The Sweet Side of Cheddar

Cheddar. Like the cheese? 

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. 

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). 

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.

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

It was AMAZING! 

I was in heaven. Sickly, sugary, gooey heaven. 

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?  

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. 

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. 

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. 

Who's with me? 

Nothing Really Matters

It's taken me over a week to start to write about the journey I went on to Finland.

Jen and I went to the annual World Air Guitar Championships in Oulu.

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.

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.

Magic is probably the best place to start.

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.

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.

First! That never happens. I thought it was always a fake suitcase to start the ball rolling.

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?

My internal musings were soon answered. At the end of the tour came the excruciatingly school-like introductions.

"Hi, my name is Katie and I'm from Southampton, England."

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.

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.

But that was not to be.

I'd paid my money for the tour, so I thought, fuck it. Let's just be honest.

"Hi, my name is Katie and I'm from Southampton, England..... and we're here for fun....?"

Cool.

No dramas.

From that moment, everyone we met was so incredibly welcoming and friendly. I cannot put into words how accepted we felt.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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... 

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. 

And then we had the best song in the world. Any guesses? 

Bohemian Rhapsody of course. 

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. 

Nothing really matters. Nothing (holds up air guitar) really matters, to me. 

Boom. 

The few days I spent in Oulu were fantastic. Nothing 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. 

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. 

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". 

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.

Relive the magic of the finals here. You might even catch Jen and I playing on stage at the end. 

http://www.ilmakitara.fi/fi/stream?utm_content=buffer01773&utm_medium=social&utm_source=twitter.com&utm_campaign=buffer

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. 

And it was worth every goddamn second. Kiitos Oulu. 

#MakeAirNotWar 

The journey that wouldn't start but then wouldn't end

Sometimes you start off on a journey and you don't get very far.

Sunday started off feeling like that sort of day.

We were only taking a short trip down to Southsea. Or so we thought.

Jenny and I got in the trusty Corsa and set off. But there was a sound. Not a good sound.

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.

We pulled over and discovered the culprit was a flat back tyre.

Not to worry, we thought. A quick tyre change and we'd be set.

Not that simple.

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!

Not to worry, we thought. A quick car change and we'd be set.

And so we confused the dog by dragging her out of one car and into another before we'd travelled out of the postcode.

Jen drove her car to the end of our road and her engine advisory light came on.

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.

Not to worry we thought. A quick stop and start and we'd be set.

Not that simple.

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.

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.

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.

So we headed to the train station.

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.

Not to worry, we thought. A quick train journey and we'd be set.

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).

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.

Not to worry, we thought. A quick police chase and we'd be set.

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.

My pessimism was unfounded. After a short delay, we were off again. And no, I have no idea if the police got their woman.

Eventually we made it to Southsea!

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.

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.

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.

Then Lou came up with an ingenious solution. We could go to the Isle of Wight for one.

Not to worry, we thought. A quick jaunt across the Solent and we'd be set.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

Riding the travel wave as we were, as soon as we set foot back on land, we bought tickets and headed off to France.

Not to worry, we thought. A quick boat across the English Channel and we'd be set.

Nahhh! Only kidding. That would be a step too far for one day: I'm not an idiot.

I've filed that idea in the must-do new adventure pile for future me to take on.

Puffin Quest

We had a quest. A puffin quest to be exact.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

As the rain stopped, we got to the front of the queue and bought our tickets! It was happening!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Puffin Quest complete.

Hidden In Plain Sight

Guys, I don't mean to worry anyone, but I'm pretty sure there's a Bond villain living in Titchfield.

I know, I know, it's probably unlikely. However, logic suggests that they have to live somewhere so why not the Hampshire coast?

Let me explain how I have come to this conclusion and I'm sure you'll see the sense in my theory.

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.

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.

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.

This was no normal boat.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Well handled dear villain.

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.

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.

Well, and a finely-groomed moustache to twiddle fiendishly. One can dream.