Summer. It's for lazy afternoons in the park, sun drenched days at the seaside and ... honing your long forgotten sporting skills?
This summer, I spent a fair amount of time falling back in love with the game of cricket. I had played in the back garden as a very small child and then had several failed attempts at joining or organising teams at school (I quickly learnt that my friends weren't keen to stand around a lot on the Veracity at the weekend, even if I coerced my dad into chauffeuring them to practice).
So, my love of cricket took a more passive incarnation as I matured. I made do with scoring matches as well as taking more than a passing interest in the aesthetically pleasing athleticism of cricketers. But this summer, a new initiative was made known to me. Word of mouth brought W10 into my life. This was a project run by the Hampshire Cricket Board to encourage women who had not had the opportunity to play cricket, to try out the game in a shorter, more accessible format. Eight cricket clubs across Hampshire were offered the opportunity. I joined my local club, Old Netley and Highfield - big up the Old Netters (is that a thing?).
As a team, we were offered ten weeks coaching that would lead us to a semi-final round robin competition and then, all going to plan, onto the W10 Finals day. But, I'm getting slightly ahead of myself here. First we had to learn how to play.
Some of us came to the crease, metaphorically speaking, with a background in cricket knowledge and a smattering of playing experience. Some of us started only just about knowing which end of the bat to pick up. But it didn't matter. The ladies I met in training this summer are some of the nicest, funniest people I know. Nobody judged anybody. And every one of us gave it a bloody good go.
Cue Rocky style training montage. Visualise if you will, throwing drills on the outfield, fumbled catches, saving balls from the jaws of an over-keen springer, bowling in the nets, practise games and, a highpoint for me, being coached by a nine year old. We trained weekly, weather permitting - I love cricket for its sensible attitude to playing in the rain, and we readied ourselves for the semifinals.
The fateful day came, and to cut a long story short, we smashed it. We played three; won three. Then we ate copious amounts of cake. Exactly like the pros right? It was a very good day.
And so our training continued in preparation for the finals day (repeat training montage, albeit with a rotated selection of players absent as the summer holidays took precedence). And finally the day came, of course on the second attempt; the English summer made itself known on the originally scheduled day and it was rained off. Undeterred, we approached the rescheduled finals day with gusto. We had our matching team tshirts, we had some supporters (thanks to all!), I had an emergency stash of jelly babies, and perhaps most importantly, our captain, Jo, had the game plan.
The first two games yielded two more scalps to our winning run. Despite the onslaught of summer drizzle in one innings (I was severely disadvantaged as a spectacle wearer - I remember thinking that if a catch came my way, I'd be lucky to see it, let alone catch it), we powered though to chase the required runs. It was going well. Almost too well.
The third game began. We were playing Lymington, who had to win to join us at the top of the leader board. They were batting. We were able to restrict their runs to a certain point. We were ticking along nicely. However, in the last two overs, a young lady came to the crease and we started haemorrhaging runs. She hit sixes for fun. But alas, we were having none of the fun. All our thrifty fielding counted for nothing as the score raced on.
But we remained positive. We had excellent batters and we had the determination. The chase was on.
Our innings started brightly, reflecting the positive attitude. We were steadily adding runs. For those amongst us not batting, our fingernails were taking a battering. Now, I'm quite a competitive person generally - quizzes and tennis tend to bring out a less than pretty side of me - but so far in this competition, I had limited myself to enjoying the experience and having fun in the games. Yet as this last game built towards the pinnacle of the summer, my competitiveness emerged. I wanted to win. In fact, at that point, we all wanted to win. My teammates who had been laughing at our silliness in training and making jokes about being champions had pushed that English politeness aside and we were all prowling the boundary line, cheering on every single. Whenever the ball joined us over the boundary line, we erupted in cheers, pushing our team on.
Alas, it was not to be.
Our friend, the six-hitter, was fielding on the boundary. Our batter pushed a delivery out to where she was. This young girl, probably about fifteen with jazzy leggings, a long, swishy ponytail of black locks and the enthusiasm of youth on her side, picked up the ball and hoofed it towards the stumps.
Direct hit. It was incredible. I was astounded. But relieved. Our batter was already in. But blimey, what some fielding.
The next over, a similar ball was played. The girl with the magic arm collected the ball again on the boundary and lobbed it with intent towards the stumps again. Direct hit again. My jaw hit the floor. The rest of our team were in the same state of shock. This time however, our batter was out by a mile. Well played Lymington.
We continued through the remaining balls, edging towards the total but never speedily enough. The penultimate ball forced another wicket through sheer frustration and desperation. It would've taken a record-breaking amount of no-balls on the last delivery to even push a draw. Our winning streak was over.
Some maths calculations later and the overall victors were announced. The mighty Old Netley and Highfield had the taste of victory snatched away by the virtue of Lymington having taken more wickets than us.
Defeat is hard to take at the best of times, but this was the cruellest form of defeat. There were even medals for the winners (medals for the love of God! I've never won a medal in my life!).
Despite coming so close to victory, only to have it denied by a tally of wickets, I had a wonderful day and an even better summer with my new teammates, or should I say now, my new friends. And if we get the chance to play again next year, Lymington better know that Old Netley and Highfield are out to claim those shiny, shiny medals of victory.
This girl can, and will. (As long as the rain's not too hard and I have cake waiting at the end.)
Thursday 29 October 2015
Monday 12 October 2015
Island Escape
What is it about an island?
Islands have a magical pull over me. And I'm sure I'm not the only one. It's come as quite a surprise to me that it's taken this long for me to visit a relatively famous island that lies not too far from my door. Essentially, I've lived on the South coast of England my whole life (an educational respite at a Welsh university notwithstanding) and yet, I'd never been to Brownsea Island. This summer, I decided to remedy that.
Brownsea lies in the mouth of Poole Harbour. It's a National Trust run island now, but has a rich and varied history, much of which I learnt about on my guided tour. As I stepped off the boat (which was only a short trip from Sandbanks, but enough to give you a small, seafaring sense of adventure), I was informed that a guided tour would be starting shortly. I love a guided tour and when the lady at the desk said that this one was to be conducted by one of their most highly rated guides, I was ready to go. The elderly gentleman in question, with white hair and matching beard, guided us through a potted history of the island as we walked around the core sights. His Scottish accent (I'm not sure either) made the details of the battles and perils even more dramatic. He guided us around with his peaked train-drivers' cap at a jaunty angle and his hands either in his front pockets or arched in front of him like a wise professor. We lucky tour guidees were certainly educated as well as entertained.
The most interesting pearl of knowledge shed light on one of the former owners of Brownsea: Mary Bonham-Christie. The year was 1927 when she bought the island and from the outset, Mary was not out to make friends; she was, essentially, the modern fore bearer of the crazy cat lady. Mary didn't agree with the exploitation of animals and so proceeded to set free all the livestock on Brownsea. All the animals were free to roam and graze as they wished. She then evicted the few people living in the one village on the island, chased any visitors away and generally wanted the island all to herself. It was just her, the wild, former livestock and the native red squirrels.
I know it's not a very nice thing to do, but I do admire her for her stubborn indomitability. And if you see the island, I think you'd understand.
Brownsea is a breathtakingly beautiful sanctuary of the English countryside. At one point as I walked the paths, I glanced to my right and there was an explosion of purple, green and white heather next to lush, green grass. On my left, I peered through a tall canopy of trees to the clay cliffs and the shingle beach below which opened up onto the sparkling blue sea. A pure picture of the garden of heaven.
I took a path down to the beach and walked along the shingle as far as the tide would allow me. Once I had left behind the picnicking families, I found a warm spot and settled down to soak up the sun-drenched scenery. Like I said, I completely understand Mary's thinking, although maybe not her methods, in trying to preserve Brownsea's natural wonder. So I thank her for her efforts, and I thank the National Trust for their safe guardianship of such an unspoilt haven. Long may it continue to afford all of us the opportunity for an escape to secret island life for just a little while. Everyone needs that now and then.
Islands have a magical pull over me. And I'm sure I'm not the only one. It's come as quite a surprise to me that it's taken this long for me to visit a relatively famous island that lies not too far from my door. Essentially, I've lived on the South coast of England my whole life (an educational respite at a Welsh university notwithstanding) and yet, I'd never been to Brownsea Island. This summer, I decided to remedy that.
Brownsea lies in the mouth of Poole Harbour. It's a National Trust run island now, but has a rich and varied history, much of which I learnt about on my guided tour. As I stepped off the boat (which was only a short trip from Sandbanks, but enough to give you a small, seafaring sense of adventure), I was informed that a guided tour would be starting shortly. I love a guided tour and when the lady at the desk said that this one was to be conducted by one of their most highly rated guides, I was ready to go. The elderly gentleman in question, with white hair and matching beard, guided us through a potted history of the island as we walked around the core sights. His Scottish accent (I'm not sure either) made the details of the battles and perils even more dramatic. He guided us around with his peaked train-drivers' cap at a jaunty angle and his hands either in his front pockets or arched in front of him like a wise professor. We lucky tour guidees were certainly educated as well as entertained.
The most interesting pearl of knowledge shed light on one of the former owners of Brownsea: Mary Bonham-Christie. The year was 1927 when she bought the island and from the outset, Mary was not out to make friends; she was, essentially, the modern fore bearer of the crazy cat lady. Mary didn't agree with the exploitation of animals and so proceeded to set free all the livestock on Brownsea. All the animals were free to roam and graze as they wished. She then evicted the few people living in the one village on the island, chased any visitors away and generally wanted the island all to herself. It was just her, the wild, former livestock and the native red squirrels.
I know it's not a very nice thing to do, but I do admire her for her stubborn indomitability. And if you see the island, I think you'd understand.
Brownsea is a breathtakingly beautiful sanctuary of the English countryside. At one point as I walked the paths, I glanced to my right and there was an explosion of purple, green and white heather next to lush, green grass. On my left, I peered through a tall canopy of trees to the clay cliffs and the shingle beach below which opened up onto the sparkling blue sea. A pure picture of the garden of heaven.
I took a path down to the beach and walked along the shingle as far as the tide would allow me. Once I had left behind the picnicking families, I found a warm spot and settled down to soak up the sun-drenched scenery. Like I said, I completely understand Mary's thinking, although maybe not her methods, in trying to preserve Brownsea's natural wonder. So I thank her for her efforts, and I thank the National Trust for their safe guardianship of such an unspoilt haven. Long may it continue to afford all of us the opportunity for an escape to secret island life for just a little while. Everyone needs that now and then.
Sunday 12 July 2015
Hay Festival
I think I've been to my fair share of music festivals. But when I went to my first literary festival at Hay-on-Wye a few weeks ago, it was a new, and very pleasurable, experience indeed. There were so many reasons why Hay is so wonderful. Here's just a few:
1) Book shops - Clearly books are what Hay Festival is all about. And of course they have books for sale at the festival site, but the real treasure troves are found in Hay village: it's not called the secondhand bookshop capital of the world for nothing. There are so many bookshops, stalls and even just boxes stashed inside the doorway of other shops or buildings that it's overwhelming. When I first arrived and had stepped inside my second store, I felt a little dizzy looking at the floor-to-ceiling rows of books. My eyes couldn't move fast enough, and my poor little brain certainly couldn't process all the information fast enough. The situation wasn't helped by the fact that I had the relentless pangs of hunger stalking me. Once I had remedied the hunger issue, I addressed the bookshop challenge afresh, with the verve of an explorer setting off on an expedition. It was wonderful. I found so many oddities and interesting pages. Yet I was strict with myself and only ending up buying four books (and one was a present). My favourite shops were the outdoor shelves by the castle where the books had a slight weather-worn tinge, which only enhanced their charm, and the Hay Cinema Bookshop. This giant of a shop (as the name suggests, located in the converted cinema) swallowed me whole. I literally got lost in it. Towering shelves of books on every subject surrounded me. There are steps up to various floors and half levels between floors to add to the confusion. At one point when I found myself down another dead end, I thought I'd have to find some comfy tomes and bed down for the night. It's worth noting that despite spending a lot of my time in Hay exploring the secondhand bookshops, I barely scratched the surface. Next time I'll equip myself better for such a challenge.
2) The queues - As the stereotype goes, we British are pretty nifty at queuing. If that is the case, then Hay Festival has got to be the crown jewel in the queuing calendar. When queuing for events, there was the obligatory velvet rope to indicate the general direction of the line. But then it disappeared. It was replaced by a painted line on the ground, and in some cases, no markings at all. But lo and behold, everyone queued perfectly. We all happily followed the orderly line in the fashion it was meant. It would've been easy to jump the queue in some stretches but that's not the spirit of Hay.
3) The facilities - The toilets were nothing like festival toilets: not a port-a-loo in sight. They were mobile buildings with running water, flushing and mirrors. It's a very different crowd. The inverse to these were the water points dotted around the site. You could take your trusty bottle and replenish it with fresh drinking water. As an aquaphile, I was as happy as a fish in water.
4) Welsh cakes - The beautiful, doughy, yet crispy edged discs of joy. Flat, sugar coated bites of raisin filled goodness griddled to perfection. For sale at several locations at the side of the road. AT THE SIDE OF THE ROAD. Like me, do you struggle without a handy snack? Fear not! The five minute trek betwixt the festival and the village is enhanced by kindly people offering a sugar rush for pennies. I've never done one, but I imagine it's like the pitstop stations on a marathon route.
5) Frank Turner - This man's music has soundtracked my life, through good and bad, over almost the past decade and being part of the crowd at his shows is one of the most life-affirming things you can do. Frank had just released a book about life on the road as a travelling musician. Hay was offering the chance to see him play and talk about his book (honestly, his music shows are heavily laden with story-telling anyway). It was a no-brainer. I've been to a lot of Frank Turner shows, but this was a new, if slightly surreal experience. The music took place in a kind of lecture theatre and so, accordingly, everyone was politely sat down. Things soon took a turn for the rowdy when a few odd woohs escaped into the auditorium. The crowd was looking around to see who would start the standing. It didn't take long. I mean, there was no mosh pit, but the guy I was with, who had worked there all week, said it was most certainly the liveliest he'd seen it.
6) David Crystal - A linguist, writer, lecturer and all round very clever man. I first came across David Crystal in my reading list at college. His books helped me to success in my A Levels and on to university. They also gave me much more enjoyment than anyone should have the right to have when picking apart the workings of English, and language in general. In short, he's a hero of mine. So I had to go see him, and his son Ben, talk about their new dictionary of Shakespeare. They were so entertaining and brilliantly insightful. But the real charm came from their stage shenanigans, where despite working together, that father-son repartee was clear for all to see. I left very happy and with a renewed love of language.
7) A poet for hire - On the cobbled streets of Hay, outside the castle sat a young man dandily dressed hawking his wares. His wares were poems, typed up for you then and there on a tiny antique typewriter. What's not to love? Seems normal in Hay.
8) The countryside - Hay-on-Wye is positioned on the River Wye. It sits just on the Welsh side of the Wales / England border and at the North tip of the Brecon Beacons. In short, it's blessed by a sublime, lush landscape of rolling hills. Driving to and from the village is a sensory treat itself. Even arriving amidst black storm clouds hovering over the mountains made it breathtakingly beautiful.
9) Honesty boxes - Honesty plays a big part of life in Hay. I guess there's just no point in being underhand here. Many of the book shops and some of the hidden treasure troves of bric-a-brac 'shops' are just left to fend for themselves. Customers are invited to browse and if they find something that interests them to the point of purchase, then they are trusted to deposit the required funds in a box on their departure. The whole process is beautiful in its simplicity, nonchalance and honour.
10) Enthusiasm - Everyone at Hay Festival is there because they are enthusiastic. Enthusiastic about books, writers and reading. You can feel the positivity in the air. We were all united in a common love, and a common purpose for that moment in time: to celebrate our love of reading and maybe to discover new loves. Every person I spoke to (and I spoke to quite a few people - enthusiastic people are keen to share their enthusiasm) was helpful and friendly. People were keen to pass on recommendations and reviews of speakers they'd seen or books they'd read. The kids that were there in their droves ran about with a spark that was shining so brightly, even for sugar-addled youngsters. I think it was the magical spirit of Hay. Everyone was happy to be there. I hasten to add it wasn't cult-like in its positivity; I'm the first person to recoil at the slightest idea of organised happiness. The topics discussed didn't shy away from important issues and the arguments in life. It was just that Hay provides a forum for all. It was just the right mix of enthusiasm and cynicism, with tasty Welsh cakes thrown in for good measure.
1) Book shops - Clearly books are what Hay Festival is all about. And of course they have books for sale at the festival site, but the real treasure troves are found in Hay village: it's not called the secondhand bookshop capital of the world for nothing. There are so many bookshops, stalls and even just boxes stashed inside the doorway of other shops or buildings that it's overwhelming. When I first arrived and had stepped inside my second store, I felt a little dizzy looking at the floor-to-ceiling rows of books. My eyes couldn't move fast enough, and my poor little brain certainly couldn't process all the information fast enough. The situation wasn't helped by the fact that I had the relentless pangs of hunger stalking me. Once I had remedied the hunger issue, I addressed the bookshop challenge afresh, with the verve of an explorer setting off on an expedition. It was wonderful. I found so many oddities and interesting pages. Yet I was strict with myself and only ending up buying four books (and one was a present). My favourite shops were the outdoor shelves by the castle where the books had a slight weather-worn tinge, which only enhanced their charm, and the Hay Cinema Bookshop. This giant of a shop (as the name suggests, located in the converted cinema) swallowed me whole. I literally got lost in it. Towering shelves of books on every subject surrounded me. There are steps up to various floors and half levels between floors to add to the confusion. At one point when I found myself down another dead end, I thought I'd have to find some comfy tomes and bed down for the night. It's worth noting that despite spending a lot of my time in Hay exploring the secondhand bookshops, I barely scratched the surface. Next time I'll equip myself better for such a challenge.
2) The queues - As the stereotype goes, we British are pretty nifty at queuing. If that is the case, then Hay Festival has got to be the crown jewel in the queuing calendar. When queuing for events, there was the obligatory velvet rope to indicate the general direction of the line. But then it disappeared. It was replaced by a painted line on the ground, and in some cases, no markings at all. But lo and behold, everyone queued perfectly. We all happily followed the orderly line in the fashion it was meant. It would've been easy to jump the queue in some stretches but that's not the spirit of Hay.
3) The facilities - The toilets were nothing like festival toilets: not a port-a-loo in sight. They were mobile buildings with running water, flushing and mirrors. It's a very different crowd. The inverse to these were the water points dotted around the site. You could take your trusty bottle and replenish it with fresh drinking water. As an aquaphile, I was as happy as a fish in water.
4) Welsh cakes - The beautiful, doughy, yet crispy edged discs of joy. Flat, sugar coated bites of raisin filled goodness griddled to perfection. For sale at several locations at the side of the road. AT THE SIDE OF THE ROAD. Like me, do you struggle without a handy snack? Fear not! The five minute trek betwixt the festival and the village is enhanced by kindly people offering a sugar rush for pennies. I've never done one, but I imagine it's like the pitstop stations on a marathon route.
5) Frank Turner - This man's music has soundtracked my life, through good and bad, over almost the past decade and being part of the crowd at his shows is one of the most life-affirming things you can do. Frank had just released a book about life on the road as a travelling musician. Hay was offering the chance to see him play and talk about his book (honestly, his music shows are heavily laden with story-telling anyway). It was a no-brainer. I've been to a lot of Frank Turner shows, but this was a new, if slightly surreal experience. The music took place in a kind of lecture theatre and so, accordingly, everyone was politely sat down. Things soon took a turn for the rowdy when a few odd woohs escaped into the auditorium. The crowd was looking around to see who would start the standing. It didn't take long. I mean, there was no mosh pit, but the guy I was with, who had worked there all week, said it was most certainly the liveliest he'd seen it.
6) David Crystal - A linguist, writer, lecturer and all round very clever man. I first came across David Crystal in my reading list at college. His books helped me to success in my A Levels and on to university. They also gave me much more enjoyment than anyone should have the right to have when picking apart the workings of English, and language in general. In short, he's a hero of mine. So I had to go see him, and his son Ben, talk about their new dictionary of Shakespeare. They were so entertaining and brilliantly insightful. But the real charm came from their stage shenanigans, where despite working together, that father-son repartee was clear for all to see. I left very happy and with a renewed love of language.
7) A poet for hire - On the cobbled streets of Hay, outside the castle sat a young man dandily dressed hawking his wares. His wares were poems, typed up for you then and there on a tiny antique typewriter. What's not to love? Seems normal in Hay.
8) The countryside - Hay-on-Wye is positioned on the River Wye. It sits just on the Welsh side of the Wales / England border and at the North tip of the Brecon Beacons. In short, it's blessed by a sublime, lush landscape of rolling hills. Driving to and from the village is a sensory treat itself. Even arriving amidst black storm clouds hovering over the mountains made it breathtakingly beautiful.
9) Honesty boxes - Honesty plays a big part of life in Hay. I guess there's just no point in being underhand here. Many of the book shops and some of the hidden treasure troves of bric-a-brac 'shops' are just left to fend for themselves. Customers are invited to browse and if they find something that interests them to the point of purchase, then they are trusted to deposit the required funds in a box on their departure. The whole process is beautiful in its simplicity, nonchalance and honour.
10) Enthusiasm - Everyone at Hay Festival is there because they are enthusiastic. Enthusiastic about books, writers and reading. You can feel the positivity in the air. We were all united in a common love, and a common purpose for that moment in time: to celebrate our love of reading and maybe to discover new loves. Every person I spoke to (and I spoke to quite a few people - enthusiastic people are keen to share their enthusiasm) was helpful and friendly. People were keen to pass on recommendations and reviews of speakers they'd seen or books they'd read. The kids that were there in their droves ran about with a spark that was shining so brightly, even for sugar-addled youngsters. I think it was the magical spirit of Hay. Everyone was happy to be there. I hasten to add it wasn't cult-like in its positivity; I'm the first person to recoil at the slightest idea of organised happiness. The topics discussed didn't shy away from important issues and the arguments in life. It was just that Hay provides a forum for all. It was just the right mix of enthusiasm and cynicism, with tasty Welsh cakes thrown in for good measure.
Tuesday 23 June 2015
The Hostel of the Baskervilles
Baskerville Hall Hotel.
Sound familiar? It should do. This was the source of inspiration for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to write about the infamous hound. Local legend told of a dog-like beast tormenting the local area. Doyle pitted Sherlock Holmes against the hound in one of the greatest mysteries ever written.
When the opportunity to stay in the very same house that the great writer himself frequently visited, I couldn't pass it up.
I was headed to Hay-on-Wye for the literary festival and so needed lodging for the night. Baskerville Hall Hotel looked the perfect fit. I must make it known that I don't think the great author stayed in quite the same level of accommodation as I did. The building was once owned by friends of his, and I'm sure in those times, it was much more opulent. That's not to say it's bad looking now, just that not a lot seems to have changed since then. Since World War Two, the building has had various uses as a school, a health centre and a hotel. All these identities seem to have aged it, and the current hotel/hostel hybrid incarnation has the faded scars of time throughout.
But I loved it.
The carpets were worn, the furniture was mismatched, the decor was dated to say the least. But I bloody loved it. It's the kind of building you would say has 'character' as a polite way of saying it doesn't look good. But 'character' is so much better than shiny taps and magnolia walls. It has life. And past lives etched into every wooden windowsill or faded velvet curtain.
I stayed in a large sixteen bed dorm. It was comfortable and had everything I needed. It even had the reliable inevitability of someone opting to sleep in the bunk directly below mine, despite the obvious availability of ten other beds. When I crept in at gone one in the morning, (that's a different story, not to be told here) it added an extra dimension to my phone-light mission, by challenging me not to stick my foot in the face of the person below me. I bet Doyle never had to deal with that.
My arrival at the hall coincided with a break in the traditional British summer weather. On the final leg of my journey, I had battled against the kind of driving rain that even double speed windscreen wipers can do little about. I had hugged the hedge on corners into Wales hoping I wouldn't meet a tractor emerging out of the gloom. But as I drove up the long driveway to the hall, the rains had stopped and some semblance of brightness adorned the sky. With a touch of end-of-the-world beauty, the sun was juxtaposed with the deepest grey-purple sky above the rich, green hills that frame the site of Baskerville. It was the kind of foreboding view that I'm sure would've sparked Sir Arthur's imagination back in the day.
The inside was just as inspirational. The grand, central staircase led upstairs to a small landing overlooking the entrance hall. Strategically placed on the landing, either side of the fireplace and with a grand piano next door, were two leather wingback chairs. The sort of chairs you can sink into, rest your arms on with a worldly-wise aura and quietly watch the events of the Baskerville Hall Hotel unfold around you. And that's exactly what I did. All I needed was a pipe and a smoking jacket.
Whilst sat there I asked myself what would Sherlock do. And so I watched everyone. The extremely helpful receptionist I had met earlier. The group of American girls arriving late with no booking. The drunk stumbling out of the bar and attempting to initiate conversation with said group. The even drunker friend who escorted him back. The sleepwalker who opened his room door above us, mistaking it for the toilet. The late night dog walker with her tiny pug, for whom nature must've called in the early hours. Baskerville Hall Hotel seems to attract a cacophony of characters. Maybe even enough characters for the next instalment of a famous mystery.
Maybe the howling I heard later in the night was that very same pug, or maybe it was the sound of a hound that used to roam these grounds.
Maybe some mysteries are best left mysterious.
Sound familiar? It should do. This was the source of inspiration for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to write about the infamous hound. Local legend told of a dog-like beast tormenting the local area. Doyle pitted Sherlock Holmes against the hound in one of the greatest mysteries ever written.
When the opportunity to stay in the very same house that the great writer himself frequently visited, I couldn't pass it up.
I was headed to Hay-on-Wye for the literary festival and so needed lodging for the night. Baskerville Hall Hotel looked the perfect fit. I must make it known that I don't think the great author stayed in quite the same level of accommodation as I did. The building was once owned by friends of his, and I'm sure in those times, it was much more opulent. That's not to say it's bad looking now, just that not a lot seems to have changed since then. Since World War Two, the building has had various uses as a school, a health centre and a hotel. All these identities seem to have aged it, and the current hotel/hostel hybrid incarnation has the faded scars of time throughout.
But I loved it.
The carpets were worn, the furniture was mismatched, the decor was dated to say the least. But I bloody loved it. It's the kind of building you would say has 'character' as a polite way of saying it doesn't look good. But 'character' is so much better than shiny taps and magnolia walls. It has life. And past lives etched into every wooden windowsill or faded velvet curtain.
I stayed in a large sixteen bed dorm. It was comfortable and had everything I needed. It even had the reliable inevitability of someone opting to sleep in the bunk directly below mine, despite the obvious availability of ten other beds. When I crept in at gone one in the morning, (that's a different story, not to be told here) it added an extra dimension to my phone-light mission, by challenging me not to stick my foot in the face of the person below me. I bet Doyle never had to deal with that.
My arrival at the hall coincided with a break in the traditional British summer weather. On the final leg of my journey, I had battled against the kind of driving rain that even double speed windscreen wipers can do little about. I had hugged the hedge on corners into Wales hoping I wouldn't meet a tractor emerging out of the gloom. But as I drove up the long driveway to the hall, the rains had stopped and some semblance of brightness adorned the sky. With a touch of end-of-the-world beauty, the sun was juxtaposed with the deepest grey-purple sky above the rich, green hills that frame the site of Baskerville. It was the kind of foreboding view that I'm sure would've sparked Sir Arthur's imagination back in the day.
The inside was just as inspirational. The grand, central staircase led upstairs to a small landing overlooking the entrance hall. Strategically placed on the landing, either side of the fireplace and with a grand piano next door, were two leather wingback chairs. The sort of chairs you can sink into, rest your arms on with a worldly-wise aura and quietly watch the events of the Baskerville Hall Hotel unfold around you. And that's exactly what I did. All I needed was a pipe and a smoking jacket.
Whilst sat there I asked myself what would Sherlock do. And so I watched everyone. The extremely helpful receptionist I had met earlier. The group of American girls arriving late with no booking. The drunk stumbling out of the bar and attempting to initiate conversation with said group. The even drunker friend who escorted him back. The sleepwalker who opened his room door above us, mistaking it for the toilet. The late night dog walker with her tiny pug, for whom nature must've called in the early hours. Baskerville Hall Hotel seems to attract a cacophony of characters. Maybe even enough characters for the next instalment of a famous mystery.
Maybe the howling I heard later in the night was that very same pug, or maybe it was the sound of a hound that used to roam these grounds.
Maybe some mysteries are best left mysterious.
Saturday 6 June 2015
The Secrets of Rathlin Island (Part Two)
Okay, okay. I give up. I can't hold the secrets any longer. I'll tell you about Rathlin as long as you act surprised when you get there. And you should. It is beyond worth it.
I mentioned in my previous post that I hired a bike to see the island. One of my better decisions. Firstly, two wheels allows you to cover much more ground than two feet. If I had more time there, I would've taken more pleasure in walking some more of it (there are many areas, some of which I explored - and got lost in - where you can only venture on foot). But my time being limited, the bike allowed me to see more of the incredible scenery as I whizzed past. Which brings me to the second bonus of the bike. Some of the paths, especially those en route to the southern Rue Lighthouse, are practically perfect for bikes. The road twists and turns past the mirror-like lochs so you can coast down through bends like a racer. The sheep slowly turn their heads with a look of contempt. I expect they've seen it all before. It's a good job that sheep were my only company as I think, for the first time since I had spokey dokes on my bike, I let out a 'Weeeeeee!' as I navigated a descent. As for the hills, they're just right. They give you enough resistance to push you into a challenge as you climb them, and then you can release the lactic acid in your overworked legs as you sail down the incline. It's perfect.
All the cycling led me to Rue Lighthouse. There, I ditched my bike at the fence and headed down a gravelly path. My reward at the end was azure blue sea sparkling in the unrelenting sunshine; a carpet of luscious green grass being grazed on by sheep, cows and their babies; the remnants of a stone building surveying the sea, the lighthouse and the cliffs beyond; and then sat in the shallows of the shore and on protruding, craggy, black rocks were a colony of grey seals. At first I didn't see them because they blended in to their perches so well, but then they started bending like bananas and their coal-like eyes watched me as I navigated a safe path closer to them. I sat a comfortable distance, so as not to alarm them and unpacked my picnic. Sat watching this scene of nature at its finest, eating my goodies, I felt like I'd been transported to the pages of a Famous Five book; it was enjoyment at its purest. And when the seals started chatting to each other, I could've been on another planet. The fact I went a few hours without seeing another human was bliss.
That feeling of being part of Enid Blyton's world continued as I made my way back to civilisation and to Rathlin Island Hostel. It's the only hostel on the island and has only been open a year. But again, at the risk of boring you, it's perfect.
Patsy welcomed me in and gave me the tour. She was so lovely and friendly, and that continued throughout my stay. When we ran into each other as I was returning to the ferry later, we chatted like old friends. As for the hostel, it was clean and comfortable with a free breakfast: everything you need. But it's the location that sets it apart. To watch the sun set behind the cliffs, across the stunning sea was a delight. And then to wake up to the same sparkling sea out of the bedroom window was like no other place on Earth.
Whilst the morning air was still crisp, I took another walk. I once again passed the seals in the harbour and bade them a good morning. The walk I took then up to the Old Coastguard Station showed me another side of the beauty of the island. And this morning, the winds had dropped and, for a moment, I seriously felt like I was the only human who existed. The sights, sounds and cool spring air literally took my breath away. It seemed like magic was in the air.
My only negative of my trip was that unfortunately, I was too early in the year to see the renowned Puffins. Not to worry; it gives me the perfect excuse to return another time. Not that I need an excuse.
I mentioned in my previous post that I hired a bike to see the island. One of my better decisions. Firstly, two wheels allows you to cover much more ground than two feet. If I had more time there, I would've taken more pleasure in walking some more of it (there are many areas, some of which I explored - and got lost in - where you can only venture on foot). But my time being limited, the bike allowed me to see more of the incredible scenery as I whizzed past. Which brings me to the second bonus of the bike. Some of the paths, especially those en route to the southern Rue Lighthouse, are practically perfect for bikes. The road twists and turns past the mirror-like lochs so you can coast down through bends like a racer. The sheep slowly turn their heads with a look of contempt. I expect they've seen it all before. It's a good job that sheep were my only company as I think, for the first time since I had spokey dokes on my bike, I let out a 'Weeeeeee!' as I navigated a descent. As for the hills, they're just right. They give you enough resistance to push you into a challenge as you climb them, and then you can release the lactic acid in your overworked legs as you sail down the incline. It's perfect.
All the cycling led me to Rue Lighthouse. There, I ditched my bike at the fence and headed down a gravelly path. My reward at the end was azure blue sea sparkling in the unrelenting sunshine; a carpet of luscious green grass being grazed on by sheep, cows and their babies; the remnants of a stone building surveying the sea, the lighthouse and the cliffs beyond; and then sat in the shallows of the shore and on protruding, craggy, black rocks were a colony of grey seals. At first I didn't see them because they blended in to their perches so well, but then they started bending like bananas and their coal-like eyes watched me as I navigated a safe path closer to them. I sat a comfortable distance, so as not to alarm them and unpacked my picnic. Sat watching this scene of nature at its finest, eating my goodies, I felt like I'd been transported to the pages of a Famous Five book; it was enjoyment at its purest. And when the seals started chatting to each other, I could've been on another planet. The fact I went a few hours without seeing another human was bliss.
That feeling of being part of Enid Blyton's world continued as I made my way back to civilisation and to Rathlin Island Hostel. It's the only hostel on the island and has only been open a year. But again, at the risk of boring you, it's perfect.
Patsy welcomed me in and gave me the tour. She was so lovely and friendly, and that continued throughout my stay. When we ran into each other as I was returning to the ferry later, we chatted like old friends. As for the hostel, it was clean and comfortable with a free breakfast: everything you need. But it's the location that sets it apart. To watch the sun set behind the cliffs, across the stunning sea was a delight. And then to wake up to the same sparkling sea out of the bedroom window was like no other place on Earth.
Whilst the morning air was still crisp, I took another walk. I once again passed the seals in the harbour and bade them a good morning. The walk I took then up to the Old Coastguard Station showed me another side of the beauty of the island. And this morning, the winds had dropped and, for a moment, I seriously felt like I was the only human who existed. The sights, sounds and cool spring air literally took my breath away. It seemed like magic was in the air.
My only negative of my trip was that unfortunately, I was too early in the year to see the renowned Puffins. Not to worry; it gives me the perfect excuse to return another time. Not that I need an excuse.
Sunday 24 May 2015
The Secrets of Rathlin Island (Part One)
When one of my best friends moved to Northern Ireland, I did some reconnaissance to see which places I should visit when I went to visit her. The place that interested me most, almost with a magnetic draw, was Rathlin Island. It's an L shaped island off the Northeast coast of Ulster with a population of about eighty people. My mantra being 'Life is better by the sea' and with my fascination of the magic of islands in general, I knew I had to visit. Last summer, when I first ventured to Northern Ireland, I ran out of time to set aside enough to visit the island. On my most recent trip, I made it there.
Fortune was smiling on me as I boarded the ferry from Ballycastle to Rathlin. The weather had stayed fine after the Easter weekend and the sky was blue with a thin scattering of wispy clouds. It was still cold, but the sun was shining which made it the type of day the air catches your breath in thankfulness that you get to enjoy this day on such a beautiful planet. The ferry was industrial; I shared my viewing spot on the deck with a road repair truck and its crew that were heading to the island. I spent the entire 45 minute journey at the edge of the boat, feeling the salt-spray on my face and squinting into the sun at the island getting ever nearer as we jumped the sapphire blue waves. The crossing wasn't calm, but the rhythm of the waves was life affirming as I kept my balance with no hands. When I needed to lean, I grabbed hold of the cold, weathered metal of the side of the boat. Hours later, I could still smell the metallic tinge of the seafarer lingering on my hands.
I had a hunch that it would happen as soon as I saw it, but then as I set foot on Rathlin Island, I knew it: I had fallen in love with the place. It was love at first sight. But then I kept discovering hidden gems and tiny foibles of my dear amour.
I skipped off the ferry, full of the joys of a spring adventure. I strolled through the harbour area and past the sparkling bay edged by white stone and seaweed. As I passed people they said hello; even the two drivers who passed me waved. I stopped in the tiny museum on the side of the bay. The lady was so helpful and welcoming and suggested I head up to the cycle hire to increase my adventuring capacity. The cycle hire on Rathlin Island is basically a lady called Jennifer who operates out of her garage. She was also very friendly and gave me lots of tips of where to go and what to do. I had to check with her twice when she told me I could just leave my bike at the end of a path when I had to continue on foot. Life on Rathlin isn't concerned with petty bicycle thefts. Where everyone knows everyone, who's going to steal?
It was stood by her garage that I bore witness to a very secret resident of Rathlin. I was fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of the famous Golden Hare (no, I'd never heard of it before either). Nonetheless, I was enthrallled by the little fella. I had to use Jennifer's binoculars and have her friend talk me through exactly where to look, but I found him! He's a handsome hare with a light coat and blue eyes. It's a genetic anomaly only found on Rathlin, and he doesn't appear that often. They told me the Countryfile team staked out the area for a good length of time and still failed to catch sight of him. And here I was almost stumbling across this secret! He sat up and looked just like Peter Rabbit.
And from then on it got even better. I haven't even told you about the cycle routes that take you into another world, the hostel that has the best view to wake up to and the noisy residents of the harbour. Maybe they're for another tale. I almost feel like I shouldn't write about my time on Rathlin because it was so perfect and magical. I don't want to spoil the place by sending everyone there, but at the same time, its tranquility, natural magnificence and the friendliness of the residents there deserves to be experienced by people. It was just the positive opportunity I needed at that point and I loved every second of it.
Fortune was smiling on me as I boarded the ferry from Ballycastle to Rathlin. The weather had stayed fine after the Easter weekend and the sky was blue with a thin scattering of wispy clouds. It was still cold, but the sun was shining which made it the type of day the air catches your breath in thankfulness that you get to enjoy this day on such a beautiful planet. The ferry was industrial; I shared my viewing spot on the deck with a road repair truck and its crew that were heading to the island. I spent the entire 45 minute journey at the edge of the boat, feeling the salt-spray on my face and squinting into the sun at the island getting ever nearer as we jumped the sapphire blue waves. The crossing wasn't calm, but the rhythm of the waves was life affirming as I kept my balance with no hands. When I needed to lean, I grabbed hold of the cold, weathered metal of the side of the boat. Hours later, I could still smell the metallic tinge of the seafarer lingering on my hands.
I had a hunch that it would happen as soon as I saw it, but then as I set foot on Rathlin Island, I knew it: I had fallen in love with the place. It was love at first sight. But then I kept discovering hidden gems and tiny foibles of my dear amour.
I skipped off the ferry, full of the joys of a spring adventure. I strolled through the harbour area and past the sparkling bay edged by white stone and seaweed. As I passed people they said hello; even the two drivers who passed me waved. I stopped in the tiny museum on the side of the bay. The lady was so helpful and welcoming and suggested I head up to the cycle hire to increase my adventuring capacity. The cycle hire on Rathlin Island is basically a lady called Jennifer who operates out of her garage. She was also very friendly and gave me lots of tips of where to go and what to do. I had to check with her twice when she told me I could just leave my bike at the end of a path when I had to continue on foot. Life on Rathlin isn't concerned with petty bicycle thefts. Where everyone knows everyone, who's going to steal?
It was stood by her garage that I bore witness to a very secret resident of Rathlin. I was fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of the famous Golden Hare (no, I'd never heard of it before either). Nonetheless, I was enthrallled by the little fella. I had to use Jennifer's binoculars and have her friend talk me through exactly where to look, but I found him! He's a handsome hare with a light coat and blue eyes. It's a genetic anomaly only found on Rathlin, and he doesn't appear that often. They told me the Countryfile team staked out the area for a good length of time and still failed to catch sight of him. And here I was almost stumbling across this secret! He sat up and looked just like Peter Rabbit.
And from then on it got even better. I haven't even told you about the cycle routes that take you into another world, the hostel that has the best view to wake up to and the noisy residents of the harbour. Maybe they're for another tale. I almost feel like I shouldn't write about my time on Rathlin because it was so perfect and magical. I don't want to spoil the place by sending everyone there, but at the same time, its tranquility, natural magnificence and the friendliness of the residents there deserves to be experienced by people. It was just the positive opportunity I needed at that point and I loved every second of it.
Friday 17 April 2015
The best pub in the world!
On Easter Sunday afternoon, my friend Jen and I (ably accompanied by the ever-wonderful Deefer the Springer Spaniel) stumbled upon a little slice of magic in the Wiltshire countryside. Many pubs are good; it goes without saying. Some have small flashes of genius or touches that edge them closer to perfection. I don't take this statement lightly, but I think, in that particular moment in time, the universe conspired to reveal to us a path to public house utopia, and so we found ourselves in the best pub in the world.
Allow me to lead you through the stages of discovery that meant The Horse and Groom at Westbury is the best pub in the world.
As with a lot of momentous discoveries, we didn't intend it. After our exciting explorations at Imber village, we were in need of refreshments and a space for Deefer to run in. We were headed up to the Westbury white horse whilst keeping our eyes peeled for a country pub we could stop in. As we neared the turning for the white horse, a wooden sandwich board caught our attention. It was a small sign, but it irrevocably changed our lives. The sign read 'The best pub in smiles'. We scoffed at the pun, rolled our eyes and threw caution to the wind to follow the sign. We drove into the car park and that's where the magic began to unfold before our very eyes. I cannot stress this enough: it was like veils of perfection being whipped away in front of us at every turn. So many little details combined to make it a wonderous place. (So much so that I now wonder, if I were to return, would it still be there, or was it simply a figment of our imagination?)
Allow me to lead you through the stages of discovery that meant The Horse and Groom at Westbury is the best pub in the world.
1) There was a garden. With grass. And trees. And a stream at the end. And benches. It was a tad cold to sit in the garden, but I logged the information for future reference.
2) On the way in, there was a sign saying dogs were allowed. With well behaved owners. It was obvious we were on the same canine wavelength. On entering the pub, we found Deefer had two inquisitive, furry friends for company. There were also dog treats available (for a small donation to charity) at the bar. We were all amongst friends.
3) We had spotted a sign outside saying that there is live music every Sunday afternoon. Seemingly, we had pitched up right on cue. Our first sight as we passed through the doorway was of three men noodling on a variety of instruments. We took a seat in the bar directly opposite the 'stage' area. The musicians were billed as a blues, rock and country group, and that's exactly what we were treated to. There was a singer who beautifully growled his way through a range of songs, some I knew, some I didn't, but all I enjoyed. A guitarist who had a few more years of life experience under his belt gave us plenty to riff along to. And then there was the third musician...
4) This man was harmonica player. The harmonica is my weapon of choice; I quite terribly attempt to eke a tune out of mine. This means I am a sucker for any song adorned by a lonely wail of the 'monica. This man was a king of harmonicas. He coaxed blindingly bluesy riffs out of his to accompany the others. And he had a few harmonicas to choose from. I kid you not, this man had a harmonica utility belt: about eight of the blighters lined up along his waistline. It was as if Batman had branched out in his superhero capacity. This man was a true harmonica hero in my book.
5) They were serving food. We were starving and bracing ourselves for the worst as it was way past lunchtime on Easter Sunday. The lady at the bar cheerily told us they were serving food all day. I looked down the menu and my heart sailed as I found several vegetarian options. Being a vegetarian can often be a minefield. But here, in the best pub in the world, there were choices. And good choices. And when my choice was brought to the table, it tasted good too.
6) Alongside the condiments on the table sat a small box. It was a box of quiz questions. Jenny and I looked around, and on each table was a different box. My eyes widened with joy. Each table had a different box of trivia: Trivial Pursuit, travel questions or others of the sort. Who doesn't love a quiz? Such a simple idea. What a nice thing to do.
7) By the menus at the bar was a box of spare reading glasses for the convenience of all. By the door was a pile of blankets for the hardy folks who want to brave the garden. It's those little touches that give this pub the edge.
8) We sat with full bellies, quizzed out, with dogs by our feet and being serenaded by a fantastic group of musicians. Just as we thought it couldn't get any better, the man from the bar strolled over to us and handed us a tambourine and a percussion shaker (of the extra loud variety) and looked at us encouragingly. We were being invited to join the party! And join we did. We played along (as much as our musical ability allowed us) and smiles of joy spread across our faces. We laughed with the gents at the table next door to us and then went on to share some music anecdotes with our new friends. One of our comrades was the father of the singer in the group and his pride for his son beamed out of him to cheer us all even more.
Eventually we had to leave this pub paradise. Deefer needed a run and we had a long journey ahead to get home. But the smiles that we had been given in that magical place never left our faces for the whole journey home. It was a very opportune discovery, a legendary story for us to remember, and most definitely, the best pub in smiles.
2) On the way in, there was a sign saying dogs were allowed. With well behaved owners. It was obvious we were on the same canine wavelength. On entering the pub, we found Deefer had two inquisitive, furry friends for company. There were also dog treats available (for a small donation to charity) at the bar. We were all amongst friends.
3) We had spotted a sign outside saying that there is live music every Sunday afternoon. Seemingly, we had pitched up right on cue. Our first sight as we passed through the doorway was of three men noodling on a variety of instruments. We took a seat in the bar directly opposite the 'stage' area. The musicians were billed as a blues, rock and country group, and that's exactly what we were treated to. There was a singer who beautifully growled his way through a range of songs, some I knew, some I didn't, but all I enjoyed. A guitarist who had a few more years of life experience under his belt gave us plenty to riff along to. And then there was the third musician...
4) This man was harmonica player. The harmonica is my weapon of choice; I quite terribly attempt to eke a tune out of mine. This means I am a sucker for any song adorned by a lonely wail of the 'monica. This man was a king of harmonicas. He coaxed blindingly bluesy riffs out of his to accompany the others. And he had a few harmonicas to choose from. I kid you not, this man had a harmonica utility belt: about eight of the blighters lined up along his waistline. It was as if Batman had branched out in his superhero capacity. This man was a true harmonica hero in my book.
5) They were serving food. We were starving and bracing ourselves for the worst as it was way past lunchtime on Easter Sunday. The lady at the bar cheerily told us they were serving food all day. I looked down the menu and my heart sailed as I found several vegetarian options. Being a vegetarian can often be a minefield. But here, in the best pub in the world, there were choices. And good choices. And when my choice was brought to the table, it tasted good too.
6) Alongside the condiments on the table sat a small box. It was a box of quiz questions. Jenny and I looked around, and on each table was a different box. My eyes widened with joy. Each table had a different box of trivia: Trivial Pursuit, travel questions or others of the sort. Who doesn't love a quiz? Such a simple idea. What a nice thing to do.
7) By the menus at the bar was a box of spare reading glasses for the convenience of all. By the door was a pile of blankets for the hardy folks who want to brave the garden. It's those little touches that give this pub the edge.
8) We sat with full bellies, quizzed out, with dogs by our feet and being serenaded by a fantastic group of musicians. Just as we thought it couldn't get any better, the man from the bar strolled over to us and handed us a tambourine and a percussion shaker (of the extra loud variety) and looked at us encouragingly. We were being invited to join the party! And join we did. We played along (as much as our musical ability allowed us) and smiles of joy spread across our faces. We laughed with the gents at the table next door to us and then went on to share some music anecdotes with our new friends. One of our comrades was the father of the singer in the group and his pride for his son beamed out of him to cheer us all even more.
Eventually we had to leave this pub paradise. Deefer needed a run and we had a long journey ahead to get home. But the smiles that we had been given in that magical place never left our faces for the whole journey home. It was a very opportune discovery, a legendary story for us to remember, and most definitely, the best pub in smiles.
Thursday 9 April 2015
The Crowded Deserted Village
An oxymoron, but no less true.
This story begins in 1943. Just before Christmas, the residents of the village of Imber, in the middle of Salisbury Plain, were requested to leave their homes. The MOD needed to use the village for training purposes as World War Two developed. The residents were originally told they they would one day be able to return to their evacuated homes.
That never happened.
That never happened.
The result is that somewhere in Wiltshire, miles from anywhere, surrounded by barbed wire and military warning signs, there is an empty village which is stuck in time. The army have continued to use the village; some of the original houses and other buildings abandoned in the forties are now joined by a number of purpose-built shells of houses for various training purposes. It is still an operational facility. But on a small number of days each year, the village is reopened for public visits.
We visited on Easter Sunday which meant that the place was teeming with visitors. I had been expecting quite an eerie location, but the swarms of families meant that it felt more lived in than many housing estates I've dared to pass through. I was happy however with the number of canine companions accompanying their owners. Dogs of all shapes and sizes joined the crowds on the exploration mission. I can't blame people for joining me in wanting to visit this slice of history; Imber is a unique story and an opportunity to travel back in time.
A visit to Imber allows you to see some of the buildings and locations that formed part of the everyday lives of the people of this village back before their lives were irrevocably uprooted. But as we wandered around these physical markers in time, a more interactive form of time travel was clear to see all around us. We had travelled to a time before the dreaded killjoy of 'Health and Safety'.
Yes, we were on a functioning military training location (albeit one on a bank holiday hiatus). Yes, we could wander in and out of many buildings that had questionable standards. And yes, we found discarded debris of plastic shells, tin cans and cracked glow sticks littering the floors. But no one was around to warn us of any dangers or guide us as to which precautions to take. We, and by 'we' I mean the general public, were left to fend for ourselves in this giant playground of danger. It was like having a whole village as an adventure playground. You can explore shells of houses by ducking through old timber door-frames; you can climb well-worn stone stairs to reach rickety, creaking upper floors; you can peer out of the gaping hole that once was a top floor barn window with nothing to warn you that it's possible you could hurt yourself if you fell out. The risks we took!
I took great heart from watching the families run around this odd, time-travel playground. This week I had heard a report on the news about how children didn't play outdoors as much as they did in the past. But here was a little slice of common sense prevailing in the most random of places. A couple of times I heard the excited calls of make-believe battles: kids hiding from their playmates in preparation to jump out at them at an opportune moment, with a blatant disregard to any dangers that might befall them. At one end of the village, a giant, fallen tree added another dimension to the playground. The kids (and adults, to be fair) swarmed over it like ants. Who doesn't love to climb on a tree?
The journey to Imber took us back in time in more ways than one. The echoes of the people who once lived there are etched on the worn walls and the surrounding landscape. But they are joined by the spirits of the more recent visitors. It is a place where your inner child can play like it used to. I hope Imber forever remains a playground for the inner child of all who dare to climb its walls.
We visited on Easter Sunday which meant that the place was teeming with visitors. I had been expecting quite an eerie location, but the swarms of families meant that it felt more lived in than many housing estates I've dared to pass through. I was happy however with the number of canine companions accompanying their owners. Dogs of all shapes and sizes joined the crowds on the exploration mission. I can't blame people for joining me in wanting to visit this slice of history; Imber is a unique story and an opportunity to travel back in time.
A visit to Imber allows you to see some of the buildings and locations that formed part of the everyday lives of the people of this village back before their lives were irrevocably uprooted. But as we wandered around these physical markers in time, a more interactive form of time travel was clear to see all around us. We had travelled to a time before the dreaded killjoy of 'Health and Safety'.
Yes, we were on a functioning military training location (albeit one on a bank holiday hiatus). Yes, we could wander in and out of many buildings that had questionable standards. And yes, we found discarded debris of plastic shells, tin cans and cracked glow sticks littering the floors. But no one was around to warn us of any dangers or guide us as to which precautions to take. We, and by 'we' I mean the general public, were left to fend for ourselves in this giant playground of danger. It was like having a whole village as an adventure playground. You can explore shells of houses by ducking through old timber door-frames; you can climb well-worn stone stairs to reach rickety, creaking upper floors; you can peer out of the gaping hole that once was a top floor barn window with nothing to warn you that it's possible you could hurt yourself if you fell out. The risks we took!
I took great heart from watching the families run around this odd, time-travel playground. This week I had heard a report on the news about how children didn't play outdoors as much as they did in the past. But here was a little slice of common sense prevailing in the most random of places. A couple of times I heard the excited calls of make-believe battles: kids hiding from their playmates in preparation to jump out at them at an opportune moment, with a blatant disregard to any dangers that might befall them. At one end of the village, a giant, fallen tree added another dimension to the playground. The kids (and adults, to be fair) swarmed over it like ants. Who doesn't love to climb on a tree?
The journey to Imber took us back in time in more ways than one. The echoes of the people who once lived there are etched on the worn walls and the surrounding landscape. But they are joined by the spirits of the more recent visitors. It is a place where your inner child can play like it used to. I hope Imber forever remains a playground for the inner child of all who dare to climb its walls.
Monday 23 February 2015
Brighton Rock (and Roll)
Brighton. The scene of many lazy, sunny days sprawled on the famous pebbled beach.
If you want to see this Brighton, I suggest you do not follow my steps, and avoid a trip to the Sussex city in February. I was there for 23 hours and it rained solidly the whole time. The WHOLE time.
But hey, I'm British, so I persevered. And I'm pretty sure I made the most of my time there. I may have returned home with cold, soggy socks but they were well-travelled soggy socks.
The reason for my trip to Brighton was to attend the Ryan Adams show at the Brighton Dome Concert Hall. Without getting too embroiled in one of my favourite pastimes of fangirling over this incredibly talented musician, it was one of the best shows I've seen in a long while. But it wasn't just the music that made the visit to the Dome so enjoyable. I had heard how beautiful the building was from many people; to see it for myself was a real treat. The entrance foyer alone is a work of art. It wears its Art Deco legacy well and even the little details adorning much of the building make you feel like you're getting a glimpse into the past.
Earlier that day we had explored the famous Brighton Lanes. This also felt like a trip backwards in time as we darted down the cobbled alleyways, ducking into almost forgotten shops such as antique jewellers and milliners. Hoods up in an attempt at protection against the stubborn rain, we jumped puddles to get to newer additions to the constitution of The Lanes. Dog accessory shops and speciality cupcake bakers have found a fitting home in this part of the city. I'm not sure which I enjoyed looking at more: the ridiculously beautiful works of art that are actually creamily delicious baked goods, or unbelievably cute dogs dressed up to the nines in the latest fashion trends. One French Bulldog was sat so still in the middle of a shop that I thought they even had dog mannequins before he bolted out the door to retrieve a tempting bone.
As darkness swept in, helped in no small part by the dark clouds and driving rain, we headed for the beacon of light that is Brighton Pier. Stuck out into the churning English Channel, it beckoned me with its teasing neon lights, fairground music and the wafting smell of freshly fried doughnuts. Running along the seafront, we didn't seem to move anywhere very quickly. The wind was so ferocious that it was like being in a wind tunnel; I'd long given up on my brolly but had struggled to even put it down in the horizontal wind conditions. After much fighting against Mother Nature, we bundled into the glowing warmth of the amusement hall. I was just about aware of the flashing lights and jingling sounds surrounding me; I couldn't see much as every inch of me, including my much-needed glasses, was covered in rain. I think I'd have been as soaked if I'd have gone for a dip under the pier.
Still, there was money to be won, so we had to focus. I changed up 30p into the familiar pot of bronze tuppences. We threaded our way through the crowd to search for machines ripe for us to pick some winnings from. I won some. Then I lost some. Then I won some more. Then I lost the lot. Gah. Big corporations win again; I'll never see that 30p again.
But fear not. On the way out, before heading back into the incessant rain, I paused at a sweetie shovelling game. I wished my 20p luck as I inserted it into the slot. With baited breath, I pressed the button to load up the digger arm. In what seemed like slow motion, the arm released the sweets and they tumbled into the winning chute. Winner! I collected the booty (two fizzers, refreshers and two lollies) and stuffed them into my soggy pockets.
I think I left Brighton Pier richer than I arrived. I loved the thrill of the gamble and 50p was well worth the experience. And the sweets just topped off the arcade fun. That's the Rock 'n' Roll spirit!
If you want to see this Brighton, I suggest you do not follow my steps, and avoid a trip to the Sussex city in February. I was there for 23 hours and it rained solidly the whole time. The WHOLE time.
But hey, I'm British, so I persevered. And I'm pretty sure I made the most of my time there. I may have returned home with cold, soggy socks but they were well-travelled soggy socks.
The reason for my trip to Brighton was to attend the Ryan Adams show at the Brighton Dome Concert Hall. Without getting too embroiled in one of my favourite pastimes of fangirling over this incredibly talented musician, it was one of the best shows I've seen in a long while. But it wasn't just the music that made the visit to the Dome so enjoyable. I had heard how beautiful the building was from many people; to see it for myself was a real treat. The entrance foyer alone is a work of art. It wears its Art Deco legacy well and even the little details adorning much of the building make you feel like you're getting a glimpse into the past.
Earlier that day we had explored the famous Brighton Lanes. This also felt like a trip backwards in time as we darted down the cobbled alleyways, ducking into almost forgotten shops such as antique jewellers and milliners. Hoods up in an attempt at protection against the stubborn rain, we jumped puddles to get to newer additions to the constitution of The Lanes. Dog accessory shops and speciality cupcake bakers have found a fitting home in this part of the city. I'm not sure which I enjoyed looking at more: the ridiculously beautiful works of art that are actually creamily delicious baked goods, or unbelievably cute dogs dressed up to the nines in the latest fashion trends. One French Bulldog was sat so still in the middle of a shop that I thought they even had dog mannequins before he bolted out the door to retrieve a tempting bone.
As darkness swept in, helped in no small part by the dark clouds and driving rain, we headed for the beacon of light that is Brighton Pier. Stuck out into the churning English Channel, it beckoned me with its teasing neon lights, fairground music and the wafting smell of freshly fried doughnuts. Running along the seafront, we didn't seem to move anywhere very quickly. The wind was so ferocious that it was like being in a wind tunnel; I'd long given up on my brolly but had struggled to even put it down in the horizontal wind conditions. After much fighting against Mother Nature, we bundled into the glowing warmth of the amusement hall. I was just about aware of the flashing lights and jingling sounds surrounding me; I couldn't see much as every inch of me, including my much-needed glasses, was covered in rain. I think I'd have been as soaked if I'd have gone for a dip under the pier.
Still, there was money to be won, so we had to focus. I changed up 30p into the familiar pot of bronze tuppences. We threaded our way through the crowd to search for machines ripe for us to pick some winnings from. I won some. Then I lost some. Then I won some more. Then I lost the lot. Gah. Big corporations win again; I'll never see that 30p again.
But fear not. On the way out, before heading back into the incessant rain, I paused at a sweetie shovelling game. I wished my 20p luck as I inserted it into the slot. With baited breath, I pressed the button to load up the digger arm. In what seemed like slow motion, the arm released the sweets and they tumbled into the winning chute. Winner! I collected the booty (two fizzers, refreshers and two lollies) and stuffed them into my soggy pockets.
I think I left Brighton Pier richer than I arrived. I loved the thrill of the gamble and 50p was well worth the experience. And the sweets just topped off the arcade fun. That's the Rock 'n' Roll spirit!
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