empty shelves where flour and yeast used to be (I would have to console myself with the excitement of seeing everyone's loaves and banana bread on Facebook later), squash, emergency biscuits, and nearly to the other side. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I could see the checkouts.<br />
<br />
I had almost made it. My expedition was almost complete. I could almost smell the (fresh) air from the car park. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But then it came to me, like a bolt of inspiration. I could check if they have toilet roll. We have a few rolls left, granted, but it would be nice to have that breathing space, the comfort zone if you will. So, more in hope than anticipation, I rolled the trolley past the household aisle. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There it was. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In fine, two-ply glory. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A whole shelf of Sainsbury's own toilet tissue. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Praise be. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I've seen Niagara Falls, lost Mayan cities and the Eiffel Tower all lit up, but this was the most beautiful sight of any of my travels. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I unceremoniously grabbed, zapped and shoved the holy grail onto the already bulging bags in the trolley (praying I hadn't smashed any of the ridiculously expensive, middle class, organic eggs the depleted stocks had forced me into buying) and I was on the home straight. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Signing up for the self-scanning meant I could bypass the queues for checkouts and went directly to the pay zone. Scanner holstered, card inserted, PIN number (eventually) remembered and I was done! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My trolley left a skid mark on the floor as we dashed for freedom. The expedition complete, I was glad I had another adventure under my belt. But as soon as I got home and had scrubbed my hands, unpacked the goods, disinfected the bags, indulged in a little panic cry, had a cup of tea (with emergency biscuits), you can be damn sure that I was checking all the supermarket websites to see if I could get a delivery slot. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This is one journey I don't want to make too often. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
#StayHome<br />
#StayHomeSaveLives</div>
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Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4907162087763653046.post-70599527855971129742020-03-28T06:34:00.000-07:002020-03-28T06:47:58.177-07:00Passage Through PeartreeI squinted into the bright spring sunshine. My walking mate did the same and snuffled a trademark sneeze, shaking his furry mane. We never thought we would make it to this hallowed ground. He pulled at his lead, keen to continue our travels. So much planning had gone into this journey of a daytime, he didn't want to miss a thing.<br />
<br />
We were excitable travellers as we reached Peartree Park. It was a tonic to our housebound, sedentary bones to stretch our legs (of vastly different lengths) and we revelled in every moment of fresh air, despite the whipping wind blowing across the common from the River Itchen. The sky was a cobalt blue canvass across which the gnarled fingers of the trees clawed upwards towards the warming rays.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaCXJ4J3hsu3sshfqnk_5l7n9-LdMxIkOHn6VvkHGXEtQjjuCZR0XCvQLrMVqVqClLs60BGUByHC_CrUnxRoOvKM2pOiImhI3JjrT7vNaB_gt1oh6NRuXUsq50KirWX71JiBlSCTmHgA/s1600/trees.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaCXJ4J3hsu3sshfqnk_5l7n9-LdMxIkOHn6VvkHGXEtQjjuCZR0XCvQLrMVqVqClLs60BGUByHC_CrUnxRoOvKM2pOiImhI3JjrT7vNaB_gt1oh6NRuXUsq50KirWX71JiBlSCTmHgA/s320/trees.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
A ribbon of daffodils ran alongside the church and we couldn't resist following the yellow petal road. My canine companion took joy in tramping through the long grass, savouring the scents and then adding his own flavour to the mix.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAPhWRAs4aIc0L9A84o8u_fUBM7rb8luFFlWTEQFpYpVqnHPg6NX-ExjLVVGQA4uSEHB7Atu-tTEm9m2hrDXmjs7M_eygBnjEVW9Gf7Pt1ug3lgQN4UUIKeMRtmfmUcm8H6i0WIOiVUQ/s1600/Daffs.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAPhWRAs4aIc0L9A84o8u_fUBM7rb8luFFlWTEQFpYpVqnHPg6NX-ExjLVVGQA4uSEHB7Atu-tTEm9m2hrDXmjs7M_eygBnjEVW9Gf7Pt1ug3lgQN4UUIKeMRtmfmUcm8H6i0WIOiVUQ/s320/Daffs.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The big tourist sites loomed large: on one side the world famous Pear Tree Inn, offering a jukebox and crisps to all (a faint trace of stale lager and cheese and onion still lingered on the breeze). On the other side, the 400 year old Pear Tree church, seeping with history. Literally a location where God calls you one way whilst the devil offers you a seat at the bar. My furry friend and I could not be swayed either way and so continued our own journey. We had business to attend to.<br />
<br />
Unexpectedly, we were treated to a glimpse of the natural wonders found in this part of the world. Being low to the ground, my travelling partner jumped first as the giant pigeon flapped towards him. Well, not really a giant, but quite big. The silver beauty waddled across the path to collect his treasure. A Penguin wrapper, I think. He must've felt a natural winged affinity with the shiny plastic. We watched in awe as he flew away, slightly lopsidedly, towards the trees.<br />
<br />
Alas, there was no time to dawdle and bask in the glory of mother nature. My companion still had to find a suitable place to answer his own call of nature.<br />
<br />
Taking the road back towards home, up the slope that's quite a struggle when your're a chihuahua, we passed a kitchen window. The window flooded us with a pulsing blast of jungle music. We must've been fortunate to be passing on a special occasion or at festival time as the music was loud as well as having some human accompaniment. In a mark of respect for the wishes and values of the local natives, we passed by without comment but with a slight rave in our step. When in Woolston...<br />
<br />
On the other side of the road we were distracted by a beautiful vista. The spring blossoms were in full bloom and in the wind, they snowed down on us like confetti. They perfectly matched the transit van to complete the picture.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_0y-wcH-MblHgHEqM1r6GzpsDKzhIkqDaDhpfDKqK5wlFP8qDlpzVB497XN_CZIwS38lgfhsN55tZh3AtXQQah632LhpXqU_EtdBFgadUorD_cHeWKVUS3QKpYS08Jjre-a8bO6bULA/s1600/blossom.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_0y-wcH-MblHgHEqM1r6GzpsDKzhIkqDaDhpfDKqK5wlFP8qDlpzVB497XN_CZIwS38lgfhsN55tZh3AtXQQah632LhpXqU_EtdBFgadUorD_cHeWKVUS3QKpYS08Jjre-a8bO6bULA/s320/blossom.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Our journey was almost at an end. But we had yet to fulfil our destiny. As we walked the final stretch along the suburban streets, I implored the tiny tyrant by my feet to comply. It was only as we reached the last corner, did he start to make the familiar movements. Beneath a vintage, cracked road name sign, he pivoted and twirled and found his spot. Upon a lush bed of dandelion weeds and ominous stinging nettles too close for comfort, he unloaded the package. We had completed the business of the journey.<br />
<br />
I never thought I'd treasure the journey down the path that I've trodden countless times so much. Who knows when we'll get to walk these streets of Peartree once again?<br />
<br />
Well, probably tomorrow morning as the dog walking schedule dictates.<br />
<br />
But who knows what wondrous sights and delightful moments will await us. We are wayfarers wandering through our next adventure. With a trusty poo bag in hand.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4907162087763653046.post-47858700914948356952020-03-06T09:25:00.001-08:002020-03-06T09:25:13.197-08:00The Wonder of the Wander"Why are you going to Bath?" came the question from everyone I spoke to about my upcoming day trip.<br />
<br />
In response I shrugged and thought about it (after at least the fourth time I'd been asked). Then I answered honestly that I was going for a wander; I was going to see stuff. What stuff, I wasn't sure, but I'd know when I saw it. This was the kind of day the word 'mooching' was invented for.<br />
<br />
The week before an email had popped up informing me of cheap train tickets.<br />
<br />
"Cheap, you say," my brain pondered, and the easy decision was made. I was off on a jaunt.<br />
<br />
A jaunt is such a jaunty word. It leads you on a fun, yet not too ambitious adventure. I'm a fan of a mild adventure and this was everything that I look for in a mild adventure. I packed my sandwiches, shouldered my backpack and boarded the cheap train. My favourite type of train.<br />
<br />
A good train journey is sometimes all I need for a good outing. Give me the window seat with the countryside dancing past and I don't even need to get off when I reach my stop.<br />
<br />
But I did. I was ready to see Bath.<br />
<br />
Well, I say ready, but I had no plans. I still didn't know why I chose Bath (apart from the cheap ticket offer), what I wanted to see in Bath, or any idea how I'd spend the next eight hours. It was exciting. I had a blank canvas of a day. I could go anywhere (within Bath); I could do anything. Yet I didn't want to do <i>anything</i>. I wanted to do as close to nothing as possible whilst still doing <i>something</i>. A mild adventure was on the cards.<br />
<br />
And so as I arrived at Bath Spa train station, my blank canvas of day started to fill with colour. My feet would take me wherever I wandered. When I got back on the train later that night, I realised how quickly the day built up with tiny, seemingly insignificant moments of quiet joy that knitted together to create a beautiful day in a beautiful city.<br />
<br />
Here, I unpick some of the threads that built the tapestry of my glorious free day dedicated to the joy of wandering.<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Bath Spa train station toilets are a Victorian art deco place of beauty. I wanted to take a photo of the white tiles, black iron fittings and green ferns, but cameras are generally frowned upon in public bathrooms. I didn't mind waiting in that toilet queue. </li>
<li>Exiting the station to be met by two bright blue anorak-clad tourist shepherds. I must've been their easiest customer of the day. "Why yes, I would like a free map, thank you very much." </li>
<li>A walk over the famous Pulteney Bridge where the thing that made me smile most was not the bridge (shocking for me), but this exquisitely adorned florist. The shapes, the colours, the framing and the sunlight made my heart soar high into the blue beyond. </li>
</ul>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf3QXNdYdQ5egmMyFiyHrc1jARNXCCXVbSL65Jfsm3AaEm6lqD7sHP1IPa93WfWkeuQ3HjXdw0G1jduDRJLiWlACM7ZvpyD5RpfltpyLNydTOhP33Yg7I38vi9Pkdh9ke62WvO6UDzvQ/s1600/D61F54EA-1065-4577-B9A9-35DC658A9220.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1282" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf3QXNdYdQ5egmMyFiyHrc1jARNXCCXVbSL65Jfsm3AaEm6lqD7sHP1IPa93WfWkeuQ3HjXdw0G1jduDRJLiWlACM7ZvpyD5RpfltpyLNydTOhP33Yg7I38vi9Pkdh9ke62WvO6UDzvQ/s320/D61F54EA-1065-4577-B9A9-35DC658A9220.jpeg" width="256" /></a></div>
<div>
</div>
<ul>
<li>Sitting by said bridge to eat the first of my cake-based snacks and watching the dozens of tourists, even on a cold February morn, posing and taking pictures in joy. </li>
<li>A crisp morning walk in the eye-watering sunshine to walk the length and depth of the impressive Royal Crescent. </li>
</ul>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF-CrqR4z4KoCK2fBe_SUPsS9HhlXHe7yisFVUkbAbDXUevtkvr7NUF2HNWzcW5Svy4FfYtctQcZIuAfSASl_qULVRJhA1jDqrwgb8xoRrJtwFpcTOjWSAwSxNwiWHkQ5oqN3PCHCV2w/s1600/318CCA2B-182F-49E2-B236-09B8C14782BA.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF-CrqR4z4KoCK2fBe_SUPsS9HhlXHe7yisFVUkbAbDXUevtkvr7NUF2HNWzcW5Svy4FfYtctQcZIuAfSASl_qULVRJhA1jDqrwgb8xoRrJtwFpcTOjWSAwSxNwiWHkQ5oqN3PCHCV2w/s320/318CCA2B-182F-49E2-B236-09B8C14782BA.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
</div>
<ul>
<li>Finding the perfect window seat in a cafe for my next beverage to be accompanied by reading the local free paper and people watching. </li>
<li>A shuffle through the Green Park Station market to admire the weird food stalls and expansive glass roof above. </li>
<li>Marvelling at the sight of a gentleman sat drinking a mug of tea sat in a bathtub-sofa atop a converted lifeboat as it drifted down the canal. </li>
</ul>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibr1GtFNjxH6Cr3xP7wx0kqxzIIVwpodcv85MS4-ANDeehnJA3WCURy0W4tun00bMMWGegIbX0Rvf_5sWUt1rxAdyCI7_z5BrLzRLPo7PN-EJVxR43yEARxWWxslqP5MeukMK2dRqgVQ/s1600/D6631139-A544-4710-81E5-F2C2AEC274F8.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1323" data-original-width="1600" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibr1GtFNjxH6Cr3xP7wx0kqxzIIVwpodcv85MS4-ANDeehnJA3WCURy0W4tun00bMMWGegIbX0Rvf_5sWUt1rxAdyCI7_z5BrLzRLPo7PN-EJVxR43yEARxWWxslqP5MeukMK2dRqgVQ/s320/D6631139-A544-4710-81E5-F2C2AEC274F8.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<ul>
<li>The cloud speckled blue sky being dissected by a grey yet rusting industrial bridge I came across on a walk along the canal. </li>
</ul>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDgVkVVbcHWyVDPdCkt7MswQlD29jq4JRvhPySgfUc1aYmqwLY08bJhHpfM6IB8FhUUJaF11aHKzYEeznb1x7Vm1eu-21ist0XxPg0JEwwFI832DyqzB7unyDoso4dCr60U_uL8lxOQg/s1600/5CA38260-F550-4296-B329-8FC8ACA5DAA6.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDgVkVVbcHWyVDPdCkt7MswQlD29jq4JRvhPySgfUc1aYmqwLY08bJhHpfM6IB8FhUUJaF11aHKzYEeznb1x7Vm1eu-21ist0XxPg0JEwwFI832DyqzB7unyDoso4dCr60U_uL8lxOQg/s320/5CA38260-F550-4296-B329-8FC8ACA5DAA6.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<ul>
<li>The nerdy excitement of visiting a new Picturehouse cinema and settling into a cosy seat for an afternoon feature. </li>
<li>Finally discovering the joy of the Bath Bun. I stopped at Sally Lunn's famous eating house (what every house should aspire to) to pick up some of these soft, sweet bread pillows. </li>
<li>Following the deafening pealing bells towards Bath Abbey as I left the cinema at dusk, only to find the biggest, brightest full moon over the imposing, honey-coloured Gothic structure. </li>
</ul>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQWTDceUYDoSVntCHkMXqAWNscSaBkYxNJJWtHEfEMzrU6fdhg0-lBey8RCmgpIrzJpAn5-vd5fUO12rZhe4VD2F9F-jnJZypne6ynw2fNYgDahTYFWFyWyKyyFIWTKAyskpCP-HSMqw/s1600/843E1DAD-D37D-4580-A93D-42A2A7D54B08.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQWTDceUYDoSVntCHkMXqAWNscSaBkYxNJJWtHEfEMzrU6fdhg0-lBey8RCmgpIrzJpAn5-vd5fUO12rZhe4VD2F9F-jnJZypne6ynw2fNYgDahTYFWFyWyKyyFIWTKAyskpCP-HSMqw/s320/843E1DAD-D37D-4580-A93D-42A2A7D54B08.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>
<ul>
<li>A quick stop in the grandest cinema bar I've ever set foot in to hunker down in a squidgy, cushion adorned armchair to continue my people watching over candlelight. The atmospheric Tivoli Cinema was like stepping into a gold-trimmed scene from The Great Gatsby. </li>
</ul>
<br />
Bath is a lively and history-laden city and I could've planned to take advantage of more of the tourist attractions. But I preferred my mooching method. It was only one day and it started as a day with no plans. In spite of having no plans, I packed a whole lot of something in. It's a wonder what you can find when you let yourself wander.Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4907162087763653046.post-16493664914843984082019-09-01T13:21:00.003-07:002019-09-01T13:24:00.239-07:00Going Nowhere Warning: this post contains no travel.<br />
<br />
I am a mover, a traveller, a can't-stay-still-er. I like to be DOING something. Most of the time anyway. Doing stuff: better than not doing stuff.<br />
<br />
But I've found a magical place where I don't want to do anything. Or go anywhere. Or move.<br />
<br />
To be honest, I'm annoyed at myself that I didn't think about it before. I love the look of them, I love everything that they represent, I love the nostalgia and the purity of them. Why haven't I thought about it before?<br />
<br />
The place in question?<br />
<br />
A beach hut.<br />
<br />
The humble, British seaside beach hut along the golden sands of Bournemouth no less.<br />
<br />
Fine, I lied a little; there was <i>some</i> travel involved. Early travel at that. I woke up super early (although the sleep was restless when it eventually came, much like on Christmas Eve) to take on the A31 before the traffic hit.<br />
<br />
The beauty of the early start was that I was at the beach in time to ride my bike along the promenade before the 10 am curfew. Like a boss.<br />
<br />
Then, the non-travel began.<br />
<br />
I picked up the keys to my beach hut (which perfectly matched the colour of my bike - it was fate) and unlocked my destiny. Well, a wooden hut to call home until sunset.<br />
<br />
I pulled out a deckchair and settled myself down. Sat on the prom, cup of tea and biscuits to hand, I started the task of doing nothing.<br />
<br />
I sat.<br />
<br />
I watched.<br />
<br />
I listened to the sea.<br />
<br />
I warmed under the sun's rays.<br />
<br />
I smiled at everyone (and the gazillions of dogs) walking past.<br />
<br />
I just smiled.<br />
<br />
The best thing about travelling are the people you get to see. The people you meet along the journey or the people who you find at your destination. The beauty of the beach hut was that I got to see both these groups of people, but I didn't have to move to see them.<br />
<br />
I'd sent an invitation to various people to join me at the hut during the day. Not everyone could come (which was fortuitous as the beach hut was not the TARDIS) but there was a steady flow of friends and family who came by throughout the day. I was there for the long haul, but I welcomed transient visitors, especially when they brought buckets and spades, tractors for digging, ice creams, chocolate supplies, satsumas and provided much needed coverage for when I went to the loo or for a swim (not simultaneously I hasten to add).<br />
<br />
Then there were the people I met along the 'journey'. Although I didn't move anywhere, it was still possible to meet people: the arguing family two doors up who spread all the way along to my territory; the kindred football spirits who we talked to next door; the beach hut owner the other side who's been lucky enough to own it for almost twenty years and has the interior decked out like a junk shop; the fishermen I met by the bike racks who told me what they caught and how cold I could expect the sea to be (not too bad as it turns out).<br />
<br />
And to add to this, there were the thousands of people I must've observed throughout the day from my deckchair shaped vantage point: the family of giant bubble blowers at the sea edge in the early morn; the diligent joggers getting it done before the crowds; the teenage gymnasts tumbling off the groynes onto the sand like superheroes; the toddlers straying into the paths of other walkers; everyone on the land train I <i>had</i> to wave to every single time they passed; the old couples strolling hand in hand; and not forgetting ALL THE DOGS!<br />
<br />
It was a busy day and I saw so much considering I went nowhere.<br />
<br />
After twelve hours being on the beach, I made a last sweep of the beach hut (they provide you with a broom and I've never enjoyed sweeping so much) and locked up for the night. The smile never left my face as I took the bike ride back along the prom. By that time I was a little chilly, tired and covered in sand. But I couldn't have been happier.<br />
<br />
Next time I want to go somewhere that makes me happy, I'm going to go nowhere.<br />
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<br />Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4907162087763653046.post-6788684085051156152019-08-07T13:38:00.003-07:002019-08-07T13:38:21.995-07:00Strictly Come Darting I've talked a lot about love in my last few posts. Maybe I'm getting soppy in my old age. Or maybe in a world that seems to be losing all common sense and crumbling into chaos around us, love is what I want to see more of and so am searching it out on some level.<br />
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It was 32 degrees and I was sharing a car with three family members for a little over five hours. You might well ask why: I often asked why when we were crawling through the roadworks on the M6 and into the second hour of the car name game.<br />
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The reason was love.<br />
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Sure, he drives me crazy and invokes eye-rolling like no one else can dare to, but I can't help but love my dad.<br />
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So, my brother and I bought him tickets to the darts. The PDC World Matchplay Darts to be exact.<br />
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I was a little terrified. I'd seen the darts on telly and it looks quite rowdy. I am not. As a rule. But Dad loves the sport, so along we went. My dad, my uncle, my brother and I were on an Isham road trip up north to the glitz and glamour of Blackpool.<br />
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Finally arriving at our hotel along the prom, we peeled ourselves out of sweaty clothes and changed into marginally less sweaty wear, only to cram into Blackpool Winter Gardens with thousands of other people who were sat closer to me than I've been to my closest friends. And they were already rowdy. I didn't think I'd last the night.<br />
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But then something strange happened.<br />
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I embraced the cheering, the sweating and the mental maths. I looked around the room and saw the love.<br />
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Everyone there was there because they loved the darts. #lovethedarts<br />
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They loved the game of darts.<br />
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They loved some of the players.<br />
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They loved hating some of the other players.<br />
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They loved the drama of it.<br />
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They loved the spectacle of it.<br />
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They loved the community of it.<br />
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It was a room full of (sweaty) love and beauty.<br />
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I loved the beauty of the Winter Gardens architecture.<br />
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I loved the effort people put into their ridiculous costumes.<br />
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I loved the signs people were writing to hold up to the TV cameras to their nan / their boss / the general public at home.<br />
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I loved the kids keeping quiet on their phones whilst parents let loose.<br />
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I loved the disappearing drink dregs near the teenagers who'd been dragged along on the annual family pilgrimage.<br />
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I loved the chat between groups of strangers on the long banquet style tables.<br />
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I loved the pumping beats at the end of every leg of the games.<br />
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I loved the pizza box flipped into the air by the Scottish man practically sat on my lap when his local hero did well.<br />
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I loved the flippy scroll banner contraption that I could thrust into the air with joy at every 180.<br />
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Everyone there loved it. There was something special about how a collective love sweeps you along. By the end of the night, I was deeply invested in a match between two men I'd never heard of three hours previously and roared along with everyone else in the room at each thud of the dart into the triple twenty.<br />
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According to the chant (I told you it was rowdy), you had to "Stand up, if you love the darts!". I was on my feet for most of the evening. It was very easy to #lovethedarts. </div>
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I already knew I would fall in love the next day. We were set for a slight change of pace in the Blackpool Tower Ballroom. There we found scores of people swirling round the famous dance floor. Despite it being a warm weekday afternoon, the tables around the dance floor were all occupied, even though some just had cardigans holding the seats whilst the wearers were otherwise occupied with a waltz. </div>
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I knew I would love it before I got there, and of course I did. I had a swelling of emotion and felt ridiculous trying to stem my stinging nose as I first looked around in awe of the decoration, the ambience but most of all of the people bringing the ballroom to life. </div>
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These weren't celebrity dancers; they were 'the regulars' as the lady on the till had told us. The people who live to come and take to the floor with their friends and partners to the sound of the organ on the stage, for the love of the dance. </div>
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It was beautiful. The dancers were the most beautiful I've ever seen. </div>
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I loved the tables of older folk chatting and laughing and drinking tea and deciding when the music moved them to dance. </div>
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I loved the red velvet backed chairs. </div>
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I loved the smiling lady in the pale blue dress gracing a different partner every tune with her presence. </div>
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I loved the cheeky fella with the psychedelic waistcoat and bow-tie making his partners lose concentration by laughing. </div>
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I loved the elegant lady taking the lead with a visitor who wanted to try their feet in the ballroom. </div>
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I loved the lady dancing with the gent in the wheelchair, easily winning the twirling stakes. </div>
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I loved the fact that the Viennese Waltz is the ballroom version of Mr Brightside where no one is left sitting down when it plays. Banger. </div>
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I loved the two older ladies dancing with each other and obviously having a complete ball. </div>
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I loved the tea and cake I enjoyed whilst watching the dancing. </div>
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I loved sitting on the balcony and watching the hypnotic scene below until my face ached from smiling. </div>
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Our love for Dad had driven us to the town of Blackpool, and I was glad to share its spirit and its fish and chips with my loved ones. </div>
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Blackpool is a place that wears its heart on its sleeve. Everyone there is happy to share their passions and they do so with no qualms or worries about how they might appear to others.<br />
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To wear a satin ballgown and matching gloves at 1pm on a Wednesday or to dress as a seagull in a packed ballroom on the hottest day ever in Blackpool comes from a place of love. In the current climate of confusion and hatred, we need to cultivate more love in our daily lives. I, for one, will stand up to being a bit more Blackpool and do what I love.<br />
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<br />Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4907162087763653046.post-41144552583100031872019-07-18T23:01:00.000-07:002019-07-18T23:27:36.368-07:00Messing About on a BoatThis is the tale of a journey of love.<br />
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It was not a particularly long journey, nor was it particularly far. But it was full of love.<br />
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Life is better by the sea: that's my mantra. Sometimes though, life can also be just as good ON the sea. Under a ridiculously blue sky a few weeks ago, I spent the day aboard a steam ship pottering about the Solent. It was delightful. I loved it.<br />
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Everything about the day was delightful. Not exciting, not awesome, but a day full of pure, heart-warming, sunshine-glowing, smile-inducing, wave-making delight.<br />
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We made waves before we even set sail. Part of the joy of being on a boat is waving at people, right? So I started many a wave. Waving at dinghies, waving at ferries, waving at yachts (FYI yachts are the least likely to respond, yet I continued waving regardless) all to spread a little joy as we began our adventure.<br />
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Well, maybe 'adventure' is a bit strong. We were going on a steady journey aboard a ship to the dark side of the Isle of Wight and back with a picnic. Hardly searingly adventurous. The ship in question was a steam ship called the SS Shieldhall. It's a retired and restored vessel that now goes on jollies around the Solent. You can find out more about it here: <a href="https://www.ss-shieldhall.co.uk/">https://www.ss-shieldhall.co.uk/</a><br />
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She may not be particularly fast but she is ever so slightly magic. Even the man with the stripes on his shoulders on the bridge told me so. And that's part of the beauty of Shieldhall. You can go almost anywhere on board. You can hang out with the captain and the pilot on the bridge. You can keep lookout with the crew on the fo'c'sle deck. Or you can enter an ice cream eating race with the guys in the heaving heart of the blisteringly hot boiler room. Swelteringly hot down in the depths and they were still up for the challenge of eating their ice cream before it ran away. Of course they were. They are there for the simple joys.<br />
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Every single person on board that ship was there for the joy. Yet the crew were there for the joy and the love. Each person who works for or on the SS Shieldhall is a volunteer. No one gets paid. They do it for the love of the ship. That is abundantly clear to see everywhere. No one is looking at their watch to check when they get to clock off. Every volunteer gives their time willingly and wholeheartedly to paint the ship during the off-season, oil its bits, make tea to sell, walk around the deck selling ice creams from a tray (I kid you not), sweat their lives away in the engine room and most of all, talk the sea legs off any passenger on board about the ship and why they love it so.<br />
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I loved their love.<br />
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It was also clear that they loved each other. The camaraderie between the crew members was sincere and so important to them. When not on duty, the crew seemed to hang out at the lookout point on the front deck. They traded stories and jibes between talking about the ship and teaching us eager onlookers about their work on that day and throughout the many days they'd spent preparing her for voyages.<br />
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On a wander up to the bridge, the captain had told me a story about his chance meeting with a professor from Southampton General Hospital. He recounted how a lot of the professor's patients who suffered with various mental health issues, often after retiring or leaving careers in the navy or suchlike, had found solace and, more importantly, purpose in starting to volunteer for Shieldhall. Over the years, the ship has brought people together and has continued to build a family of volunteers. It is truly magic.<br />
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I might have set foot aboard Shieldhall with the intention of just messing about on a boat, yet the leisurely journey past the corner of Bembridge and back allowed me a glimpse into a very special community.<br />
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Sometimes messing about, eating ice cream before it drips down your chin, waving like a loon to anyone who you might make smile, whooping along with the ship's whistle and all the while basking in the company of some of the most dedicated, knowledgeable and time-generous seafarers can bring you joy that you never imagined.<br />
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Steam is what makes the Shieldhall go, but love is what makes it live.<br />
<br />Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4907162087763653046.post-88024315600929604232019-05-01T11:47:00.000-07:002019-05-01T11:49:34.682-07:00The Least Exotic Cypriot Hotel When I told a friend of mine that I was going to Cyprus, he said that it was similar to England, just a tiny bit different. Like a tweaked version of the green and pleasant land. A Twilight Zone version if you will. And he was very much correct.<br />
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I really felt I was in the Twilight Zone as I first arrived. On stepping onto the coach to take me to the hotel, my ears were attacked by the crooning of Mr Chris Rea regarding 'The Road to Hell'. Not what one wants to hear when arriving tired, disorientated and hungry in a foreign country, late at night and with a coach driver hurtling along winding coast roads. But hey, that's what I got.<br />
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Three times.<br />
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The loop of the tape (and I say tape rather than CD because the age of the coach and George the driver were both vintage) was so short that during the journey to drop EVERYONE else at their hotels before me, we travelled said road to hell three times.<br />
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And I survived.<br />
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That must be a good start to a holiday.<br />
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On arrival at the hotel, I checked in, writing my address on the form. The hotel desk clerk looked at it with wide eyes. Ten years ago, he used to live two roads away from where I live. He used to drink in my local pub. We chatted about the local 'landmarks'. You could not make this up.<br />
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The next day, I got to see more of the hotel and meet some of the residents. Most of the hotel guests were Brits or Germans. The British contingent was huge and there were many older residents and lone travellers. I met 84-year-old Brian from Cardiff, Alvin from Yorkshire and Barbara and Jean from 10 miles away from my front door. They were all a delight to talk to and gave me a lot of advice about the hotel, the facilities in the immediate vicinity around the hotel and key towns and villages around Cyprus. These members of the older generation were a delight to spend time talking to.<br />
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Brian told me that he goes to that same hotel, twice a year for three weeks at a time, as do many of the other guests. He calls them 'the gang'. A group of retired folks who meet up in the Spring and the Autumn for a few weeks of socialising, sunbathing and romancing. Yes, Brian had a lady friend joining him the next day. I was beyond happy to hear his tales of courtship and life.<br />
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Brian said that they jokingly liken themselves to 'The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel' and he's not far off. They all arrived as individuals and made friendships throughout their stay, and subsequent stays. Sat at dinner, Brian had to say hello to people every few minutes as diners entered or left the restaurant. The next day, a lot of them sat together to sing happy birthday to one of their fold. It was a beautiful community to witness.<br />
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The hotel, despite being on the coast of the Med, was very much an enclave of British life. The food could've been served at any British restaurant. Sure, we had Mexican night, Indian night and obligatory Greek night, but there was always a thread of familiarity running through the buffet line. One night we even had roast dinner, complete with Yorkshire puds. Brian advised me to go for the apple crumble and custard for dessert, and boy did he have the down-low on that.<br />
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And the mornings brought a cooked breakfast worthy of any greasy spoon cafe. I particularly liked the fact that the toaster had to have this sign added to it halfway through the week, presumably due to the fact that some poor soul couldn't last the holiday without the familiar comfort of cheese on toast.<br />
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The hotel was also blessed with a wide selection of activities: quizzes, archery, darts and daily bingo accompanied by mandatory silence and looks that could kill if you dared to break the unwritten rule. Even the hordes of newly formed child gangs were forced to put their games of tag or hide and seek on hold during this sacred time. </div>
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There was so much going on, and traditional ice cream cones on offer throughout the day to enjoy in the gardens or around the pool, that you needn't ever leave the hotel. You could enjoy the Mediterranean weather in a British bubble. </div>
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I said you COULD. </div>
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Of course, I left the hotel. </div>
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Of course, I saw the beaches of Cyprus. </div>
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Of course, I saw the history of the ancient civilisations. </div>
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And here's one of my favourite pictures for evidence. </div>
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But you could read all about that in a guide book. You don't need me to tell you any of that. </div>
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A wise 84-year-old once told me over apple crumble, "Life is about people. That's all there is." and I had to blink away the tears.</div>
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I always knew that to be true, but it took a random dinner companion in a hotel that was a little slice of England in the middle of the Med to remind me. I didn't go on holiday to make new acquaintances. In fact, my sole aim when I boarded the plane to Cyprus was to speak to as few people as possible. I needed some quiet time. </div>
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But as soon as I had ten minutes of quiet time, I was ready to have some people time again. Brian and his gang came bursting into my life to allow me a little glimpse into their own daily lives. It has also made me look forward a little more to old age. It might not have been exotic or brimming with Cypriot history, but my face ached with smiles and my heart glowed with companionship as I spent time living amongst the residents of The Least Exotic Cypriot Hotel.</div>
<br />Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4907162087763653046.post-40524211227936693932019-02-25T23:06:00.001-08:002019-02-25T23:06:07.982-08:00Vow of Silence Call me anti-social, but for me, part of the appeal of travelling is the time you get to spend alone. Even if I'm on just a day trip, I enjoy spending time in my own company. Especially if I'm out in the countryside with an expanse of blue and white above me.<br />
<br />
Last week, I packed my sandwiches, pulled on my boots and headed into a field somewhere just inside Wales. I was to spend a day mooching around Tintern Abbey.<br />
<br />
First, I wanted to see it from up on high so I found a path that would lead to what is known as Devil's Pulpit, an overlooking point from where the devil is alleged to have preached to the monks in the valley below displaying a particularly devil may care attitude, even for Lucifer himself. To get to the viewpoint, I had a journey through several landscapes: a forest heathland, rolling grass fields and ancient woodland. And the best thing was that I didn't see another living soul (save a few birds) for close to an hour on the walk. It was bliss.<br />
<br />
I passed through gates, followed the signposts and tramped my route with the sun getting ever stronger in the midday sky. My surroundings were so peaceful and so quiet I even felt slightly unnerved at one point. It's not often that you get to feel such solitude. The unnerving moment passed and I continued on, happy in my temporary, open-air hermitage.<br />
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The walk was very much worth the effort. By the time I wondered if I'd taken a wrong path or had missed a sign, the latest copse of trees led me up a slight incline to open up to gap in the undergrowth that looked out over a cliff edge and down into the valley below. I was blessed to share the same view that once belonged to the devil. An actual "wow" escaped my lips as my eyes fluttered in panic to take in all the sights of the winding river, the green hills and the ancient ruins, all framed by nature.<br />
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I don't think I've ever before eaten my sandwiches with a better view. </div>
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But I couldn't stay there all day. I had other ground to cover. </div>
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I retraced my steps across the various terrains. I was soon back down in the valley, ready to explore a little closer. There were slightly more people here that the none I had encountered on my walk, but I was still enjoying the relative isolation. </div>
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Sure, I looked around the outside of the abbey. It's very grand and architecturally beautiful. But did I pay to go in and read a lot of signs? No, I did not. I don't think the medieval monks would've wanted me to do that. I read up about the former inhabitants of the site. These Cistercian monks took pledges of austerity and silence. I liked their chutzpah. </div>
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They endeared themselves to me further when I discovered their planning requirements: "None of our houses is to be built in cities, in castles or villages; but in places remote from the conversation of men." Amen to that I say. We are often better off without the conversation of men. And when the scenery is as breathtakingly, naturally magnificent as the Wye Valley, what else is left to say? </div>
<br />Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4907162087763653046.post-28740741984287123112019-02-03T04:59:00.000-08:002019-02-03T05:53:39.329-08:00A Brief, Bracing Boat Trip Not all adventures have to be far-flung or extended, back-pack necessary epics. Some can be ad hoc discoveries on your own doorstep.<br />
<br />
I like the adventure where you can find some beauty in the most unexpected places. I like an adventure where you can suck in so much fresh, sea air that it feels like your nostrils will freeze. I also like it when there is cake at the end of said adventure.<br />
<br />
This is exactly what happened last weekend. And this is how it started:<br />
<br />
Do you want to go for a walk this afternoon?<br />
<br />
Sure.<br />
<br />
Do you want to go on a boat trip this afternoon?<br />
<br />
Sure.<br />
<br />
Do you want to go to the cafe after for a cake?<br />
<br />
Hell yeah.<br />
<br />
Yes, the wind chill factor was on a par with the Arctic tundra, but my friend Kate convinced me to walk along the Hamble River and take the short ferry ride to Warsash last Sunday afternoon. I wore ALL my clothes and it still wasn't enough. But we're British so we, and many other we passed, carried on regardless. I'm sure we weren't the only ones who had the promise of cake as a sugary carrot to tempt us along the footpath.<br />
<br />
It seems that a short adventure needs a short account, so I shall do my best.<br />
<br />
- We walked.<br />
- We waited for the iconic pink ferry.<br />
- We lost visual of the ferry as it bobbed around in the waves.<br />
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- We boarded the pink ferry.<br />
- Our bottoms almost got frozen to the metal benches on the ferry.<br />
- Distraction from frozen nether regions was provided by an 8-month chihuahua.<br />
- We walked.<br />
- My nose ran.<br />
- We saw some fancy ducks.<br />
- We explored a half-hidden pathway.<br />
- We stopped exploring the half-hidden pathway when it became a fully hidden pathway.<br />
- We asked some photographers about the fancy ducks - they had no idea.<br />
- We walked.<br />
- We decided to get the next boat back before my fingers fell off.<br />
- We were relieved to see the boat ready at the jetty to head back.<br />
- We were too slow.<br />
- The boat left without us.<br />
- We waited by the shelter.<br />
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- We decided it was better / warmer to continue walking.<br />
- We got the next boat back, avoiding the seemingly apocalyptic sky above.<br />
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- We rewarded ourselves with some tea and motherfucking cake.<br />
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<br />Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4907162087763653046.post-65550125612037369872019-01-05T06:49:00.001-08:002019-01-05T06:49:11.014-08:00Hidden HengistburyThis is a little embarrassing.<br />
<br />
I generally pride myself on my navigational skills - GCSE Geography don't you know?<br />
<br />
But there has always been one thorn in my side, one niggling Achilles' heel in my travelling boots: Hengistbury Head.<br />
<br />
I'm a Bournemouth girl, for sure. Although I live in Southampton, "going to the beach" has always meant going to Bournemouth beach. I have been going to one of the beaches along that stretch of coastline as long as I can remember. Digging huge holes in the sand, playing in and out of the water, crabbing on the quayside, eating sandy crisp sandwiches, walking every inch of promenade, and of course swimming until I thought I'd turn into a fish.<br />
<br />
I go to many beaches in and around the Bournemouth area, but Hengistbury Head had always escaped me. Not through lack of effort though. Over the past fifteen years or so, I had tried to find it on two separate occasions. It's not that hard to find, one might think.<br />
<br />
One would be wrong. This was in pre-Sat-Nav days it should be noted, but that is still no excuse. I couldn't find the bloody place. I remember hitting the coast and just not being able to find the fabled stretch of sandbank leading to the grand headland. Several times, on visiting Mudeford, I was literally a stone's throw away. Farcical! (Although I wasn't paying a ferry fare to get there.)<br />
<br />
I had banished thoughts of these failures to the back of my mind and made peace with the fact I was never going to make it. Until New Year's Eve. My friend Kate asked if I fancied an end of year trip to the seaside.<br />
<br />
"Do you want to go to Hengistbury Head?"<br />
<br />
Yes Kate, I bloody well do.<br />
<br />
And so, under the guidance of more seasoned visitors to the Head, I was driven to my destiny.<br />
<br />
I mean, I knew I was going to love it, and I did love it. I loved every single bit of it.<br />
<br />
Love list:<br />
<br />
1) Sheep<br />
Nobody told me there were sheep there.<br />
I loved seeing a flock of sheep being led down a hill as I embarked on my journey.<br />
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2) The sea<br />
Of course I bloody loved the sea. What's not to love? You're surrounded by it as you walk up the headland and along the sandbank. I always love the sea.<br />
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3) The dogs<br />
There are loads and loads of dogs (with their walkers) everywhere. Got a dog? Take it to walk Hengistbury. Love dogs? Go there to vicariously live out your dog walking dreams with the hordes of hounds already there. (My favourite was the tiny dachshund that I was amazed had got up the hill - shh, don't tell the other dogs I have favourites.)<br />
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4) The hill<br />
Yes, it's a steep hill. Yes, it's hard on the legs to push forward. Yes, your lungs burn in the numbingly cold air at the exertion (especially after Christmas excesses). But isn't that the joy? The feeling of being pushed to confront your own existence. There were a lot of runners taking the hill a lot faster than us. Maybe I'll do that next time. Maybe.<br />
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5) The end of the hill<br />
When you reach the top of the headland, you are treated to a wonderful view of the sandbank below that reaches towards Mudeford, allowing your eyes to adjust to the moving waves that lap the sand, the screeching gulls overhead and the general colourful mosaic of a British seaside vista. And you know that it's all downhill from there. (Physically, definitely not metaphorically.)<br />
<br />
6) The beach huts<br />
The sandbank is filled, crammed, chock-a-block even, with beach huts of different shapes, sizes and personalities. They are their own living entities, jostling for their position facing the sea, or Christchurch harbour, or in some case, both. Some are blue, some are new, some are cracked, some are worn. All are lucky to stand watch over the sea.<br />
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7) The Beach House<br />
This is a cafe on the sand spit. It sits on the beach, pride of place, nestled amongst the colourful beach huts. Unfortunately, it suffered a fire recently and so I was unable to experience it fully. However, it's currently still working to provide rejuvenation for tired beach walkers from a small kiosk. My cup of sweet tea and a cheese and onion pasty was a culinary delight. I don't know whether it was because I was tired, or I was cold, or I was very, very hungry, or because of the breathtaking view, or if it was a combination of factors, but, I kid you not, that cheese and onion pasty was the best bloody pasty I've ever had. The best.<br />
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It was a very cold day, yet there was no wind. Even the five layers I had bundled on to keep the elements at bay would have been no match to a gusty headwind blowing in off the sea. I was thankful that mother nature chose to let me enjoy my snacks in peace on my first visit to Hengistbury Head. I guess it owed me a treat after the hassle of actually finding the place.<br />
<br />
Yet now, due to the law of averages, I fear that the next time I head down to this magical seaside escape, I will have to contend with whipping winds that push me backwards down the hill and send sand into my tea. Bring it on, I say. I think I'll love it whatever the weather.<br />
<br />
As long as I can find the bloody place again.<br />
<br />
<br />Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4907162087763653046.post-53307932796765357652018-08-15T04:54:00.000-07:002018-08-15T05:00:19.946-07:00A Lull During Bestival A festival<br />
Bestival!<br />
Packing<br />
repacking<br />
squishing it all in the car.<br />
<br />
Driving<br />
driving<br />
queuing<br />
a little bit more driving<br />
waiting in a skin blisteringly hot car.<br />
<br />
Driving solo;<br />
a lack of car snacks<br />
a lack of air conditioning<br />
a lack of traffic patience<br />
a build up of hot, sweaty frustration.<br />
<br />
Cake at the campsite<br />
greetings, hugs, questions, stories,<br />
tents, pegs, airbeds, long walk to the toilets.<br />
<br />
Long walk to the arena,<br />
dusty pathways, dog searches, bag searches<br />
<br />
Finally in the festival;<br />
glitter, sequins, funny hats, fancy dress, sore sunburn lines already in residence,<br />
arguing couples, screaming children, funfair melodies, pumping beats, long build ups, disappointing drops, bass bounding back in like a bully barging into my brain.<br />
<br />
My bass, our drums, forty odd drummers moving in unison.<br />
Rhythms and beats pounding through me.<br />
Sweat running into my sun-squinting eyes.<br />
The rest evaporating in the midday heat.<br />
Sun cream reapplied,<br />
following the shade as the day draws on.<br />
<br />
Tightrope walkers, spinning lights, blinding lights, stages you can only see through the silhouetted crowd.<br />
People.<br />
People everywhere.<br />
<br />
Food smells, toilets smells, funny smells the dogs missed.<br />
Fuzzy head from too much sun. Too much heat. Too much everything.<br />
<br />
Sleep.<br />
<br />
Time to escape.<br />
<br />
An early morning escape. Not ten minutes down the country lanes.<br />
<br />
Here:<br />
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<br />
Lulworth Cove. A hidden retreat that was once a haunt of many a smuggler. I imagined the cool, calm water to be a veil over possible forgotten loot and stranded vessels strewn over the jagged rocks, littering the sea bed.<br />
<br />
Yet none of this was enough to deter me from my mission. I needed the sea.<br />
<br />
The pebbled beach invited me towards the shore and soon my shins were pushing past the lapping waves. The sun was shining but had yet to hit its full stride. I took a deep breath and took my first dive beneath the surface.<br />
<br />
Cold, salty water rushed over me and my muscles propelled me on through the waves. The dust, and the sweat, and the aches, and the stresses, and the lingering remnants of festival life were washed away, peeled away from my skin by the cool currents swirling into the bay.<br />
<br />
Once I surfaced, I squinted into the sunlight and wished to be below the surface once more. So the process was repeated. Diving, surfacing, pushing through the water until I could no longer feel my fingers. The floating was the best. Lying silently still, staring up at the white cliffs comfortably besieging us. Sculling around so as not to be blinded by the ever-strengthening sunlight. My head submerged below the surface so that the only sounds reverberating through my body were the garbled push and pull of the ocean and the sound of my breathing, pulsing like the tide itself.<br />
<br />
I knew I couldn't stay there forever. My numb fingers were reminder enough of that.<br />
<br />
And we had to get back to the festival. To the sounds. To the smells. To the people. To the everything.<br />
<br />
I could just about manage to steel myself for another festival onslaught because of what Lulworth Cove had given me. I could follow the steps of the smugglers before me and leave the cove with my own personal contraband. Not rum or gold, but peace and reflection.<br />
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And the knowledge that the next day would bring another lull from the craziness.Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4907162087763653046.post-11849568339624632192018-04-02T12:35:00.000-07:002018-04-02T12:35:26.768-07:00Imperfect Beauty Hands up if you like perfection.<br />
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I'm a no. Always no to perfection; it's too shiny, too finished, too...perfect. Nothing good can come from perfection. There is no soul in perfection. Imperfection is where the real life is.<br />
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Lisbon is a great place to visit for fans of imperfection. Don't get up in arms here Lisbonites - what I'm saying is that it's more beautiful because of the imperfections: the chipped tiles, the graffiti all over, the scaffolding hiding architectural works of art, the broken down trams, the boarded up windows, the perennial renovations. They are much more interesting. They show the daily grind of life in Lisbon. I love Lisbon!<br />
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Sure, I expected to see a good few tiles around Lisbon - it's part of the package. You wouldn't go to New York and not expect to see any yellow taxis. But I hadn't anticipated the aesthetic love I felt for the small ceramic squares to be quite so strong. They make everything look more interesting. Even when a splash of modern spray paint invades the barricade of tiles, it only augments the pleasure radiated by the colours and patterns. I had to stop myself taking photos of every tiled building - why do you need so many pictures of patterned tiles woman?<br />
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Lisbon seems to run on making do. If there's a problem, an imperfection, don't worry. Leave it there, cover it up (or don't) and move on. The tram we were on had to stop, we were transferred onto a bus in literally one minute to continue our journey. A grandiose, colonial mansion is broken, leave it and move on. Leave it to its own devices. There are many such abandoned buildings strewn around the streets of Lisbon, all adorned with graffiti tags, broken windows and the creeping invasion of nature's greenery. I have no doubt that they are also filled with a countless number of stories and fragments of people's lives that they will never share.<br />
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This was one of my favourite buildings. If you peer through the gated walls you can see what must have once been a wonderful house. Does anyone still live there? Are the walls still sanctuary to someone? What will happen to its history? What will happen to its future?<br />
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Finally, we need to talk about the most imperfect and at the same time perfect things to be found in Lisbon. To be fair, they were one of my main reasons for travelling there in the first place: the Portuguese custard tart.<br />
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It is quite possibly, the greatest feat of culinary engineering ever mastered.<br />
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No, it does not look pretty. It doesn't look like one of the faultless delicacies you'd see in a Parisian patisserie or an utterly immaculate cream concoction from an Austrian bakery. The custard tart is not uniform. It is speckled. It is a bit burnt. It has uneven borders. It has a crusty, flaky edge ready to drop off. But these 'faults' are what makes it so great. Excuse me a moment whilst I wipe the drool away from just thinking about these delicious devils.<br />
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These features that first seem like imperfections melt away into a gooey, flaky gloop of sweet sweet goodness. A mouthful of tart will give you the heady mix of soft crunch and glutinous goo that will make you want to send for all your belongings and set down roots within walking distance from one of Lisbon's many pastelarias.<br />
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Lisbon is the European capital of flawed beauty and, in mastering this, it has a warm, welcoming heartbeat pervading every single aspect of life within the city, from the tumbling buildings to the admirable irregularities in the food. Everything about Lisbon is a little less than perfect; but perfect is pointless.<br />
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I never want to taste perfection if this is the taste of battered, crumbling, but most of all, loved, imperfection.Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4907162087763653046.post-6518818122784752702018-03-02T11:59:00.002-08:002018-03-02T12:07:42.134-08:00Dance Badajoz Dance! I found it. I found the choreographed dance centre of the universe.<br />
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I didn't know I was even looking for it, but I'm super glad I found it.<br />
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It was a slightly unexpected find as I had presumed my visit to Spain would consist mostly of drum playing with only a smattering of dancing. I was wrong. They were dancing in the streets in Badajoz. Literally.<br />
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Badajoz, a city next to the Portuguese border, hosts a wonderful carnival every year that lasts several days. I was lucky enough to be invited to play with Batala, a samba-reggae band that I'm also lucky enough to be a part of.<br />
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The carnival engulfs the whole city and everyone in it. You can't walk to the supermercado without bumping into a family of bears or having to skirt past a loitering group of Incredibles - one presumes waiting for disaster to strike in order to spring into superhero action. If you're wearing 'regular' clothes, YOU'RE the oddball. It's brilliant.<br />
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But enough talk of costumes; let the dancing begin!<br />
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The people of Badajoz love to dance. I love to dance. I guess that's why I spent a lot of my youth making up bedroom dance routines or learning the grapevine for the Scout and Guide Gang Show. And I guess that's why, on some level, I joined Batala. <br />
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Yes, we play drums. Yes, we are incredibly good at drumming. But we also like a little movement with our music. I, personally, find it easier to remember the music when I have a dance to go with it. Which is handy as a lot of our songs have dances. Yet when I got to rehearse with the super-band made up of the Badajoz contingent and delegates from Batala bands from around the world, there were MORE dance moves. And heaps of sun-invigorated energy. We were adding extra steps and bending here there and everywhere. There was a dance train and I was running along trying to keep up.<br />
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The Badajoz dancing didn't stop at rehearsals either. Party time is always dancing time in Spain, but at these parties, the dancing was a finely tuned, chaotically choreographed affair. Apparently, I missed the best of the dancing on the night before I arrived but the upshot was that there was a dance for every song. The Badajoz band were kind enough to dance the rest of us through the basic moves. So much so, that when certain songs started, there was a cheer and the collective was called into dancing action. Having missed the tutorial night, my favourite was the one where we basically charged around the dance floor like teenagers hyped up on too many Haribo and then let loose in a circle pit. Not the prettiest of dances, but fun.<br />
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The Badajoz band had a more civilised dance planned as a surprise for us visitors later in the night. I say civilised, but it's always hard to be civilised when dancing to 'Cotton Eye Joe'. They demonstrated the routine and then urged us to join in. Which we did, with gusto. It's not often you get to line dance amongst farm animals, DC super villains and Frida Kahlo. (A party without costumes isn't allowed during carnival.)<br />
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Alongside our recreational dancing, Badajoz is overtaken by the serious business of the main parade on the Sunday with the Desfile de Comparsas. This is when hundreds of people, all dressed in the most elaborate and wonderful costumes, parade through the city, dancing all the way. Each comparsa has a different theme and so a corresponding costume and dance. They are an explosion of colour and material. The time and effort that goes into this is astounding. I'm reliably informed that local comparsas spend the whole year secretly planning what to showcase during the carnival.<br />
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The dancing is incredible. There are lines upon lines of people (men, women and children) all dressed immaculately and all doing the same choreographed moves. Incredible is an over-used word, but I completely couldn't work out how, logistically, so many people had learnt the same things and were performing their moves so militarily.<br />
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Dancing is a passion and a serious business here. Take a look at some of the comparsas' work here. I loved the Marvel heroes particularly, but if you pick any moment in the video, it will bring a smile to your face. And isn't that why we all dance? That's why I dance - for the joy it brings me and the joy we can spread through dance. Nos encanta bailar.<br />
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<br />Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4907162087763653046.post-1735817655353553142017-10-27T05:55:00.000-07:002017-10-27T06:07:42.498-07:00The Sweet Side of Cheddar <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Cheddar. Like the cheese? </div>
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Exactly like the cheese. The place where the cheese was first brought into existence and continues to be lovingly cultured in order to make our lives all the more enjoyable, and cheesy. </div>
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Cheddar is a village in Somerset that you have to reach by driving through a gorge (Cheddar Gorge by coincidence) that is basically a magic portal. As you wind you way down the hill, flanked by giant, foreboding walls of rock either side, it does actually feel like you're leaving Earth as you know it. A feeling that's further compounded once you get into the village. It's like you've shifted back through time. There are small shops that wouldn't look out of place in a photo of 1950s England. Each of the shops are small outlets selling only food, drink, souvenirs or Christmas crap (honestly). </div>
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Let me give you a little context. A few weeks ago, I managed to persuade two of my friends to join me in a cheese based pilgrimage - the best kind of pilgrimage surely? We were on an adventure to go see the caves and cheese.</div>
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So on arrival, our first port of call was the cheese shop. Well, it was supposed to be, but our long drive and the impending onset of hanger dictated that we had to fuel up with lunch and so had to visit a quaint cafe. What else is there to eat in Cheddar? We devoured cheese toasties, with molten gold oozing down the pitifully effective napkins. It was glorious. And then we hit the cheese shop. </div>
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I consider myself a bit of a cheese connoisseur and I don't say this lightly, but I think the best Cheddar in the world is the Cheddar Gorge Cheese Company cave-matured cheddar. It really is the good shit. I have managed to eke out my wedge until now. The last slither of it disappeared into my mouth this very day. I have only eaten it solo. It is too good to be grated nonchalantly on undeserving pasta or lost in a sandwich with common pickle. It has to be savoured. </div>
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Anyway, cheese covered, we continued our mooch around Cheddar to see what goodies it had to offer. As it turned out, all the goodies were sweetie goodies. And they were EVERYWHERE. </div>
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Walking down the main drag of Cheddar village is like running the gauntlet of a diabetic coma. There are fudge shops, sweet shops, ice cream shops, cider shops, a marshmallow shop (yep, my first as well), nougat shops and of course, a whole plethora of various afternoon tea / cream tea / cake outlets. </div>
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It was AMAZING! </div>
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I was in heaven. Sickly, sugary, gooey heaven. </div>
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The realisation soon came upon me that this would be the perfect place for a cream tea crawl. I am 100% committed to this idea of spending a (calorific) day stumbling in and out of the establishments in the shadow of Cheddar Gorge and sampling a variety of the goods on offer. A different cake or treat at every stop. This is a thing right? </div>
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Time constraints being what they were, the day we visited, I had to make so with only dipping my toe into the sea of sugar. After spending time underground in the caves, I staggered to the nearest ice cream outlet ready for a cone of salted caramel. Then we ventured into another cave which was again followed by a stop at an ice cream counter. Yes, it was a two ice cream kind of day. But you weren't there man: you don't know! The second ice cream place had more flavours than I'd ever seen or could dare imagine. Added to this was the fact that there was free toppings. FREE TOPPINGS. It was a no brainer. </div>
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Here's our selection from the ice cream kiosk. Yes, that's hundreds and thousands AND marshmallows. I was all in on the sugar count. </div>
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On the way back to the car, we called into one of the fudge shops but I resisted the urge to indulge further. For a village so steeped in savoury fame, Cheddar is impressive in its selection of sweet treats. I certainly need to return sometime for that cream tea crawl. I reckon I have the form and the experience for such a mammoth task. Especially when there's the best Cheddar cheese in the world to take home as a prize at the end. </div>
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Who's with me? </div>
<span id="goog_1663240587"></span><span id="goog_1663240588"></span><br />Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4907162087763653046.post-86659205412698216052017-09-03T09:35:00.000-07:002017-09-03T09:52:36.277-07:00Nothing Really Matters It's taken me over a week to start to write about the journey I went on to Finland.<br />
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Jen and I went to the annual World Air Guitar Championships in Oulu.<br />
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Yes, you heard right. Air Guitar. It's a thing. And an amazing, wonderful, joyful thing that brings out the kindest, the craziest and the best qualities in everyone.<br />
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I've talked about it. A lot. I've talked to anyone who'll listen to my random blathering. I've run out of superlatives. I've run out of words. And as I'm starting to run out of memory and magic, I feel I now need to try to create some semblance of an account to document the experience.<br />
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Magic is probably the best place to start.<br />
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From the off, things seemed to just work out. We were on a super early flight from Heathrow to Oulu in northern Finland via Helsinki. We had a tight turnaround in Helsinki airport, but we made it. Taken off the plane, bus to the terminal, ran through the airport, bus to the plane. All to get back on THE EXACT SAME PLANE. The woman at the boarding gate chuckled at the whimsical nature of it. We wiped the moisture from our sweaty faces that were now plastered with fake smiles.<br />
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Once we arrived in Oulu we had less than an hour to get to the start of the tour. Another tight schedule. But then something amazing happened: our suitcase was first off the carousel.<br />
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First! That never happens. I thought it was always a fake suitcase to start the ball rolling.<br />
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Which meant we made it to the start of the tour just as the lady with the Madonna headset was starting her spiel. We wandered around the city of Oulu with our tour guide pointing out sights and adding anecdotes here and there. I was listening but equally attempting to people-watch our fellow members of the tour group. Who were they? Where had they come from? What had brought them to this point?<br />
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My internal musings were soon answered. At the end of the tour came the excruciatingly school-like introductions.<br />
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"Hi, my name is Katie and I'm from Southampton, England."<br />
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Fortunately, Jen and I were at the end of the semi-circle of sharing so we heard everyone else's tale first. Yet that started to make things worse. It soon became apparent that everyone else on the tour was either a competitor, a mum or partner of a competitor or press.<br />
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As I shuffled side to side awkwardly, waiting for my turn to be thrust into the spotlight, I desperately needed a nervous wee. I panicked that we had stumbled into the tour, not belonging to this world. My general anxiety was added to by the fact that most people there seemed to know each other. As the speaker moved around the semi-circle, our time came to speak and to be rumbled for the charlatans we were and thus unceremoniously ejected from the Air Guitar fold.<br />
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But that was not to be.<br />
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I'd paid my money for the tour, so I thought, fuck it. Let's just be honest.<br />
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"Hi, my name is Katie and I'm from Southampton, England..... and we're here for fun....?"<br />
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Cool.<br />
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No dramas.<br />
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From that moment, everyone we met was so incredibly welcoming and friendly. I cannot put into words how accepted we felt.<br />
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There is something about the Air Guitar community. They are all lovely...a word I usually avoid as it sounds so insipid and is almost as bad as nice. But I have used both words a great deal in recounting my experiences in Oulu.<br />
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Nice doesn't have to be a bad word. Nice can be great. Nice can mean making some weird girls from England feel welcome and included. Nice can mean smiling to just let someone know that we're part of this world together. Nice can mean saying hello to people as you pass them riding awesome Finnish bikes. Nice can make the world a better place.<br />
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Now, stay with me here. I'm fully aware that this sounds all a little hippy-like. But, in this day and age, maybe that's what we need more of. The ethos of air guitar is that if you're holding an air guitar, you can't hold a gun. So if more people around the world played air guitar, the world would be a more peaceful place. It's worth a go, surely? #MakeAirNotWar<br />
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Don't worry, I didn't join a cult. Along with the hippy vibe, we also experienced our fair share of face-melting rock. Like I said, everyone was welcoming and so we hung out with all the competitors for the Airentation, Karaoke and then into the Dark Horse round of qualifying.<br />
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This was my first air guitar live show. We got there early to get a good spot. It was a small, dark club venue. I was so excited.<br />
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The show started and it was like an express train of rock riffs. Air Guitar performances are one minute maximum. Each competitor put every effort in their being into that sixty second show. They have characters and costumes and beautifully crafted air guitar playing. It's impossible not to get wrapped up in the spectacle of it all. At one point there was a glitter explosion. I lost my shit. I was shouting and clapping like a crazy person. I may have even whooped. On several occasions.<br />
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At the end of the show I wanted everyone to win. I was out of breath and my face ached from pure joy. I was hooked. Here's the scene of stage at the end of the Dark Horses round. I seriously don't understand why everyone doesn't air guitar.<br />
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After the competition, we moved the party to the basement. That's where Aireaoke started. Like karaoke but playing air instruments: the whole band. We had air guitar (obvs), air drums, air piano, air harmonica, air triangle, air maracas... </div>
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People put their name down for songs but pretty soon it dissolved into a free-for-all where everyone was playing and singing and air-grasping til their hearts content. And boy was my heart content. You know that feeling when you're out with your friends and you know the exact riff of a particular song, and then another friend adds the cowbell, and then you have a certain silly dance move to finish off the chorus. It was like that. All night. I had found my place. </div>
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And then we had the best song in the world. Any guesses? </div>
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Bohemian Rhapsody of course. </div>
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Now, I know how great this song is. It's part of me. I can't remember it not being. But now it's taken on a much deeper meaning. It's the unofficial Air Guitar anthem. It was ace to play along to it with the World Champions, past and present. But then my tiny little mind was blown. </div>
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Nothing really matters. <i>Nothing </i>(holds up air guitar)<i> really matters, </i>to me<i>. </i></div>
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Boom.<i> </i></div>
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The few days I spent in Oulu were fantastic. <u>Nothing</u> has had a real impact on me; it really does matter. I have always believed in being nice and trying to change the world, even a little at a time, but this has reinvigorated by beliefs and my need to try to do something, anything. </div>
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The Championships went on and the finals came. We watched, we laughed, we clapped like crazy folk. Airistotle was the winner, but in my eyes, every single person on stage was a hero to me. I have to admit cheering the female competitors extra loudly. I may be biased, but they were awesome. Mom Jeans Jeanie's sticker is now pride of place on the fridge. </div>
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The end came too soon - although my woolly-glove clad fingers might disagree - thanks Finnish 'summer'! For the finale, our new friends included us in their fun once more. We got to play air guitar on stage. Rockin' In The Free World is the song they end every finals with. Man, that song makes me cry anyway. This almost tipped me over the edge. All the feels. So painful, so happy to be there, so much need to capture that feeling and spread it into "the real world". </div>
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Which brings me to a very important point. Everyone there was nice and kind to each other. Why does that have to be something we do just for special occasions? I totally believe that people are inherently nice underneath it all. Why can't we roll this feeling of peace out into our 'normal' lives? I shall endeavour to do this more, at all times.</div>
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Relive the magic of the finals here. You might even catch Jen and I playing on stage at the end. </div>
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<a href="http://www.ilmakitara.fi/fi/stream?utm_content=buffer01773&utm_medium=social&utm_source=twitter.com&utm_campaign=buffer" target="_blank">http://www.ilmakitara.fi/fi/stream?utm_content=buffer01773&utm_medium=social&utm_source=twitter.com&utm_campaign=buffer</a></div>
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When people ask me what I did in my summer holidays, I'll tell them, with joy: I stood in a soggy field, in freezing rain to watch people play pretend instruments. </div>
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And it was worth every goddamn second. Kiitos Oulu. </div>
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#MakeAirNotWar </div>
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Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4907162087763653046.post-13564148382297294632017-08-08T00:59:00.001-07:002017-08-08T00:59:04.621-07:00The journey that wouldn't start but then wouldn't endSometimes you start off on a journey and you don't get very far.<br />
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Sunday started off feeling like that sort of day.<br />
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We were only taking a short trip down to Southsea. Or so we thought.<br />
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Jenny and I got in the trusty Corsa and set off. But there was a sound. Not a good sound.<br />
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I don't know if you've ever had a car like mine but this car, as much as I love it, has a tendency to make strange noises and flash up random lights whenever it feels. It's independent. Independently annoying at times. I usually try to drown out the peculiarities by turning up the music - assuming the stereo's working at that point. However, this sound could not be ignored.<br />
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We pulled over and discovered the culprit was a flat back tyre.<br />
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Not to worry, we thought. A quick tyre change and we'd be set.<br />
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Not that simple.<br />
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We changed the tyre (well, a secret spy / racing driver I happen to know changed it whilst Jen did the heavy lifting and I looked on earnestly: teamwork.) I've never seen a tyre change so swift and efficient outside a pit lane. But the spare tyre turned out to have a somewhat serious, although less catastrophic affliction. The bottom line was that we were unable to drive it on the motorway. Curses!<br />
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Not to worry, we thought. A quick car change and we'd be set.<br />
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And so we confused the dog by dragging her out of one car and into another before we'd travelled out of the postcode.<br />
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Jen drove her car to the end of our road and her engine advisory light came on.<br />
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Now, her car is prone to random lights as well. It happens quite a lot. It'll go off in a minute we thought. It's been checked out. It's not an issue. She can usually bypass the problem by the age-old 'turn it off and on again' solution.<br />
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Not to worry we thought. A quick stop and start and we'd be set.<br />
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Not that simple.<br />
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Jen killed the ignition and then rebooted it. The warning light was still on and this time it had been joined by its flashing friend the "stop the car immediately" light. Hmm. Things were not going well.<br />
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We assessed the situation and bearing in mind the whole morning was starting to take on a Final Destination type sense of foreboding, we probably should have called off the whole excursion and gone back home to loaf on the sofa.<br />
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But we weren't to be outdone. The world had us on the ropes but we still had fight left. When we left the house that morning, we were moderately keen to go to the festivities in Southsea. However, once the obstacles had been put in our way, we were now hell-bent on getting to that pebbled paradise.<br />
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So we headed to the train station.<br />
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Who doesn't love a train journey anyway? As time had ticked by, at least this way we wouldn't have to contend with parking pressures.<br />
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Not to worry, we thought. A quick train journey and we'd be set.<br />
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Jen and I ventured aboard the train, leading Deefer the dog onto yet another vehicle. I would have liked to have asked for her opinion at this point. I like to think she enjoyed the journey as much as we did, looking out the window, gazing wistfully at the backs of palatial mansions (us) and looking longingly at endless fields of grass (her).<br />
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It was all going swimmingly until Cosham. There we were joined by a line of police officers who dashed along the platform to join the train, not because they were late. They were looking for someone. I tried to mind my own business, honestly I did, but they were right there looking for a woman.<br />
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Not to worry, we thought. A quick police chase and we'd be set.<br />
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Yet in truth, Jen and I both had the same thought that our journey had reached another pivotal moment. I had a vision of being asked to leave the train and being stuck in Cosham for the day. Oh the joy. Or at least until another train trundled by.<br />
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My pessimism was unfounded. After a short delay, we were off again. And no, I have no idea if the police got their woman.<br />
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Eventually we made it to Southsea!<br />
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That part of the day went relatively to plan. We mooched along Castle Road, ate lunch and wandered amongst a VW sponsored car-boot sale. Good times.<br />
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Our party had been expanded by this point by our friend Lou who is local to Southsea and couldn't see the reason for such extreme efforts on our part to get there. It was a matter of principle. I think.<br />
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The sun was out and it seemed apt to have an ice cream at the seaside. A quick look at the vans and kiosks nearby showed snaking queues in all directions. I don't queue well. The ice cream idea seemed like it had come and gone.<br />
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Then Lou came up with an ingenious solution. We could go to the Isle of Wight for one.<br />
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Not to worry, we thought. A quick jaunt across the Solent and we'd be set.<br />
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Lou works on the Isle of Wight so she has a season pass for Hovertravel and complimentary tickets for friends and family: we were friends! Yes!<br />
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We'd put the effort in to get down to Southsea, by eight feet, two cars and a train. We might as well continue our travels on the water. And so we got a hovercraft ride over to Ryde just to get an ice cream. Just because we could. That's how we roll.<br />
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The journey was worth it alone to see Jenny's excitable face as the hovercraft swung round off its landing patch. Her pure, child-like joy was infectious. But we used our time on the Island wisely: we walked along the prom; I paddled my toes; we watched some men and women dressed as a bee-like 50s era Cher sing into hairbrushes (I kid you not); we saw some donkeys and we had the obligatory ice cream. Which tasted amazing.<br />
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The journey that I had thought would never start at several points in the morning, was in fact a wonderful, unexpected success. It may seem like a long way to go for an ice cream, but when you've had all those obstacles in the way, it's only a small skip across the water.<br />
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On the way back over the waves to Southsea, we saw an advert for a special offer from Hovertravel to take you to Cherbourg for only £21.<br />
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Riding the travel wave as we were, as soon as we set foot back on land, we bought tickets and headed off to France.<br />
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Not to worry, we thought. A quick boat across the English Channel and we'd be set.<br />
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Nahhh! Only kidding. That would be a step too far for one day: I'm not an idiot.<br />
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I've filed that idea in the must-do new adventure pile for future me to take on.Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4907162087763653046.post-18229721944104556832017-07-01T03:39:00.000-07:002017-08-07T08:47:52.418-07:00Puffin QuestWe had a quest. A puffin quest to be exact.<br />
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We were bound for West Wales to see the beautiful coast, the tranquil countryside but most importantly, puffins. A magical place called Skomer Island is where these black and white creatures prefer to hang out and so we were aiming our sights there.<br />
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Getting to Skomer Island is a test of will and commitment. In this day and age, where you can obtain almost anything at the click of a button - concert tickets, holiday flights, clothes to be delivered by 8pm - the method for buying boat tickets to Skomer is refreshingly old-fashioned. But not particularly conducive to lowering the stress levels of a pessimist worrier like me.<br />
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To get boat tickets, you have to heave yourself out of bed (or out of a rain-drizzled tent in my case) and get yourself in an actual queue by about seven in the morning. Bearing in mind that the office doesn't open til eight and the boats don't start sailing until 10am, this is quite the effort.<br />
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Even once you're in the queue, there's no guarantee that you'll have the opportunity to buy tickets for the day. Firstly, they make a call about 8am as to whether or not the boats will actually run that day. We chose a day in late Spring for optimum Puffin sightings and thought the weather would be pleasant. Wrong. I forgot it was Wales we are talking about and so the wind and rain descended on what could've been a beautiful Spring day.<br />
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Nonetheless, we waited in the queue with waterproofs protecting us from the elements and willing the weather app on our phones that showed the rain clearing to be true. It was a nice queue. People were chatty and swapped stories and hopes. We were amongst similar personalities bubbling with excitement to get the chance to buy a Golden Ticket. Only 250 people are allowed to venture onto the island on any one day and so you had to hope that there were still tickets left by the time you got to the till-point. The nerves were palpable in the drizzle-soaked coastal air.<br />
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As the rain stopped, we got to the front of the queue and bought our tickets! It was happening!<br />
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My pessimism still raged through my mind though. I still felt as though all the puffins would hide as soon as we neared the island. I needn't have worried though. Skomer does not have the reputation for a puffin paradise for nothing.<br />
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Even before we stepped onto the island, they were everywhere. The boat, laden with excited twitchers, danced across the white-crested waves and we were joined in the air by swooping puffins. The little black and white bullets were sailing past us to land on the water or head back home to the island. I have to admit that I squeaked with excitement the first few (hundred) times I saw one.<br />
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Have you ever seen a puffin? Not in a book or on television. A real life bird. Sitting there in all its painted face glory. No? Well you need to. Yes? Me, too - but let's go see them again! They are incredibly delicate and bold at the same time. They literally look like plastic models sat on a cliff. They are my favourite birds. There I said it. Sorry all you other guys.<br />
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One of my main reason for this favouritism is their approach to landing. They look graceful enough whilst flying yet when they land they look like they've forgotten all their training and just go for broke and hope to hit the ground in some fashion. It's that "gotta do it so let's see what happens" aura that they emit that has won my heart. Every time I saw one land I had an involuntary giggle. They bring joy and enthusiasm wherever they are.<br />
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I'd better point out here that all my worrying about trying to see a puffin was unnecessary. I though I might be able to see one or two, maybe a couple from afar. I had no idea that they would be everywhere. EVERYWHERE.<br />
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We stayed at one edge of a cliff for quite a while as we found a group of about ten or so. They were hanging about, flying off, landing, just generally puffining. It was amazing. Eventually, we continued on our path to a place called The Wick. It was like Grand Central for the puffin colony. Every part of the cliff was covered in puffins or their burrows. They walked across the path like pigeons in a park. I literally didn't know where to look. Every time I looked at one, another landed. And they kept arriving with mouthfuls of sand eels in their beaks. It was astounding. I couldn't keep the smile off my face. The face ache was worth it. <br />
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All this talk about puffins and I haven't even talked about the island itself yet. It is ridiculously beautiful. You may have heard me say before that I love an island. Skomer is one of the best. Top five for sure. We picked a great time to go. The ferns were a green that recalled memories of tropical jungles. The bluebells still had life in them and were gradually giving way to Pink Campion, so everywhere you looked was colour.<br />
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I cannot begin to put into words how bright and powerful and altogether life-affirming the colours were. They were just so... there. I've never been somewhere so real where I had to strain to keep my eyes open to soak up every single bit of the surroundings.<br />
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We walked round the whole island and I would have loved to have done it again. Or at least sat somewhere to watch more of the life of the island. On our final stretch back towards the landing point where the boat was waiting to take us back to reality, we were lucky enough to see an owl hunting in the meadow. It was incredible to watch him gliding not ten feet above the bountiful wild flowers.<br />
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He was amazing, but it was not enough to claim my heart. That had already been won by the hundreds of little black and white guys. Yes there were thousands there, and yes it would be difficult to not see one, but every time I saw one, it made my stomach flip in that little way like when you see a dog in a hat or a sign for free cake. Puffins = smiles = happiness. And on Skomer Island, there was happiness everywhere.<br />
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Puffin Quest complete.<br />
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<br />Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4907162087763653046.post-12507204422634074972017-04-13T03:17:00.001-07:002017-04-15T09:45:31.850-07:00Hidden In Plain Sight Guys, I don't mean to worry anyone, but I'm pretty sure there's a Bond villain living in Titchfield.<br />
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I know, I know, it's probably unlikely. However, logic suggests that they have to live somewhere so why not the Hampshire coast?<br />
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Let me explain how I have come to this conclusion and I'm sure you'll see the sense in my theory.<br />
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In the absence of any great, exotic travels, I have made the executive decision to try to explore more of my local area. To try to search out interesting places that are just on my doorstep, but where I may never have previously ventured: my mission is to discover the jewels in the journey that are so close to home that I've never thought to look.<br />
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And so a sunny Sunday morning took me through fields and winding country lanes to the shingled shoreline of Titchfield Haven. Even the name sounds idyllic, and indeed, the sun gives everything a glow of positivity. I walked along the prom and I walked along the stones. The best way to spend a Spring morn.<br />
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A fair distance into my walk, as I was sandwiched between the waves and the back markers of a line of unnaturally long gardens, a plain, grey shape, bobbing slowly on the waves, caught my eye out to sea.<br />
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This was no normal boat.<br />
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It was steel gun-metal grey; the sort of shade that you only see as a tiny plastic boat ready to be torpedoed on a Battleships board. It was smooth but blocky in shape - a rounded body with no edges. There was a plastic control shelter that looked like the top of a submarine such was the even, industrial shape. Save for a few black lines, there were no other markings at all. No name. No numbers. Nothing. Someone was trying to be incognito.<br />
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As I stood on the beach, blatantly ogling the strange sight, a rumbling started behind me. Turning around, I was met by the sight of a motorised trailer emerging from one of the long gardens. The metal frame was led by two small wheels at the front. These pulled a large gas tank that sat atop a single large wheel at the back. The whole contraption was about the length of a transit van. Mouth open, I stared as the metal monster trundled independently down the shingle of the beach towards the shoreline.<br />
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There was no driver and no line. I glanced towards the grey shape circling just offshore. The trailer must've received word from its sea captain. It was responding to the call.<br />
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Steadily, it approached the water's edge and still it kept going. Front wheels submerged. Back wheel submerged. Until I thought the gas tank was going for a dip too. But it stopped, perfectly positioned. The driver (I'm not a sea-goer by trade - is that the right term?) of the boat spun the grey vessel around in a rude-boy style so that it didn't seem so lumbering any more. It was now lined up to dock with the trailer. The driver edged it towards its target and the engine pushed against the waves to force the boat easily into the frame. The squeaking of rubber on rubber announced that the seabird was nestled in place.<br />
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Then this mysterious driver (maybe captain is a better term) whipped out the controls that had done all the communication. They were no larger than a toy remote control, albeit a high end toy. A black box held in both hands with four dials was all that was needed for one man to land a damn heavy vessel back onto dry land.<br />
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With a flick of a dial, the free-wheeling fame lumbered back through the shallow waves and up the incline of the stony shore and up to the garden to be safely stored away in the secret shed.<br />
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Now, I'm not an evil genius by any means, and nor do I know the details of their code, but I'm of the opinion that villains should keep their business secret. When this guy takes his boat in or out, EVERYONE stops to look. Or to take photos. Not a good plan for keeping your evil goings on low key. So many men, women, children and dogs were fascinated by the event.<br />
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The fact is that this whole process of using the remote control to wheel your trailer in and out of the water speaks to everyone who once played with a remote control of some type. Anyone who had a remote controlled car wanted a remote controlled truck. And anyone who had a remote controlled truck wanted a remote controlled plane. Once you had that, where was left to go? Apparently a ten-foot remote controlled boat trailer, that's where.<br />
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The mere concept delves into that childhood need for power over technology. One man I witnessed, stopped to talk to the villain (NEVER talk to the baddies!) and was visibly bursting with boyish excitement. He was smiling the inane smile of a kid in a sweet shop as he asked questions and basked in the glory of being in the same air space as the spy boat and radio-controlled trailer.<br />
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During the whole 'interaction' with our villain, I was pleased to see the villainous, covert entity stayed in character. He answered questions in simple responses, never elaborating; the baseball cap stayed on; the collar stayed upturned; the obligatory dark glasses were stuck to his face; the expression on his face was constantly resting as a slightly grumpy mannequin; all of which kept his identity more or less indistinguishable. But at the same time, he was never rude or villainous to the caller hovering enthusiastically on his boating doorstep.<br />
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Well handled dear villain.<br />
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Titchfield may not be the most exotic of places, but sometimes "nice" is all you need. Nice can be everywhere if you know where to look. The walk along the beach in the sun was nice. Watching countless dogs playing in the surf was nice. Clearly, the ice cream that I was forced to indulge in was nice. Even the Bond villain was affected by the sun and was being nice to the drooling fanboys who stopped to admire his boating infrastructure.<br />
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Twenty minutes from my house and I could find a haven of my own. Sometimes these places are closer and more obvious than we think. Even the places where villains hang out are less hidden when the sun shines. And he didn't even seem to mind that much. Courteous but curt. That's all I want from a villain.<br />
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Well, and a finely-groomed moustache to twiddle fiendishly. One can dream.<br />
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<br />Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4907162087763653046.post-76927360478248343492016-09-07T14:13:00.000-07:002016-09-07T14:13:01.352-07:00Edinburgh Love Part One <div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
The set is complete. I have now visited all four countries in the British Isles. I finally made my way over the border to Scotland. </div>
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As the train made its way through the breathtakingly beautiful countryside of the Borders region, I knew I was falling in love. Outside the window I could see the expanse of fields, trees and rivers criss-crossed by dry stone walls. It was exactly like the scene set in the Sam comics in my beloved Twinkle magazine from when I was about five. It was taking me back to a time when I thought everything would be beautiful. </div>
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I soon realised, when I climbed Waverley steps, that everything in Edinburgh is beautiful. Over-used adjective alert: I couldn't stop thinking everything was beautiful. Everywhere I looked there was beauty, often in the strangest places. Every street had the old time charm and every mysterious stairway beckoned with its cobbled floor to take me on another adventure. I must've looked like a simpleton, staring up at the numerous, looming buildings in awe. The castle alone looks like it's a Gothic horror prop that's been dropped in via CGI. </div>
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But my favourite vantage point across the city was up on Calton Hill. I was more than fortunate to narrowly miss the Scottish rain. In fact, I was treated to the most awe-inspiring sky one evening when I climbed Calton Hill. I bloody love a cloud-strewn sky, and I kid you not, this sky was one of the most impressive that I have ever seen. I sat up on that hill as the sinking sun lit up both the surrounding hills and the city below and I thought my heart might explode with the beauty of it all. The sky looked bigger than I ever thought possible. There's magic in those Scottish skies. </div>
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The photos don't do the beauty of this city justice. Arthur's seat was bathed in the late evening sunshine, and although I enjoyed climbing it the day before, I think I preferred taking in the view of the magnificent rocks from afar. The sun shone a warm spotlight of the grand and dramatic countryside that sits looking over the city of Edinburgh. Like I said, head over heels with this place. </div>
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Obviously I didn't spend all of my time in Edinburgh looking at rocks; my love for the festival will earn its own blog post. But the natural beauty of the place deserves a mention in its own right. My only regret is that I didn't have enough time to explore more. It pains me to think I didn't even make it to the coast. Next time.<br />
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As my train dragged me away from my new found infatuation, I listened to the same album that had, only three days previously, ushered me across the border into Scotland. Frightened Rabbit's The Midnight Organ Fight is a painfully beautiful piece of music. The songs are so wonderful and they perfectly sound tracked both my initial excitement about my first visit to Scotland and then the reflections on my short time in such a beautiful place. A song like this also has the power of inspiring you into taking action and making the most of the short time we have. A train journey with a magical, moving picture outside the window and a well-laden iPod is a dangerous combination.<br />
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Listen and learn.<br />
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Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4907162087763653046.post-74330582682805213542016-08-10T09:08:00.000-07:002016-08-10T09:08:52.208-07:00The alternate reality of Guernsey Being a thrifty, bargain-hunting sort, when I saw an offer for a day trip for TWO people to Guernsey for only thirty quid, I knew I'd soon be sailing south from Poole, with my good friend Jen along for the adventure. Special mention to Condor Ferries for having the most unexpected, tongue-in-cheek signage of any big company that I've seen.<br />
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A three hour skip across the English Channel brings you to the Channel Islands. A day trip being as it is, we only had a little over three hours before we had to ready ourselves for the three hour return journey north. It was a three-hourly segmented day. So, the big question was how best to spend three hours ashore as first time visitors. It was a challenge, and I thrive on the pressure of a challenge. But the thing about Guernsey is, that there seems to be a lack of pressure around.<br />
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Life on the island seems to move at a more sedate pace. As we got onto the bus to take us to the boat, Jen and I realised that we were considerably the youngest passengers (something that doesn't happen very much any more). We were surrounded by the older generation. Everywhere that is except in our wallets. Guernsey (and the Channel Islands in general) have their own form of currency. And on said banknotes, our dear Queen Elizabeth II looks startlingly younger than the reality. It's like they're stuck in time.<br />
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This was a theme that continued to appear during our short trip to the island. Guernsey in general is not too different to the mainland, but there are small details that are slightly...off. It was like being in an alternative reality. An alternative reality loosely based on Enid Blighton novels.<br />
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A distinctive feature of life on Guernsey is the 'Hedge Veg'. You can't go far along the road without seeing a small box offering excess vegetable, fruit, dairy or floral products for sale (honesty box ready to collect the money). It's such a lovely idea and the variety of goods on offer was very exciting to see. Some were lone boxes outside a house and some were long rows of offerings in a lay-by. It was just a shame that we were passing them on the bus, so that gave us limited opportunity to stop and shop.<br />
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Speaking of the bus service, I was very impressed. It cost just £1 for any journey, any length. As such, we paid our fare and took the seat on the bus that loops the island. Our own hour-and-a-half tour for a quid. Can't say fairer that that. And if you're looking for where to get on and off, you look for a bus stop right? Not on Guernsey. Here, there is just a big, bold word on the ground. Does the same job I suppose, just eliminates the risk of walking into a pole. Guernsey, you are very wise, in an alternate reality way. </div>
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As we're on the subject of public services, the differences continue with the post service. On Guernsey, the post boxes are blue, not red. And the craziness doesn't end there. The phone boxes are yellow. Madness.<br />
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Once we got off the bus, we headed into the town centre. We passed buskers, but not as I've seen them before. This was corporate busking. Each busking spot had a gazebo, sponsorship signs and an amp. I have very high standards when it comes to busking, and this was just not right.<br />
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Past the main stretch of the high street, with the musical accompaniment, we started to feel alone. There were still shops: clothing shops, pet shops, hairdressers and tat shops to name just a few. All normal in that you might think. But they were all closed. In the middle of the afternoon. On a Tuesday. In the height of the Summer season. It was like a ghost town. It was all a bit odd, and we were relieved to rejoin the main throng of shops. Just don't get me started on the HMV branch that seemed to be located in an old medieval church.<br />
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Thankfully, some things were normal but extraordinary in their beauty. Guernsey has many beautiful beaches and harbours. We didn't get to explore many of them, but it was good to get a whistle-stop tour so I know where to go when I return - Ladies Bay, I have my eye on you. We managed to get a walk on the sand at Havelet Bay, which had to tide me over for beach exploration.<br />
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I shall endeavour to return to the Channel Islands now that I've had a taster, although, on the subject of taste, I missed out on tasting any Gache (prounounced 'gosh') so that's another reason to return. To find out more, we'll have to search the internet - with the Guernsey addresses ending .gg - see there really is no end to this crazy alternate reality.<br />
<br />Vintage Gnomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06779907222079260666noreply@blogger.com0