Blandford Baked Goods

One of my favourite ways to pass the time is with a little light low-key tourism. Going to theme parks or the theatre or National Trust piles is all very good, but the best trips are where there are no queues, no brown signs and quite often, in place of a gift shop, you’ll find a well-priced cake in a sandwich bag or a geranium planted up in a yoghurt pot. 

If there is a cake sale or a plant stall within a five mile radius, I can usually sniff it out. So, on a recent expedition into the depths of Dorset, I was on the hunt for low-key fun involving baked goods and garden bargains. 

I’m talking real home made cakes made by real old ladies. I’m talking cuttings been lovingly propagated by gnarled country worn hands. If there’s a computer in sight, I’m not interested. I had a pocketful of shrapnel and the joie de vivre to see what the land around Blandford Forum could offer a tourist like me. My (non-scientific) findings are as follows: 

1) On the drive into the village, my head was turned by a wooden crate stall in a large driveway. Is there any finer sight at the side of the road than some sweet peas in a jam jar? Not even Fleet services can offer that. 

I returned on foot to survey the land and walk the train line. I returned clutching a clump of mint and a geranium with a courgette wedged in my pocket. 

£2.30 well spent. 

2) A Saturday morning stroll into the town seemed unlikely to yield any homemade bounty. And thus, I was delighted to stumble upon a coffee morning in the museum garden grounds. (Side note, every museum should have a garden. (Side note to the side note, the Blandford Museum is excellent, free and has a delightful garden.)) 

Unfortunately, I arrived as they were starting to pack away, but they were kind enough to serve me tea in a cup and saucer combo accompanied by a slice of orange and almond cake. I even had time to snag a small fern from the plant stall and meet a lovely Labrador who I think only befriended me because I was the only one left with cake. Still, I took the attention. 

£4 for tea and cake. 

50p for the fern. 

3) A Sunday afternoon trip to the Larmer Tree gardens would have been perfect if there had been refreshments available. Alas, I had to drive down the road to the Chettle Village Store to forage for sustenance. But what delights they offered. A plethora of vegetarian options. I plumped for a spinach, pepper and goat cheese pastry roll and it was melt in the mouth delicious. Maybe it was the extreme hunger talking but I almost went back for a second. 

£4 for the best of the vegetarian selection. 

4) En route back to base, a handwritten sign proclaiming church cream teas was impossible to ignore. I pulled a handbrake turn and careered down a single track lane. 

Said church are fundraising every Sunday throughout the summer by offer a pop up tea room. Parking in a field then a short walk over a non-existent ford took me to a village hall spilling out onto the village highway with tables, chairs and parasols. I took a seat next to a spaniel and a lovely old gentleman delivered my cream tea (he insisted he would deliver - they were evangelical about playing the tea room roles). 

£7.50 for two scones, cream, jam and a pot of tea. Well, £7 as I’d run out of change but my new waiter friend took pity on me. 

5) Tuesday morning, the excitement was palpable. I was headed to the Coffee Stop in the Parish Hall. I had been told about it by a keen walker I met on the railway line trail the week before, but when we’d arrived (I’d joined him on the pilgrimage) they were closed due to redecorating. Thwarted in my first attempt, I knew I had to attend on the grand reopening. 

The paint fumes beckoned me in and a sea of friendly smiles turned to say hi to this strange face. A lady with no shyness demanded I tell her my whole life story in return for showing me where they kept the milk and sugar. A fair deal. 

Sadly, there were no counter cakes. 

Happily, they had whole loaf cakes on sale. 

I chose a squidgy sponge with raspberry jam running through it and asked for a knife and plates. There was enough to go round everyone but the residents of the village seemed to be on a diet as only two joined me in the cake joy. 

£1 for the tea.

£3.25 for a whole loaf (with some as takeaway). 

50p for a paperback from their extensive book shelves.

6) The ladies at the Coffee Stop had tipped me off about a new cafe in the next village, so the next day, I was back on the footpath. 

The Old Parlour has been lots of things and seems to currently be trying to be lots of things. But to me who’d never seen it before, I loved it. The young lady at the bar served me an orange juice and I’m ashamed to say, I was avoiding the cake. The jam sponge at home loitered in my mind and also, I was aware I was approximately 80% cake at this point. 

But then she said she had some apple cake and would I like some? For free? The lady who makes the cakes had tried a new recipe but wasn’t happy with it, so they weren’t selling it, but I could try it if I wanted? 

If I wanted? 

I’ll be honest, I didn’t really hear anything past “free cake”. 

And, dear friends, it was Dorset apple cake. In Dorset. How could I say no? 

Well, it was delicious! The cake lady is obviously a perfectionist. I couldn’t see anything wrong with it. 

Free Dorset apple cake. 

£2 something for the orange juice. 

Priceless to be a taste tester. 

7) Before heading home, I had to revisit my friends at the Coffee Stop. I had to tell them about my rival cafe visit and the find out how Vivian’s MOT went (a few advisories if you must know). They welcomed me like an old friend and I chatted to a few more friendly faces. They also offered cheese scones hot out the oven. Heaven! A cup of tea, a cheese scone and a thick slice of butter. There really is nothing better. I bid the regulars a fond farewell and promised to pop in if I was ever in the area again. 

£1 for tea. 

70p for scone and butter. 

8) On the route home I screeched to a halt by another home stall. It would be rude not to. I didn’t really need another geranium but when in Dorset and all that. 

My cake crawl through the English countryside was a roaring success. I left with baked goods in my belly, a selection of plants in my footwell and a happiness in my heart only brought about by the highs of low-key tourism.  

A Day of Brilliance around Barmouth

Peace and quiet. Sanctity and solitude. 

Not the things you associate with 150 drummers, so after a weekend of being part of this tribe, it was time to walk the less-trodden path for a day. Don't get me wrong, I adored being part of the Batala takeover of little old Barmouth: I drummed until my ears rang, I hugged more people than I thought I knew, I smiled until my cheeks hurt (despite the photos never capturing it) and I loved every second. 

But the drumming ying needs a yang to balance me out. 

Mild adventure and some time away in nature was much needed. What I didn't realise was how many layers of brilliance the day would keep offering. 

The lovely lady in the gift shop/train station convinced me to buy a return for 10p extra "as an insurance policy" and I couldn't argue with that logic. I'd walked the bridge previously (how could I ignore such a beauty) but was excited to cross it by rail. 

This was brilliant. I couldn't decide which window to watch: the estuary and mountains one side or the beach and sea the other. I endured tennis neck attempting to catch both views. 

The journey across was too short and soon I had to disembark at Fairbourne. On inspection of a helpful noticeboard, I discovered a map indicating the Blue Lake. Can you even call yourself an explorer if this information is presented and you do nothing? 

This was brilliant. An ad hoc side quest steered my boots inland. 

Up and up I walked. Up winding hills, past streams and gardens, alongside fields and gorges. I wasn't scaling the Snowden super-highway like some of my compadres, but I was definitely moving up in the world. 

This was brilliant. Sweating in the spring sunshine as my already tired thighs took me higher up the Welsh hills. At every turn I had to pause to admire the view - absolutely not just to catch my breath. 

The scenery was ridiculous. Sea and sand meeting mountains and forests. And no one to spoil the views. I met exactly four people. Two lovely young people who guided this old biddy with their smartphone skills, a twitcher with whom we shared bird sightings and a long-haired older Brummie discussing her morning gardening and admiration of Freddie Mercury. 

This was brilliant. Saying "Good morning!" to everyone on their own journeys. 

On the way to the lake, craggy cliffs and trees adorned with miniature fir cones guide the route. Abandoned machinery loitered by the stream and signposted the steep drop to the lake. No longer accessible, I had to make do with staring down at the mineral blue water and hoping my dizziness didn't drop me down the chasm. 

This was brilliant. A secret sight shared only by the sheep and singing birds. 

Stumbling back down the hill was easier but no less beautiful. I was soon back in Fairbourne and diverted into the local bakery for supplies. 

This was brilliant. Sticky toffee cake to power me on. 

Train tracks run alongside the road to the beach. Steam was in the air and the miniature railway was full of passengers. 

This was brilliant. Waving and smiling at the kids, big and small, aboard the train as it puffed and tooted towards the shore. 

Crossing the tracks and the sea wall, I was on the beach. Just me. Two specks in the distance were a man and his dog, but otherwise I had the whole expanse of sand and stone to myself. Striding down the shifting shingle, sloshing through the waves. It was glorious. Sheltered by the wind, I settled myself into some pebbles for a brief break and to apricate accordingly. 

As much as I'd have liked to, I couldn't stop forever. I had a beach to walk. Stomping alongside the sand dunes, I headed towards the mouth of Afon Mawddach. Then things got even more brilliant. 

My plan was to loop round the station and walk the return leg. But what spectacular sight greeted me? Only the blooming Barmouth ferry on its maiden voyage of the season. 

This was brilliant. I was getting a boat trip too! 

But no rush. Time for a swift ice cream and to savour the views up the estuary via the bridge. Then my peace was disturbed by the roar of some very noisy planes dicking about overhead and barrelling through the landscape.

This was brilliant. Planes, trains and ferry-mobiles. 

I walked the gangplank (GANGPLANK!) to board the ferry and cross back into town. Then it was more walking uphill to find the panorama walk. My instructions were slightly sketchy but I followed the road and my instincts. 

The route led through ancient walls, antique gates and moss-upholstered steps. Eventually I stumbled out onto a lookout that was the definition of breathtaking. One of the greatest positioned benches ever tempted me in for a rest and another cake break. 

This was brilliant. A perfectly framed postcard view with colours so vivid they made my eyes leak. 

Once I could drag myself away, the route back was shorter but a stray signpost led me down an alternative path, through the landscaped waterfalls and hills of Orielton Woods. 

My return train ticket burning a hole in my pocket, I had to keep walking. I was called back to the bridge as the sun was setting. Dropping my toll to the troll, my feet slapped the boards again as I gazed through the iron girders across the bay. 

This was brilliant. A perfect way to end my (first?) visit to Barmouth with a bridge sunset. 

The next station is a request stop so I got there just in time, sticking my arm out and flagging down the train to deliver me back into town via a longing gaze across the blazing water. 

This was brilliant. Sometimes I'm scared of the brilliant. Whenever brilliant things happen, they seem to be evened out by something not so brilliant that creeps up on me unexpectedly. But not this time. This was the kind of day that made my feet ache with miles covered and my heart ache with contentment. And I'll take that, thank you. Bloody brilliant. 

Keep Playing Until You're Unplugged

Seven and a half years ago, two girls and a springer spaniel walked into a pub. No joke: that's the fact. But it's only the beginning of the story. 

That pub turned out to be The Best Pub in the World. 

The Horse and Groom at Westbury in Wiltshire is the pub in question. You can read about that first visit here: 

http://vintagegnome.blogspot.com/2015/04/the-best-pub-in-world.html

Now it's time for the sequel. 

It was the weekend after my birthday. My 40th birthday in fact. I've been thinking back to my mum's 40th birthday when I was growing up. She was livid when she came home from work and found we've hung banners and balloons from the house. I'm awful at recalling memories (hence the need to record here) but my brain is burned with the act of her ripping the celebratory decorations from the ivy-clad archway. 

I could never understand why she didn't want everyone to know how old she was. Was it a secret that she had been born? Was the ageing process not there for all to see? Her memories, her experiences, her children, her loves, her losses, her grey hairs: surely they gave the game away? Not our banners. We just wanted to celebrate that she'd been lucky enough to live for forty years. 

Instead of balloons out the front of my imaginary house, I celebrated my birthday by being taken on a surprise road trip into deepest, darkest Wiltshire. Dark being the key word on this particular Sunday; about an hour into the road trip, the drizzle descended and visibility was tricky at best. 

Light was thrown on the situation when we pulled into the White Horse car park and I was met with the sight of my waterproof-clad friends. Damp hugs and a quick trek up to "see" the horse completed, someone then made the all-important call. 

"Pub?" 

"Pub." 

A simple descent of the hill leads you to The Horse and Groom, the reason for the trip. 

It then became apparent we were visiting on a particularly important day. Nothing to do with my birthday. That day was the scheduled memorial for the beloved Nigel. 

Now, if you read the previous installment, you will remember my instant love for the harmonica wielding musician that first fateful afternoon of our visit. He was my hero. This was Nigel. 

Jen filled me in on the details she'd discovered when booking the table and enquiring about the Sunday afternoon music sessions. Yes, there would be music, but it would be different to usual. This Sunday was the memorial for the much-loved Nigel. 

Nigel had died a few months previously and this was a chance for his friends to come together to celebrate his life and his music. We had made it back to say farewell to a legend. 

I had no idea how much of a legend he was, but I was about to find out. 

Above the bar, there was a beautiful photo of him in all his glory. He was playing the harmonica and had his utility belt of the instruments on full display. We grabbed a drink to wash down our roasts dinners (delicious and plentiful FYI) and squeezed into the room to pay our respects and enjoy the music. And squeeze in is the right phrase. The room was packed. You could tell how highly thought of Nigel was. People had come from all over to return to The Best Pub in the World to celebrate Nigel and his music. 

We sat with a couple who had moved away from the area but said they needed to come along on this day. They told us their memories of Nigel and we listened with joy and sadness. Then sausage rolls and chicken wings were brought out (The Best Pub in the World remember) and Deefer was thrilled to discover an afternoon in the pub makes punters more generous with their table scraps. 

The stage area was occupied by an endless stream of musicians setting up, playing and telling their own stories of Nigel. It was very special to be allowed a glimpse into his life and the lives of his friends, all based around this pub. They talked about his work as a cabinet maker and how handy he was. Various musicians played instruments made by Nigel himself and gifted to them. He poured love and craftsmanship into all his efforts. I listened to the cigar-box guitars continuing Nigel's legacy and was moved that I got to be there for that special day. 

As the landlady walked past, we talked to her about Nigel. They'd been to plant a tree for him that morning before all decamping back to base in the pub. I love the idea of a tree growing in his memory that may one day produce wood to continue his music. 

She also recalled his last gig there. Just before he died, he wanted to come back and play once more: one last hurrah. He was quite ill so they gave him a limit of a few songs to play. He played past his limit and then some. According to her story, he was still playing hours later and only stopped when he was unplugged. Nigel was the most legendary harmonica player I've ever had the honour to see perform. 

Birthdays always make me feel reflective. Ageing doesn't worry me. I've known people who should have had the opportunity to have more birthdays than they did, and I'm always thankful I get to each milestone. Each year, and in fact, each day we have, to do something, to play something, to create something, is a bonus. We should celebrate the fact that we are alive and participating in this great pub jam of life. Grab an instrument, make some noise and make someone's day. 

Nigel's story is one of perseverance and enthusiasm. And love. He loved his music, playing it, making the instruments and sharing it with his community at The Horse and Groom. 

That pub is a magical place and I cannot believe I was in the right place at the right time again to say farewell to someone I only met once, but who taught me so much through such a small instrument: keep playing until you're unplugged. 

Running Away from Covid

It was the last day before the Easter holidays, a time every member of school staff in the land anticipates. Two weeks of freedom. Better than Christmas (less obligations), better than the summer (less pressure) and better than the half terms (more time). 

Then the black cloud of Covid reared its ugly head. 

My housemate texted me from the other side of the wall with her "positive" news. I wished her well and plotted my escape. 

It seemed extreme to run away but it was the holidays so I was free to roam in my bid to outwit the dreaded virus. And I would probably have adventured somewhere anyway, so why not turn the running away into an enforced holiday? 

Now, I'm not an idiot. I wouldn't have gone spreading my viral load over little old lady bed and breakfasts. I hadn't seen my housemate since her positivity appeared and I was still a negative Nelly (both my general disposition and the LFT readings), so I had a good chance of evading this particular domestic strain. 

I stuffed my bag full of random clothes, reading material and emergency biscuits before heading off into the sunset. 

Now, in the media representations of people on the run, there seems to be a lot of dodgy dealings and sheltering in questionable locations. In homage to this, I booked an Airbnb in Bognor. 

To explain, I was due to be drumming at Goodwood, just down the road, on the Saturday and I bloody love the seaside so Bognor Regis seemed like the obvious choice. My single room of choice was barely bigger than a prison cell but it had a sea view - a sliver to the side, when you leaned out the window past the condensation covered glass and at the end of a wheelie-bin strewn alley, but hey, it was the sea! In fact, the name of my room (yes, it was the sort of establishment that names rather than numbers its rooms) was "Fancy". Reader, it was not. 

Yet the accommodation was incidental: I was there for the location. The weather forecast being kind allowed me ample beach wandering time in the fresh air and away from others. It was cold but bright, and once the sun had warmed up, perfect weather for sitting on the beach and reading. Or finding a cafe on the edge of a park where I could greet all the dogs out for their weekend wanders whilst supping tea from a mug and eating marmalade-laden toast. Or frequenting a kiosk on the beach serving the kids' tea of champions: fish fingers, chips and beans. Did I find these gems? Of course. Did I indulge in these delights? You bet your beach huts I did. 

For a few days I stayed beside the seaside. Walking, pausing, eating, avoiding contact with people, listening, staring and always apricating. The sun kept me company and I basked in it hoping that the rays of vitamin D would irradiate any lingering particles of the coronavirus. I'm not a scientist but it seemed like a good use of my time. 

Morning walks were best. Up and about even before the joggers. Walk until weary in either direction. There's something about a seaside town that I adore. I have a penchant for people watching and the best place to do it is by the sea. And of course, when the people drift away, there's always the sea to soothe you. Yes, the sea is magnificent wherever, but when a grand old pier stretches into it from a shingle beach, magic is abound. 

Walk under it, around it and along it. There's no view of a pier that is ugly. Second only to bridges in my top five human engineering achievements. And Bognor's is a beauty, especially in the spring sunshine. 

Buggering off to Bognor had given me time to be outside and time to think. I had a sunburnt face (never forget to panic pack sun cream). a new favourite pebble and a realisation that I have anxiety issues over Covid. By the time I had to leave, I was still testing negative but I was hoping to go back to everyday life with a more positive outlook. Sometimes life is no walk on the pier but I shall endeavour to store the optimism of a blue sky for rainy days. 

The Run of the Isham Gnome

I run.

I run and I run.

After days inside, sat at the table, watching a screen, opening tabs, closing tabs, crashing the system, rebooting the system, eating toast, wearing cardigan upon cardigan, I run.

It’s the most wonderful journey I’ve ever taken.

I run along the bumpy pavements.

I run across the empty streets.

I run past the evidence of irresponsible dog owners.

 

I run because all that matters is the run.

It’s not the most beautiful run, but it’s my run.

Legs push me forward. Eyes stream in the battle against the wind. Lungs fill with beautiful, beautiful cold air.

I pass the naked trees, still home to pigeons and squirrels. I pass the playground, deserted and desolate in the current landscape. I pass the pub, curtains drawn and door bolted.

I run and I remember that everything is transitory.

Everything moves.

I move.

I run.

 

I run and I think about the future when the trees will be awash with resplendent greenery.

I run and I think about the future when the playground will heave with children screaming in excitement.

I run and I think about the future when the soft glow of the pub spills out onto the pavement.

I run and I think. All my best thinking is done when blood is pulsing to my extremities.

 

My journey continues.

I know where I’m going. Where I always go.

I run to the water.

I run alongside the water and inhale the industrial sea air.

It may not be very far, and it may not take very long, yet, as with all journeys, it is the movement that matters. The propulsion of existence. I exist and I run. 

I run the same route. Feet take the same steps. Eyes take in the same sights.

The broken gate, the wonky street sign, the Mr Men mosaic, the alien sticker on the lamppost, the abandoned scooter, the teddy in the window, the wall with the chunk missing.

I see them all. Every time. Every run.

Yet I run to the water and I don’t know what will greet me.

Tide in? Tide out? Choppy? Still? Swans in? Swans out? Oystercatchers? Sandpipers? Fishing? Beachcombers? Sea glass? Sun? Cloud? 

The transient nature of the sea keeps calling me back.

I run to it.

I run away from it.

 

But I know it won’t be long before the need to run catches me once more.

Turn Around

I dare you to read this title without Bonnie Tyler crooning in your ears.  

That's exactly what I had the whole time I pottered around Hollam Nurseries on Sunday. Maybe it was Bonnie Tyler or maybe it was my friend Kate who had a bad case of topical lyrical diarrhoea. There's a song for every occasion right? 

We were out on our adventures. Not a fully fledged, passport-necessary, hotel-staying, itinerary-organised adventure, but it was definitely further than the dog walk or the supermarket, so I was very excited. 

A mere twenty minutes from home and I was stepping into a field that took me to another world. I could've been in Provence or Tuscany. But I wasn't. I was in good old Fareham. Well, I suppose Titchfield sounds a bit prettier so we could go with that. 

I stepped into a field of sunflowers, or 'tournesols' if we want to be French about it. This is where Bonnie Tyler comes into it. The sunflowers were staring eastwards towards the rising sun, hidden at that point due to the reliable July clouds. Call me uncultured, but I never knew that the French name reflected the fact that young sunflowers turn around to follow the sun across the sky. I must've missed the horticulture lesson during French in school. 

Travel may not be back in our lives just yet, but there are signs that things are turning around, not just the sunflowers. To be able to spend an afternoon with friends (at a distance) wandering amongst the plants and flowers, nodding politely to the busy bees in the summer sun (read: swirling wind with fleeting moments of sunshine) was a step in the right direction. Once upon a time there was light in my life, and a trip to the sunflower fields shows that there still is light if you turn to find it. 

Here are five fun facts I discovered about the sunflowers:

1) The French name is 'tournesol' which literally translates to 'turn to the sun'. Say what you see eh? 

2) Sunflowers are great for pretending you're a pixie. Or a mouse. Or you're in a Rick Moranis movie. You can spend hours hiding amongst the giant foliage playing jungle hide and seek. The kids there were having a blast finding flowers bigger than their heads and promising weary parents that they would carry the equivalent of a tree around the farm. 

3) The mutants are out there. Sunflowers, like humans, come in all shapes and sizes, including mutated poly-headed behemoths, possibly unlike humans. I enjoyed finding those with faces coming out of their armpits, so to speak. I also felt empathy for those sagging stalks, slightly past their best. I tried to cheer up this line of ladies hanging their heads in dismay. 

4) Sunflowers are  really bloody heavy. One alone is quite hefty if you cut a stem with a considerable girth. Multiply that and they soon add up. We could pick ten for our £10 entry and by the time I got to seven, I couldn't feel my arms and balancing them whilst snipping my next victim was quite the struggle. Clearly, this is the reason to have a partner. Or children. Or a well trained dog. 

5) All this adventure and discovery can be yours if you visit Hollam Nurseries. Well worth a visit: copious supplies of fresh air and masses of space to distance yourself from the other pixies on their own sunflower adventures. 

 https://www.hollamnurseries.co.uk/

Supermarket Expedition

It was time for the expedition of a lifetime. I had planned, I had prepared and the butterflies were well and truly holed up in my stomach. My hungry stomach. I had to undertake this expedition. The most important expedition of all: to find food. 

This was THE BIG SHOP. 

I had hand sanitiser. I had bags for life. I even had a list, and I never write a shopping list. 

And I was still shitting myself. 

But this was one journey that was essential. Obviously I was going to try to make sure it was the shortest shopping trip ever, but it was still a trip that I had to make. I looked to Supermarket Sweep as my action plan and headed out the door. 

The first leg was easy. The drive to Sainsbury's (big shop = big Sainsbury's) was a breeze. Despite nearing the hour of five o'clock, there were very few cars on the road. Rush hour is furloughed. 

I like to think of myself as a seasoned traveller, and as I'm British, it's also in my DNA: queuing is no problem. I saw an orderly line and I knew exactly what to do. We snaked around the car park with a good distance between participants. Well, everyone except the one knobhead directly behind me. How do I become a beacon for every mentally challenged selfish cretin who can't follow simple guidelines? The line will not move any faster if you speed up mate. I shot him a look of contempt with just a splash of unbridled fury to suggest it was best to keep his distance. 

Near the entrance, a lovely supermarket assistant explained to me how to use the self-scan so I could zap and pack as I went. I revelled in holding up my friend behind me whilst she explained. Thanking her profusely, I grinned at my follower and shuffled slowly to close up the gap. We still hadn't reached the final turn even with the informative delay. 

Once through the fabled automatic doors, the mission commenced. Up aisles, down aisles, checking round corners, swerving trolleys, giving the evil eye to anyone who tried to invade my two metre personal space, reversing out of potential collisions, remembering the list, checking the list, realising I forgot something off the list, cursing the bloody list. I think it went quite well. 

Imagine you are Pac-Man. Imagine you have to collect fruit whilst dodging ghosts who are trying to trap you in a corner. That is the supermarket experience in this, the time of coronavirus. I tried to collect a cauliflower but I was being closed in on from all sides. Then I realised I had to weigh it. Forget it! I don't need cauliflower cheese that badly. Leave it. Get out. The cauliflower is dead to me. We're living and shopping in a real life goddamn arcade game. My adrenaline was spiking and I hadn't even got to the chilled section. 

I've travelled through Central America but the danger and tension there was nothing compared to this. 

Time was ticking and I had to push on. 

Panic set in and I started grabbing items off shelves wherever I went, list be damned. Pringles? I only eat them at Christmas, but why not? Pop Tarts? I'm not ten and I don't fancy diabetes to add to my list of ailments, but sure! Jesus, I've been vegetarian for thirty years but I think I grabbed a gammon steak.

Past cereals, tinned goods, empty shelves where flour and yeast used to be (I would have to console myself with the excitement of seeing everyone's loaves and banana bread on Facebook later), squash, emergency biscuits, and nearly to the other side. 

I could see the checkouts.

I had almost made it. My expedition was almost complete. I could almost smell the (fresh) air from the car park. 

But then it came to me, like a bolt of inspiration. I could check if they have toilet roll. We have a few rolls left, granted, but it would be nice to have that breathing space, the comfort zone if you will. So, more in hope than anticipation, I rolled the trolley past the household aisle. 

There it was. 

In fine, two-ply glory. 

A whole shelf of Sainsbury's own toilet tissue. 

Praise be. 

I've seen Niagara Falls, lost Mayan cities and the Eiffel Tower all lit up, but this was the most beautiful sight of any of my travels. 

I unceremoniously grabbed, zapped and shoved the holy grail onto the already bulging bags in the trolley (praying I hadn't smashed any of the ridiculously expensive, middle class, organic eggs the depleted stocks had forced me into buying) and I was on the home straight. 

Signing up for the self-scanning meant I could bypass the queues for checkouts and went directly to the pay zone. Scanner holstered, card inserted, PIN number (eventually) remembered and I was done! 

My trolley left a skid mark on the floor as we dashed for freedom. The expedition complete, I was glad I had another adventure under my belt. But as soon as I got home and had scrubbed my hands, unpacked the goods, disinfected the bags, indulged in a little panic cry, had a cup of tea (with emergency biscuits), you can be damn sure that I was checking all the supermarket websites to see if I could get a delivery slot. 

This is one journey I don't want to make too often. 

#StayHome
#StayHomeSaveLives

Passage Through Peartree

I squinted into the bright spring sunshine. My walking mate did the same and snuffled a trademark sneeze, shaking his furry mane. We never thought we would make it to this hallowed ground. He pulled at his lead, keen to continue our travels. So much planning had gone into this journey of a daytime, he didn't want to miss a thing.

We were excitable travellers as we reached Peartree Park. It was a tonic to our housebound, sedentary bones to stretch our legs (of vastly different lengths) and we revelled in every moment of fresh air, despite the whipping wind blowing across the common from the River Itchen. The sky was a cobalt blue canvass across which the gnarled fingers of the trees clawed upwards towards the warming rays.

A ribbon of daffodils ran alongside the church and we couldn't resist following the yellow petal road. My canine companion took joy in tramping through the long grass, savouring the scents and then adding his own flavour to the mix.

The big tourist sites loomed large: on one side the world famous Pear Tree Inn, offering a jukebox and crisps to all (a faint trace of stale lager and cheese and onion still lingered on the breeze). On the other side, the 400 year old Pear Tree church, seeping with history. Literally a location where God calls you one way whilst the devil offers you a seat at the bar. My furry friend and I could not be swayed either way and so continued our own journey. We had business to attend to.

Unexpectedly, we were treated to a glimpse of the natural wonders found in this part of the world. Being low to the ground, my travelling partner jumped first as the giant pigeon flapped towards him. Well, not really a giant, but quite big. The silver beauty waddled across the path to collect his treasure. A Penguin wrapper, I think. He must've felt a natural winged affinity with the shiny plastic. We watched in awe as he flew away, slightly lopsidedly, towards the trees.

Alas, there was no time to dawdle and bask in the glory of mother nature. My companion still had to find a suitable place to answer his own call of nature.

Taking the road back towards home, up the slope that's quite a struggle when your're a chihuahua, we passed a kitchen window. The window flooded us with a pulsing blast of jungle music. We must've been fortunate to be passing on a special occasion or at festival time as the music was loud as well as having some human accompaniment. In a mark of respect for the wishes and values of the local natives, we passed by without comment but with a slight rave in our step. When in Woolston...

On the other side of the road we were distracted by a beautiful vista. The spring blossoms were in full bloom and in the wind, they snowed down on us like confetti. They perfectly matched the transit van to complete the picture.

Our journey was almost at an end. But we had yet to fulfil our destiny. As we walked the final stretch along the suburban streets, I implored the tiny tyrant by my feet to comply. It was only as we reached the last corner, did he start to make the familiar movements. Beneath a vintage, cracked road name sign, he pivoted and twirled and found his spot. Upon a lush bed of dandelion weeds and ominous stinging nettles too close for comfort, he unloaded the package. We had completed the business of the journey.

I never thought I'd treasure the journey down the path that I've trodden countless times so much. Who knows when we'll get to walk these streets of Peartree once again?

Well, probably tomorrow morning as the dog walking schedule dictates.

But who knows what wondrous sights and delightful moments will await us. We are wayfarers wandering through our next adventure. With a trusty poo bag in hand.

The Wonder of the Wander

"Why are you going to Bath?" came the question from everyone I spoke to about my upcoming day trip.

In response I shrugged and thought about it (after at least the fourth time I'd been asked). Then I answered honestly that I was going for a wander; I was going to see stuff. What stuff, I wasn't sure, but I'd know when I saw it. This was the kind of day the word 'mooching' was invented for.

The week before an email had popped up informing me of cheap train tickets.

"Cheap, you say," my brain pondered, and the easy decision was made. I was off on a jaunt.

A jaunt is such a jaunty word. It leads you on a fun, yet not too ambitious adventure. I'm a fan of a mild adventure and this was everything that I look for in a mild adventure. I packed my sandwiches, shouldered my backpack and boarded the cheap train. My favourite type of train.

A good train journey is sometimes all I need for a good outing. Give me the window seat with the countryside dancing past and I don't even need to get off when I reach my stop.

But I did. I was ready to see Bath.

Well, I say ready, but I had no plans. I still didn't know why I chose Bath (apart from the cheap ticket offer), what I wanted to see in Bath, or any idea how I'd spend the next eight hours. It was exciting. I had a blank canvas of a day. I could go anywhere (within Bath); I could do anything. Yet I didn't want to do anything. I wanted to do as close to nothing as possible whilst still doing something. A mild adventure was on the cards.

And so as I arrived at Bath Spa train station, my blank canvas of day started to fill with colour. My feet would take me wherever I wandered. When I got back on the train later that night, I realised how quickly the day built up with tiny, seemingly insignificant moments of quiet joy that knitted together to create a beautiful day in a beautiful city.

Here, I unpick some of the threads that built the tapestry of my glorious free day dedicated to the joy of wandering.

• Bath Spa train station toilets are a Victorian art deco place of beauty. I wanted to take a photo of the white tiles, black iron fittings and green ferns, but cameras are generally frowned upon in public bathrooms. I didn't mind waiting in that toilet queue. 
• Exiting the station to be met by two bright blue anorak-clad tourist shepherds. I must've been their easiest customer of the day. "Why yes, I would like a free map, thank you very much." 
• A walk over the famous Pulteney Bridge where the thing that made me smile most was not the bridge (shocking for me), but this exquisitely adorned florist. The shapes, the colours, the framing and the sunlight made my heart soar high into the blue beyond. 

• Sitting by said bridge to eat the first of my cake-based snacks and watching the dozens of tourists, even on a cold February morn, posing and taking pictures in joy. 
• A crisp morning walk in the eye-watering sunshine to walk the length and depth of the impressive Royal Crescent. 

• Finding the perfect window seat in a cafe for my next beverage to be accompanied by reading the local free paper and people watching. 
• A shuffle through the Green Park Station market to admire the weird food stalls and expansive glass roof above. 
• Marvelling at the sight of a gentleman sat drinking a mug of tea sat in a bathtub-sofa atop a converted lifeboat as it drifted down the canal. 

• The cloud speckled blue sky being dissected by a grey yet rusting industrial bridge I came across on a walk along the canal. 

• The nerdy excitement of visiting a new Picturehouse cinema and settling into a cosy seat for an afternoon feature. 
• Finally discovering the joy of the Bath Bun. I stopped at Sally Lunn's famous eating house (what every house should aspire to) to pick up some of these soft, sweet bread pillows. 
• Following the deafening pealing bells towards Bath Abbey as I left the cinema at dusk, only to find the biggest, brightest full moon over the imposing, honey-coloured Gothic structure. 

• A quick stop in the grandest cinema bar I've ever set foot in to hunker down in a squidgy, cushion adorned armchair to continue my people watching over candlelight. The atmospheric Tivoli Cinema was like stepping into a gold-trimmed scene from The Great Gatsby. 

Bath is a lively and history-laden city and I could've planned to take advantage of more of the tourist attractions. But I preferred my mooching method. It was only one day and it started as a day with no plans. In spite of having no plans, I packed a whole lot of something in. It's a wonder what you can find when you let yourself wander.

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?