The Journey of the Isham Gnome...
Thursday, 28 August 2025
Blandford Baked Goods
Tuesday, 11 April 2023
A Day of Brilliance around Barmouth
Peace and quiet. Sanctity and solitude.
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.
But the drumming ying needs a yang to balance me out.
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.
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.
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.
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?
This was brilliant. An ad hoc side quest steered my boots inland.
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.
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.
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.
This was brilliant. Saying "Good morning!" to everyone on their own journeys.
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.
This was brilliant. A secret sight shared only by the sheep and singing birds.
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.
This was brilliant. Sticky toffee cake to power me on.
Train tracks run alongside the road to the beach. Steam was in the air and the miniature railway was full of passengers.
This was brilliant. Waving and smiling at the kids, big and small, aboard the train as it puffed and tooted towards the shore.
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.
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.
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.
This was brilliant. I was getting a boat trip too!
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.
This was brilliant. Planes, trains and ferry-mobiles.
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.
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.
This was brilliant. A perfectly framed postcard view with colours so vivid they made my eyes leak.
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.
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.
This was brilliant. A perfect way to end my (first?) visit to Barmouth with a bridge sunset.
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.
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.
Saturday, 31 December 2022
Keep Playing Until You're Unplugged
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.
That pub turned out to be The Best Pub in the World.
The Horse and Groom at Westbury in Wiltshire is the pub in question. You can read about that first visit here:
http://vintagegnome.blogspot.com/2015/04/the-best-pub-in-world.html
Now it's time for the sequel.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"Pub?"
"Pub."
A simple descent of the hill leads you to The Horse and Groom, the reason for the trip.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I had no idea how much of a legend he was, but I was about to find out.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Monday, 2 May 2022
Running Away from Covid
Saturday, 9 January 2021
The Run of the Isham Gnome
I run.
I run and I run.
After days inside, sat at the ta
It’s the most wonderful journey I’ve ever taken.
I run along the bumpy pavements.
I run across the empty streets.
I run past the evidence of irresponsible dog owners.
I run because all that matters is the run.
It’s not the most beautiful run, but it’s my run.
Legs push me forward. Eyes stream in the battle
against the wind. Lungs fill with beautiful, beautiful cold air.
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.
I run and I remember that everything is transitory.
Everything moves.
I move.
I run.
I run and I think about the future when the trees will be awash
with resplendent greenery.
I run and I think about the future when the playground will
heave with children screaming in excitement.
I run and I think about the future when the soft glow of the
pub spills out onto the pavement.
I run and I think. All my best thinking is done when blood
is pulsing to my extremities.
My journey continues.
I know where I’m going. Where I always go.
I run to the water.
I run alongside the water and inhale the industrial sea air.
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.
I run the same route. Feet take the same steps. Eyes
take in the same sights.
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.
I see them all. Every time. Every run.
Yet I run to the water and I don’t know what will greet me.
Tide in? Tide out? Choppy? Still? Swans in? Swans out? Oystercatchers?
Sandpipers? Fishing? Beachcombers? Sea glass? Sun? Cloud?
The transient nature of the sea keeps calling me back.
I run to it.
I run away from it.
But I know it won’t be long before the need to run catches me
once more.
Monday, 27 July 2020
Turn Around
Monday, 13 April 2020
Supermarket Expedition
I had almost made it. My expedition was almost complete. I could almost smell the (fresh) air from the car park.
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