Going Nowhere

Warning: this post contains no travel.

I am a mover, a traveller, a can't-stay-still-er. I like to be DOING something. Most of the time anyway. Doing stuff: better than not doing stuff.

But I've found a magical place where I don't want to do anything. Or go anywhere. Or move.

To be honest, I'm annoyed at myself that I didn't think about it before. I love the look of them, I love everything that they represent, I love the nostalgia and the purity of them. Why haven't I thought about it before?

The place in question?

A beach hut.

The humble, British seaside beach hut along the golden sands of Bournemouth no less.

Fine, I lied a little; there was some travel involved. Early travel at that. I woke up super early (although the sleep was restless when it eventually came, much like on Christmas Eve) to take on the A31 before the traffic hit.

The beauty of the early start was that I was at the beach in time to ride my bike along the promenade before the 10 am curfew. Like a boss.

Then, the non-travel began.

I picked up the keys to my beach hut (which perfectly matched the colour of my bike - it was fate) and unlocked my destiny. Well, a wooden hut to call home until sunset.

I pulled out a deckchair and settled myself down. Sat on the prom, cup of tea and biscuits to hand, I started the task of doing nothing.

I sat.

I watched.

I listened to the sea.

I warmed under the sun's rays.

I smiled at everyone (and the gazillions of dogs) walking past.

I just smiled.

The best thing about travelling are the people you get to see. The people you meet along the journey or the people who you find at your destination. The beauty of the beach hut was that I got to see both these groups of people, but I didn't have to move to see them.

I'd sent an invitation to various people to join me at the hut during the day. Not everyone could come (which was fortuitous as the beach hut was not the TARDIS) but there was a steady flow of friends and family who came by throughout the day. I was there for the long haul, but I welcomed transient visitors, especially when they brought buckets and spades, tractors for digging, ice creams, chocolate supplies, satsumas and provided much needed coverage for when I went to the loo or for a swim (not simultaneously I hasten to add).

Then there were the people I met along the 'journey'. Although I didn't move anywhere, it was still possible to meet people: the arguing family two doors up who spread all the way along to my territory; the kindred football spirits who we talked to next door; the beach hut owner the other side who's been lucky enough to own it for almost twenty years and has the interior decked out like a junk shop; the fishermen I met by the bike racks who told me what they caught and how cold I could expect the sea to be (not too bad as it turns out).

And to add to this, there were the thousands of people I must've observed throughout the day from my deckchair shaped vantage point: the family of giant bubble blowers at the sea edge in the early morn; the diligent joggers getting it done before the crowds; the teenage gymnasts tumbling off the groynes onto the sand like superheroes; the toddlers straying into the paths of other walkers; everyone on the land train I had to wave to every single time they passed; the old couples strolling hand in hand; and not forgetting ALL THE DOGS!

It was a busy day and I saw so much considering I went nowhere.

After twelve hours being on the beach, I made a last sweep of the beach hut (they provide you with a broom and I've never enjoyed sweeping so much) and locked up for the night. The smile never left my face as I took the bike ride back along the prom. By that time I was a little chilly, tired and covered in sand. But I couldn't have been happier.

Next time I want to go somewhere that makes me happy, I'm going to go nowhere.

Strictly Come Darting

I've talked a lot about love in my last few posts. Maybe I'm getting soppy in my old age. Or maybe in a world that seems to be losing all common sense and crumbling into chaos around us, love is what I want to see more of and so am searching it out on some level.

It was 32 degrees and I was sharing a car with three family members for a little over five hours. You might well ask why: I often asked why when we were crawling through the roadworks on the M6 and into the second hour of the car name game.

The reason was love.

Sure, he drives me crazy and invokes eye-rolling like no one else can dare to, but I can't help but love my dad.

So, my brother and I bought him tickets to the darts. The PDC World Matchplay Darts to be exact.

I was a little terrified. I'd seen the darts on telly and it looks quite rowdy. I am not. As a rule. But Dad loves the sport, so along we went. My dad, my uncle, my brother and I were on an Isham road trip up north to the glitz and glamour of Blackpool.

Finally arriving at our hotel along the prom, we peeled ourselves out of sweaty clothes and changed into marginally less sweaty wear, only to cram into Blackpool Winter Gardens with thousands of other people who were sat closer to me than I've been to my closest friends. And they were already rowdy. I didn't think I'd last the night.

But then something strange happened.

I embraced the cheering, the sweating and the mental maths. I looked around the room and saw the love.

Everyone there was there because they loved the darts. #lovethedarts

They loved the game of darts.

They loved some of the players.

They loved hating some of the other players.

They loved the drama of it.

They loved the spectacle of it.

They loved the community of it.

It was a room full of (sweaty) love and beauty.

I loved the beauty of the Winter Gardens architecture.

I loved the effort people put into their ridiculous costumes.

I loved the signs people were writing to hold up to the TV cameras to their nan / their boss / the general public at home.

I loved the kids keeping quiet on their phones whilst parents let loose.

I loved the disappearing drink dregs near the teenagers who'd been dragged along on the annual family pilgrimage.

I loved the chat between groups of strangers on the long banquet style tables.

I loved the pumping beats at the end of every leg of the games.

I loved the pizza box flipped into the air by the Scottish man practically sat on my lap when his local hero did well.

I loved the flippy scroll banner contraption that I could thrust into the air with joy at every 180.

Everyone there loved it. There was something special about how a collective love sweeps you along. By the end of the night, I was deeply invested in a match between two men I'd never heard of three hours previously and roared along with everyone else in the room at each thud of the dart into the triple twenty.

According to the chant (I told you it was rowdy), you had to "Stand up, if you love the darts!". I was on my feet for most of the evening. It was very easy to #lovethedarts. 

I already knew I would fall in love the next day. We were set for a slight change of pace in the Blackpool Tower Ballroom. There we found scores of people swirling round the famous dance floor. Despite it being a warm weekday afternoon, the tables around the dance floor were all occupied, even though some just had cardigans holding the seats whilst the wearers were otherwise occupied with a waltz. 

I knew I would love it before I got there, and of course I did. I had a swelling of emotion and felt ridiculous trying to stem my stinging nose as I first looked around in awe of the decoration, the ambience but most of all of the people bringing the ballroom to life. 

These weren't celebrity dancers; they were 'the regulars' as the lady on the till had told us. The people who live to come and take to the floor with their friends and partners to the sound of the organ on the stage, for the love of the dance. 

It was beautiful. The dancers were the most beautiful I've ever seen. 

I loved the tables of older folk chatting and laughing and drinking tea and deciding when the music moved them to dance. 

I loved the red velvet backed chairs. 

I loved the smiling lady in the pale blue dress gracing a different partner every tune with her presence. 

I loved the cheeky fella with the psychedelic waistcoat and bow-tie making his partners lose concentration by laughing. 

I loved the elegant lady taking the lead with a visitor who wanted to try their feet in the ballroom. 

I loved the lady dancing with the gent in the wheelchair, easily winning the twirling stakes. 

I loved the fact that the Viennese Waltz is the ballroom version of Mr Brightside where no one is left sitting down when it plays. Banger. 

I loved the two older ladies dancing with each other and obviously having a complete ball. 

I loved the tea and cake I enjoyed whilst watching the dancing. 

I loved sitting on the balcony and watching the hypnotic scene below until my face ached from smiling. 

Our love for Dad had driven us to the town of Blackpool, and I was glad to share its spirit and its fish and chips with my loved ones. 

Blackpool is a place that wears its heart on its sleeve. Everyone there is happy to share their passions and they do so with no qualms or worries about how they might appear to others.

To wear a satin ballgown and matching gloves at 1pm on a Wednesday or to dress as a seagull in a packed ballroom on the hottest day ever in Blackpool comes from a place of love. In the current climate of confusion and hatred, we need to cultivate more love in our daily lives. I, for one, will stand up to being a bit more Blackpool and do what I love.

Messing About on a Boat

This is the tale of a journey of love.

It was not a particularly long journey, nor was it particularly far. But it was full of love.

Life is better by the sea: that's my mantra. Sometimes though, life can also be just as good ON the sea. Under a ridiculously blue sky a few weeks ago, I spent the day aboard a steam ship pottering about the Solent. It was delightful. I loved it.

Everything about the day was delightful. Not exciting, not awesome, but a day full of pure, heart-warming, sunshine-glowing, smile-inducing, wave-making delight.

We made waves before we even set sail. Part of the joy of being on a boat is waving at people, right? So I started many a wave. Waving at dinghies, waving at ferries, waving at yachts (FYI yachts are the least likely to respond, yet I continued waving regardless) all to spread a little joy as we began our adventure.

Well, maybe 'adventure' is a bit strong. We were going on a steady journey aboard a ship to the dark side of the Isle of Wight and back with a picnic. Hardly searingly adventurous. The ship in question was a steam ship called the SS Shieldhall. It's a retired and restored vessel that now goes on jollies around the Solent. You can find out more about it here: https://www.ss-shieldhall.co.uk/

She may not be particularly fast but she is ever so slightly magic. Even the man with the stripes on his shoulders on the bridge told me so. And that's part of the beauty of Shieldhall. You can go almost anywhere on board. You can hang out with the captain and the pilot on the bridge. You can keep lookout with the crew on the fo'c'sle deck. Or you can enter an ice cream eating race with the guys in the heaving heart of the blisteringly hot boiler room. Swelteringly hot down in the depths and they were still up for the challenge of eating their ice cream before it ran away. Of course they were. They are there for the simple joys.

Every single person on board that ship was there for the joy. Yet the crew were there for the joy and the love. Each person who works for or on the SS Shieldhall is a volunteer. No one gets paid. They do it for the love of the ship. That is abundantly clear to see everywhere. No one is looking at their watch to check when they get to clock off. Every volunteer gives their time willingly and wholeheartedly to paint the ship during the off-season, oil its bits, make tea to sell, walk around the deck selling ice creams from a tray (I kid you not), sweat their lives away in the engine room and most of all, talk the sea legs off any passenger on board about the ship and why they love it so.

I loved their love.

It was also clear that they loved each other. The camaraderie between the crew members was sincere and so important to them. When not on duty, the crew seemed to hang out at the lookout point on the front deck. They traded stories and jibes between talking about the ship and teaching us eager onlookers about their work on that day and throughout the many days they'd spent preparing her for voyages.

On a wander up to the bridge, the captain had told me a story about his chance meeting with a professor from Southampton General Hospital. He recounted how a lot of the professor's patients who suffered with various mental health issues, often after retiring or leaving careers in the navy or suchlike, had found solace and, more importantly, purpose in starting to volunteer for Shieldhall. Over the years, the ship has brought people together and has continued to build a family of volunteers. It is truly magic.

I might have set foot aboard Shieldhall with the intention of just messing about on a boat, yet the leisurely journey past the corner of Bembridge and back allowed me a glimpse into a very special community.

Sometimes messing about, eating ice cream before it drips down your chin, waving like a loon to anyone who you might make smile, whooping along with the ship's whistle and all the while basking in the company of some of the most dedicated, knowledgeable and time-generous seafarers can bring you joy that you never imagined.

Steam is what makes the Shieldhall go, but love is what makes it live.

The Least Exotic Cypriot Hotel

When I told a friend of mine that I was going to Cyprus, he said that it was similar to England, just a tiny bit different. Like a tweaked version of the green and pleasant land. A Twilight Zone version if you will. And he was very much correct.

I really felt I was in the Twilight Zone as I first arrived. On stepping onto the coach to take me to the hotel, my ears were attacked by the crooning of Mr Chris Rea regarding 'The Road to Hell'. Not what one wants to hear when arriving tired, disorientated and hungry in a foreign country, late at night and with a coach driver hurtling along winding coast roads. But hey, that's what I got.

Three times.

The loop of the tape (and I say tape rather than CD because the age of the coach and George the driver were both vintage) was so short that during the journey to drop EVERYONE else at their hotels before me, we travelled said road to hell three times.

And I survived.

That must be a good start to a holiday.

On arrival at the hotel, I checked in, writing my address on the form. The hotel desk clerk looked at it with wide eyes. Ten years ago, he used to live two roads away from where I live. He used to drink in my local pub. We chatted about the local 'landmarks'. You could not make this up.

The next day, I got to see more of the hotel and meet some of the residents. Most of the hotel guests were Brits or Germans. The British contingent was huge and there were many older residents and lone travellers. I met 84-year-old Brian from Cardiff, Alvin from Yorkshire and Barbara and Jean from 10 miles away from my front door. They were all a delight to talk to and gave me a lot of advice about the hotel, the facilities in the immediate vicinity around the hotel and key towns and villages around Cyprus. These members of the older generation were a delight to spend time talking to.

Brian told me that he goes to that same hotel, twice a year for three weeks at a time, as do many of the other guests. He calls them 'the gang'. A group of retired folks who meet up in the Spring and the Autumn for a few weeks of socialising, sunbathing and romancing. Yes, Brian had a lady friend joining him the next day. I was beyond happy to hear his tales of courtship and life.

Brian said that they jokingly liken themselves to 'The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel' and he's not far off. They all arrived as individuals and made friendships throughout their stay, and subsequent stays. Sat at dinner, Brian had to say hello to people every few minutes as diners entered or left the restaurant. The next day, a lot of them sat together to sing happy birthday to one of their fold. It was a beautiful community to witness.

The hotel, despite being on the coast of the Med, was very much an enclave of British life. The food could've been served at any British restaurant. Sure, we had Mexican night, Indian night and obligatory Greek night, but there was always a thread of familiarity running through the buffet line. One night we even had roast dinner, complete with Yorkshire puds. Brian advised me to go for the apple crumble and custard for dessert, and boy did he have the down-low on that.

And the mornings brought a cooked breakfast worthy of any greasy spoon cafe. I particularly liked the fact that the toaster had to have this sign added to it halfway through the week, presumably due to the fact that some poor soul couldn't last the holiday without the familiar comfort of cheese on toast.

The hotel was also blessed with a wide selection of activities: quizzes, archery, darts and daily bingo accompanied by mandatory silence and looks that could kill if you dared to break the unwritten rule. Even the hordes of newly formed child gangs were forced to put their games of tag or hide and seek on hold during this sacred time. 

There was so much going on, and traditional ice cream cones on offer throughout the day to enjoy in the gardens or around the pool, that you needn't ever leave the hotel. You could enjoy the Mediterranean weather in a British bubble. 

I said you COULD. 

Of course, I left the hotel. 

Of course, I saw the beaches of Cyprus. 

Of course, I saw the history of the ancient civilisations. 

And here's one of my favourite pictures for evidence. 

But you could read all about that in a guide book. You don't need me to tell you any of that. 

A wise 84-year-old once told me over apple crumble, "Life is about people. That's all there is." and I had to blink away the tears.

I always knew that to be true, but it took a random dinner companion in a hotel that was a little slice of England in the middle of the Med to remind me. I didn't go on holiday to make new acquaintances. In fact, my sole aim when I boarded the plane to Cyprus was to speak to as few people as possible. I needed some quiet time. 

But as soon as I had ten minutes of quiet time, I was ready to have some people time again. Brian and his gang came bursting into my life to allow me a little glimpse into their own daily lives. It has also made me look forward a little more to old age. It might not have been exotic or brimming with Cypriot history, but my face ached with smiles and my heart glowed with companionship as I spent time living amongst the residents of The Least Exotic Cypriot Hotel.

Vow of Silence

Call me anti-social, but for me, part of the appeal of travelling is the time you get to spend alone. Even if I'm on just a day trip, I enjoy spending time in my own company. Especially if I'm out in the countryside with an expanse of blue and white above me.

Last week, I packed my sandwiches, pulled on my boots and headed into a field somewhere just inside Wales. I was to spend a day mooching around Tintern Abbey.

First, I wanted to see it from up on high so I found a path that would lead to what is known as Devil's Pulpit, an overlooking point from where the devil is alleged to have preached to the monks in the valley below displaying a particularly devil may care attitude, even for Lucifer himself. To get to the viewpoint, I had a journey through several landscapes: a forest heathland, rolling grass fields and ancient woodland. And the best thing was that I didn't see another living soul (save a few birds) for close to an hour on the walk. It was bliss.

I passed through gates, followed the signposts and tramped my route with the sun getting ever stronger in the midday sky. My surroundings were so peaceful and so quiet I even felt slightly unnerved at one point. It's not often that you get to feel such solitude. The unnerving moment passed and I continued on, happy in my temporary, open-air hermitage.

The walk was very much worth the effort. By the time I wondered if I'd taken a wrong path or had missed a sign, the latest copse of trees led me up a slight incline to open up to gap in the undergrowth that looked out over a cliff edge and down into the valley below. I was blessed to share the same view that once belonged to the devil. An actual "wow" escaped my lips as my eyes fluttered in panic to take in all the sights of the winding river, the green hills and the ancient ruins, all framed by nature.

I don't think I've ever before eaten my sandwiches with a better view. 

But I couldn't stay there all day. I had other ground to cover. 

I retraced my steps across the various terrains. I was soon back down in the valley, ready to explore a little closer. There were slightly more people here that the none I had encountered on my walk, but I was still enjoying the relative isolation. 

Sure, I looked around the outside of the abbey. It's very grand and architecturally beautiful. But did I pay to go in and read a lot of signs? No, I did not. I don't think the medieval monks would've wanted me to do that. I read up about the former inhabitants of the site. These Cistercian monks took pledges of austerity and silence. I liked their chutzpah. 

They endeared themselves to me further when I discovered their planning requirements: "None of our houses is to be built in cities, in castles or villages; but in places remote from the conversation of men." Amen to that I say. We are often better off without the conversation of men. And when the scenery is as breathtakingly, naturally magnificent as the Wye Valley, what else is left to say? 

A Brief, Bracing Boat Trip

Not all adventures have to be far-flung or extended, back-pack necessary epics. Some can be ad hoc discoveries on your own doorstep.

I like the adventure where you can find some beauty in the most unexpected places. I like an adventure where you can suck in so much fresh, sea air that it feels like your nostrils will freeze. I also like it when there is cake at the end of said adventure.

This is exactly what happened last weekend. And this is how it started:

Do you want to go for a walk this afternoon?

Sure.

Do you want to go on a boat trip this afternoon?

Sure.

Do you want to go to the cafe after for a cake?

Hell yeah.

Yes, the wind chill factor was on a par with the Arctic tundra, but my friend Kate convinced me to walk along the Hamble River and take the short ferry ride to Warsash last Sunday afternoon. I wore ALL my clothes and it still wasn't enough. But we're British so we, and many other we passed, carried on regardless. I'm sure we weren't the only ones who had the promise of cake as a sugary carrot to tempt us along the footpath.

It seems that a short adventure needs a short account, so I shall do my best.

- We walked.
- We waited for the iconic pink ferry.
- We lost visual of the ferry as it bobbed around in the waves.

- We boarded the pink ferry.
- Our bottoms almost got frozen to the metal benches on the ferry.
- Distraction from frozen nether regions was provided by an 8-month chihuahua.
- We walked.
- My nose ran.
- We saw some fancy ducks.
- We explored a half-hidden pathway.
- We stopped exploring the half-hidden pathway when it became a fully hidden pathway.
- We asked some photographers about the fancy ducks - they had no idea.
- We walked.
- We decided to get the next boat back before my fingers fell off.
- We were relieved to see the boat ready at the jetty to head back.
- We were too slow.
- The boat left without us.
- We waited by the shelter.

- We decided it was better / warmer to continue walking.
- We got the next boat back, avoiding the seemingly apocalyptic sky above.

- We rewarded ourselves with some tea and motherfucking cake.

Hidden Hengistbury

This is a little embarrassing.

I generally pride myself on my navigational skills - GCSE Geography don't you know?

But there has always been one thorn in my side, one niggling Achilles' heel in my travelling boots: Hengistbury Head.

I'm a Bournemouth girl, for sure. Although I live in Southampton, "going to the beach" has always meant going to Bournemouth beach. I have been going to one of the beaches along that stretch of coastline as long as I can remember. Digging huge holes in the sand, playing in and out of the water, crabbing on the quayside, eating sandy crisp sandwiches, walking every inch of promenade, and of course swimming until I thought I'd turn into a fish.

I go to many beaches in and around the Bournemouth area, but Hengistbury Head had always escaped me. Not through lack of effort though. Over the past fifteen years or so, I had tried to find it on two separate occasions. It's not that hard to find, one might think.

One would be wrong. This was in pre-Sat-Nav days it should be noted, but that is still no excuse. I couldn't find the bloody place. I remember hitting the coast and just not being able to find the fabled stretch of sandbank leading to the grand headland. Several times, on visiting Mudeford, I was literally a stone's throw away. Farcical! (Although I wasn't paying a ferry fare to get there.)

I had banished thoughts of these failures to the back of my mind and made peace with the fact I was never going to make it. Until New Year's Eve. My friend Kate asked if I fancied an end of year trip to the seaside.

"Do you want to go to Hengistbury Head?"

Yes Kate, I bloody well do.

And so, under the guidance of more seasoned visitors to the Head, I was driven to my destiny.

I mean, I knew I was going to love it, and I did love it. I loved every single bit of it.

Love list:

1) Sheep
Nobody told me there were sheep there.
I loved seeing a flock of sheep being led down a hill as I embarked on my journey.

2) The sea
Of course I bloody loved the sea. What's not to love? You're surrounded by it as you walk up the headland and along the sandbank. I always love the sea.

3) The dogs
There are loads and loads of dogs (with their walkers) everywhere. Got a dog? Take it to walk Hengistbury. Love dogs? Go there to vicariously live out your dog walking dreams with the hordes of hounds already there. (My favourite was the tiny dachshund that I was amazed had got up the hill - shh, don't tell the other dogs I have favourites.)

4) The hill
Yes, it's a steep hill. Yes, it's hard on the legs to push forward. Yes, your lungs burn in the numbingly cold air at the exertion (especially after Christmas excesses). But isn't that the joy? The feeling of being pushed to confront your own existence. There were a lot of runners taking the hill a lot faster than us. Maybe I'll do that next time. Maybe.

5) The end of the hill
When you reach the top of the headland, you are treated to a wonderful view of the sandbank below that reaches towards Mudeford, allowing your eyes to adjust to the moving waves that lap the sand, the screeching gulls overhead and the general colourful mosaic of a British seaside vista. And you know that it's all downhill from there. (Physically, definitely not metaphorically.)

6) The beach huts
The sandbank is filled, crammed, chock-a-block even, with beach huts of different shapes, sizes and personalities. They are their own living entities, jostling for their position facing the sea, or Christchurch harbour, or in some case, both. Some are blue, some are new, some are cracked, some are worn. All are lucky to stand watch over the sea.

7) The Beach House
This is a cafe on the sand spit. It sits on the beach, pride of place, nestled amongst the colourful beach huts. Unfortunately, it suffered a fire recently and so I was unable to experience it fully. However, it's currently still working to provide rejuvenation for tired beach walkers from a small kiosk. My cup of sweet tea and a cheese and onion pasty was a culinary delight. I don't know whether it was because I was tired, or I was cold, or I was very, very hungry, or because of the breathtaking view, or if it was a combination of factors, but, I kid you not, that cheese and onion pasty was the best bloody pasty I've ever had. The best.

It was a very cold day, yet there was no wind. Even the five layers I had bundled on to keep the elements at bay would have been no match to a gusty headwind blowing in off the sea. I was thankful that mother nature chose to let me enjoy my snacks in peace on my first visit to Hengistbury Head. I guess it owed me a treat after the hassle of actually finding the place.

Yet now, due to the law of averages, I fear that the next time I head down to this magical seaside escape, I will have to contend with whipping winds that push me backwards down the hill and send sand into my tea. Bring it on, I say. I think I'll love it whatever the weather.

As long as I can find the bloody place again.