The Hostel of the Baskervilles

Baskerville Hall Hotel.

Sound familiar? It should do. This was the source of inspiration for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to write about the infamous hound. Local legend told of a dog-like beast tormenting the local area. Doyle pitted Sherlock Holmes against the hound in one of the greatest mysteries ever written.

When the opportunity to stay in the very same house that the great writer himself frequently visited, I couldn't pass it up.

I was headed to Hay-on-Wye for the literary festival and so needed lodging for the night. Baskerville Hall Hotel looked the perfect fit. I must make it known that I don't think the great author stayed in quite the same level of accommodation as I did. The building was once owned by friends of his, and I'm sure in those times, it was much more opulent. That's not to say it's bad looking now, just that not a lot seems to have changed since then. Since World War Two, the building has had various uses as a school, a health centre and a hotel. All these identities seem to have aged it, and the current hotel/hostel hybrid incarnation has the faded scars of time throughout.

But I loved it.

The carpets were worn, the furniture was mismatched, the decor was dated to say the least. But I bloody loved it. It's the kind of building you would say has 'character' as a polite way of saying it doesn't look good. But 'character' is so much better than shiny taps and magnolia walls. It has life. And past lives etched into every wooden windowsill or faded velvet curtain.



I stayed in a large sixteen bed dorm. It was comfortable and had everything I needed. It even had the reliable inevitability of someone opting to sleep in the bunk directly below mine, despite the obvious availability of ten other beds. When I crept in at gone one in the morning, (that's a different story, not to be told here) it added an extra dimension to my phone-light mission, by challenging me not to stick my foot in the face of the person below me. I bet Doyle never had to deal with that.

My arrival at the hall coincided with a break in the traditional British summer weather. On the final leg of my journey, I had battled against the kind of driving rain that even double speed windscreen wipers can do little about. I had hugged the hedge on corners into Wales hoping I wouldn't meet a tractor emerging out of the gloom. But as I drove up the long driveway to the hall, the rains had stopped and some semblance of brightness adorned the sky. With a touch of end-of-the-world beauty, the sun was juxtaposed with the deepest grey-purple sky above the rich, green hills that frame the site of Baskerville. It was the kind of foreboding view that I'm sure would've sparked Sir Arthur's imagination back in the day.

The inside was just as inspirational. The grand, central staircase led upstairs to a small landing overlooking the entrance hall. Strategically placed on the landing, either side of the fireplace and with a grand piano next door, were two leather wingback chairs. The sort of chairs you can sink into, rest your arms on with a worldly-wise aura and quietly watch the events of the Baskerville Hall Hotel unfold around you. And that's exactly what I did. All I needed was a pipe and a smoking jacket.

Whilst sat there I asked myself what would Sherlock do. And so I watched everyone. The extremely helpful receptionist I had met earlier. The group of American girls arriving late with no booking. The drunk stumbling out of the bar and attempting to initiate conversation with said group. The even drunker friend who escorted him back. The sleepwalker who opened his room door above us, mistaking it for the toilet. The late night dog walker with her tiny pug, for whom nature must've called in the early hours. Baskerville Hall Hotel seems to attract a cacophony of characters. Maybe even enough characters for the next instalment of a famous mystery.
Maybe the howling I heard later in the night was that very same pug, or maybe it was the sound of a hound that used to roam these grounds.
Maybe some mysteries are best left mysterious.

The Secrets of Rathlin Island (Part Two)

Okay, okay. I give up. I can't hold the secrets any longer. I'll tell you about Rathlin as long as you act surprised when you get there. And you should. It is beyond worth it.

I mentioned in my previous post that I hired a bike to see the island. One of my better decisions. Firstly, two wheels allows you to cover much more ground than two feet. If I had more time there, I would've taken more pleasure in walking some more of it (there are many areas, some of which I explored - and got lost in - where you can only venture on foot). But my time being limited, the bike allowed me to see more of the incredible scenery as I whizzed past. Which brings me to the second bonus of the bike. Some of the paths, especially those en route to the southern Rue Lighthouse, are practically perfect for bikes. The road twists and turns past the mirror-like lochs so you can coast down through bends like a racer. The sheep slowly turn their heads with a look of contempt. I expect they've seen it all before. It's a good job that sheep were my only company as I think, for the first time since I had spokey dokes on my bike, I let out a 'Weeeeeee!' as I navigated a descent. As for the hills, they're just right. They give you enough resistance to push you into a challenge as you climb them, and then you can release the lactic acid in your overworked legs as you sail down the incline. It's perfect.

All the cycling led me to Rue Lighthouse. There, I ditched my bike at the fence and headed down a gravelly path. My reward at the end was azure blue sea sparkling in the unrelenting sunshine; a carpet of luscious green grass being grazed on by sheep, cows and their babies; the remnants of a stone building surveying the sea, the lighthouse and the cliffs beyond; and then sat in the shallows of the shore and on protruding, craggy, black rocks were a colony of grey seals. At first I didn't see them because they blended in to their perches so well, but then they started bending like bananas and their coal-like eyes watched me as I navigated a safe path closer to them. I sat a comfortable distance, so as not to alarm them and unpacked my picnic. Sat watching this scene of nature at its finest, eating my goodies, I felt like I'd been transported to the pages of a Famous Five book; it was enjoyment at its purest. And when the seals started chatting to each other, I could've been on another planet. The fact I went a few hours without seeing another human was bliss.

That feeling of being part of Enid Blyton's world continued as I made my way back to civilisation and to Rathlin Island Hostel. It's the only hostel on the island and has only been open a year. But again, at the risk of boring you, it's perfect.

Patsy welcomed me in and gave me the tour. She was so lovely and friendly, and that continued throughout my stay. When we ran into each other as I was returning to the ferry later, we chatted like old friends. As for the hostel, it was clean and comfortable with a free breakfast: everything you need. But it's the location that sets it apart. To watch the sun set behind the cliffs, across the stunning sea was a delight. And then to wake up to the same sparkling sea out of the bedroom window was like no other place on Earth.

Whilst the morning air was still crisp, I took another walk. I once again passed the seals in the harbour and bade them a good morning. The walk I took then up to the Old Coastguard Station showed me another side of the beauty of the island. And this morning, the winds had dropped and, for a moment, I seriously felt like I was the only human who existed. The sights, sounds and cool spring air literally took my breath away. It seemed like magic was in the air.

My only negative of my trip was that unfortunately, I was too early in the year to see the renowned Puffins. Not to worry; it gives me the perfect excuse to return another time. Not that I need an excuse.

The Secrets of Rathlin Island (Part One)

When one of my best friends moved to Northern Ireland, I did some reconnaissance to see which places I should visit when I went to visit her. The place that interested me most, almost with a magnetic draw, was Rathlin Island. It's an L shaped island off the Northeast coast of Ulster with a population of about eighty people. My mantra being 'Life is better by the sea' and with my fascination of the magic of islands in general, I knew I had to visit. Last summer, when I first ventured to Northern Ireland, I ran out of time to set aside enough to visit the island. On my most recent trip, I made it there.

Fortune was smiling on me as I boarded the ferry from Ballycastle to Rathlin. The weather had stayed fine after the Easter weekend and the sky was blue with a thin scattering of wispy clouds. It was still cold, but the sun was shining which made it the type of day the air catches your breath in thankfulness that you get to enjoy this day on such a beautiful planet. The ferry was industrial; I shared my viewing spot on the deck with a road repair truck and its crew that were heading to the island. I spent the entire 45 minute journey at the edge of the boat, feeling the salt-spray on my face and squinting into the sun at the island getting ever nearer as we jumped the sapphire blue waves. The crossing wasn't calm, but the rhythm of the waves was life affirming as I kept my balance with no hands. When I needed to lean, I grabbed hold of the cold, weathered metal of the side of the boat. Hours later, I could still smell the metallic tinge of the seafarer lingering on my hands.

I had a hunch that it would happen as soon as I saw it, but then as I set foot on Rathlin Island, I knew it: I had fallen in love with the place. It was love at first sight. But then I kept discovering hidden gems and tiny foibles of my dear amour.

I skipped off the ferry, full of the joys of a spring adventure. I strolled through the harbour area and past the sparkling bay edged by white stone and seaweed. As I passed people they said hello; even the two drivers who passed me waved. I stopped in the tiny museum on the side of the bay. The lady was so helpful and welcoming and suggested I head up to the cycle hire to increase my adventuring capacity. The cycle hire on Rathlin Island is basically a lady called Jennifer who operates out of her garage. She was also very friendly and gave me lots of tips of where to go and what to do. I had to check with her twice when she told me I could just leave my bike at the end of a path when I had to continue on foot. Life on Rathlin isn't concerned with petty bicycle thefts. Where everyone knows everyone, who's going to steal?

It was stood by her garage that I bore witness to a very secret resident of Rathlin. I was fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of the famous Golden Hare (no, I'd never heard of it before either). Nonetheless, I was enthrallled by the little fella. I had to use Jennifer's binoculars and have her friend talk me through exactly where to look, but I found him! He's a handsome hare with a light coat and blue eyes. It's a genetic anomaly only found on Rathlin, and he doesn't appear that often. They told me the Countryfile team staked out the area for a good length of time and still failed to catch sight of him. And here I was almost stumbling across this secret! He sat up and looked just like Peter Rabbit.

And from then on it got even better. I haven't even told you about the cycle routes that take you into another world, the hostel that has the best view to wake up to and the noisy residents of the harbour. Maybe they're for another tale. I almost feel like I shouldn't write about my time on Rathlin because it was so perfect and magical. I don't want to spoil the place by sending everyone there, but at the same time, its tranquility, natural magnificence and the friendliness of the residents there deserves to be experienced by people. It was just the positive opportunity I needed at that point and I loved every second of it.

The best pub in the world!

On Easter Sunday afternoon, my friend Jen and I (ably accompanied by the ever-wonderful Deefer the Springer Spaniel) stumbled upon a little slice of magic in the Wiltshire countryside. Many pubs are good; it goes without saying. Some have small flashes of genius or touches that edge them closer to perfection. I don't take this statement lightly, but I think, in that particular moment in time, the universe conspired to reveal to us a path to public house utopia, and so we found ourselves in the best pub in the world.

As with a lot of momentous discoveries, we didn't intend it. After our exciting explorations at Imber village, we were in need of refreshments and a space for Deefer to run in. We were headed up to the Westbury white horse whilst keeping our eyes peeled for a country pub we could stop in. As we neared the turning for the white horse, a wooden sandwich board caught our attention. It was a small sign, but it irrevocably changed our lives. The sign read 'The best pub in smiles'. We scoffed at the pun, rolled our eyes and threw caution to the wind to follow the sign. We drove into the car park and that's where the magic began to unfold before our very eyes. I cannot stress this enough: it was like veils of perfection being whipped away in front of us at every turn. So many little details combined to make it a wonderous place. (So much so that I now wonder, if I were to return, would it still be there, or was it simply a figment of our imagination?) 

Allow me to lead you through the stages of discovery that meant The Horse and Groom at Westbury is the best pub in the world. 

1) There was a garden. With grass. And trees. And a stream at the end. And benches. It was a tad cold to sit in the garden, but I logged the information for future reference.

2) On the way in, there was a sign saying dogs were allowed. With well behaved owners. It was obvious we were on the same canine wavelength. On entering the pub, we found Deefer had two inquisitive, furry friends for company. There were also dog treats available (for a small donation to charity) at the bar. We were all amongst friends.

3) We had spotted a sign outside saying that there is live music every Sunday afternoon. Seemingly, we had pitched up right on cue. Our first sight as we passed through the doorway was of three men noodling on a variety of instruments. We took a seat in the bar directly opposite the 'stage' area. The musicians were billed as a blues, rock and country group, and that's exactly what we were treated to. There was a singer who beautifully growled his way through a range of songs, some I knew, some I didn't, but all I enjoyed. A guitarist who had a few more years of life experience under his belt gave us plenty to riff along to. And then there was the third musician...

4) This man was harmonica player. The harmonica is my weapon of choice; I quite terribly attempt to eke a tune out of mine. This means I am a sucker for any song adorned by a lonely wail of the 'monica. This man was a king of harmonicas. He coaxed blindingly bluesy riffs out of his to accompany the others. And he had a few harmonicas to choose from. I kid you not, this man had a harmonica utility belt: about eight of the blighters lined up along his waistline. It was as if Batman had branched out in his superhero capacity. This man was a true harmonica hero in my book.

5) They were serving food. We were starving and bracing ourselves for the worst as it was way past lunchtime on Easter Sunday. The lady at the bar cheerily told us they were serving food all day. I looked down the menu and my heart sailed as I found several vegetarian options. Being a vegetarian can often be a minefield. But here, in the best pub in the world, there were choices. And good choices. And when my choice was brought to the table, it tasted good too.

6) Alongside the condiments on the table sat a small box. It was a box of quiz questions. Jenny and I looked around, and on each table was a different box. My eyes widened with joy. Each table had a different box of trivia: Trivial Pursuit, travel questions or others of the sort. Who doesn't love a quiz? Such a simple idea. What a nice thing to do.

7) By the menus at the bar was a box of spare reading glasses for the convenience of all. By the door was a pile of blankets for the hardy folks who want to brave the garden. It's those little touches that give this pub the edge.

8) We sat with full bellies, quizzed out, with dogs by our feet and being serenaded by a fantastic group of musicians. Just as we thought it couldn't get any better, the man from the bar strolled over to us and handed us a tambourine and a percussion shaker (of the extra loud variety) and looked at us encouragingly. We were being invited to join the party! And join we did. We played along (as much as our musical ability allowed us) and smiles of joy spread across our faces. We laughed with the gents at the table next door to us and then went on to share some music anecdotes with our new friends. One of our comrades was the father of the singer in the group and his pride for his son beamed out of him to cheer us all even more.

Eventually we had to leave this pub paradise. Deefer needed a run and we had a long journey ahead to get home. But the smiles that we had been given in that magical place never left our faces for the whole journey home. It was a very opportune discovery, a legendary story for us to remember, and most definitely, the best pub in smiles.

The Crowded Deserted Village

An oxymoron, but no less true.

This story begins in 1943. Just before Christmas, the residents of the village of Imber, in the middle of Salisbury Plain, were requested to leave their homes. The MOD needed to use the village for training purposes as World War Two developed. The residents were originally told they they would one day be able to return to their evacuated homes.

That never happened.

The result is that somewhere in Wiltshire, miles from anywhere, surrounded by barbed wire and military warning signs, there is an empty village which is stuck in time. The army have continued to use the village; some of the original houses and other buildings abandoned in the forties are now joined by a number of purpose-built shells of houses for various training purposes. It is still an operational facility. But on a small number of days each year, the village is reopened for public visits.

We visited on Easter Sunday which meant that the place was teeming with visitors. I had been expecting quite an eerie location, but the swarms of families meant that it felt more lived in than many housing estates I've dared to pass through. I was happy however with the number of canine companions accompanying their owners. Dogs of all shapes and sizes joined the crowds on the exploration mission. I can't blame people for joining me in wanting to visit this slice of history; Imber is a unique story and an opportunity to travel back in time.

A visit to Imber allows you to see some of the buildings and locations that formed part of the everyday lives of the people of this village back before their lives were irrevocably uprooted. But as we wandered around these physical markers in time, a more interactive form of time travel was clear to see all around us. We had travelled to a time before the dreaded killjoy of  'Health and Safety'.

Yes, we were on a functioning military training location (albeit one on a bank holiday hiatus). Yes, we could wander in and out of many buildings that had questionable standards. And yes, we found discarded debris of plastic shells, tin cans and cracked glow sticks littering the floors. But no one was around to warn us of any dangers or guide us as to which precautions to take. We, and by 'we' I mean the general public, were left to fend for ourselves in this giant playground of danger. It was like having a whole village as an adventure playground. You can explore shells of houses by ducking through old timber door-frames; you can climb well-worn stone stairs to reach rickety, creaking upper floors; you can peer out of the gaping hole that once was a top floor barn window with nothing to warn you that it's possible you could hurt yourself if you fell out. The risks we took!

I took great heart from watching the families run around this odd, time-travel playground. This week I had heard a report on the news about how children didn't play outdoors as much as they did in the past. But here was a little slice of common sense prevailing in the most random of places. A couple of times I heard the excited calls of make-believe battles: kids hiding from their playmates in preparation to jump out at them at an opportune moment, with a blatant disregard to any dangers that might befall them. At one end of the village, a giant, fallen tree added another dimension to the playground. The kids (and adults, to be fair) swarmed over it like ants. Who doesn't love to climb on a tree?

The journey to Imber took us back in time in more ways than one. The echoes of the people who once lived there are etched on the worn walls and the surrounding landscape. But they are joined by the spirits of the more recent visitors. It is a place where your inner child can play like it used to. I hope Imber forever remains a playground for the inner child of all who dare to climb its walls.

Brighton Rock (and Roll)

Brighton. The scene of many lazy, sunny days sprawled on the famous pebbled beach.

If you want to see this Brighton, I suggest you do not follow my steps, and avoid a trip to the Sussex city in February. I was there for 23 hours and it rained solidly the whole time. The WHOLE time.
But hey, I'm British, so I persevered. And I'm pretty sure I made the most of my time there. I may have returned home with cold, soggy socks but they were well-travelled soggy socks.

The reason for my trip to Brighton was to attend the Ryan Adams show at the Brighton Dome Concert Hall. Without getting too embroiled in one of my favourite pastimes of fangirling over this incredibly talented musician, it was one of the best shows I've seen in a long while. But it wasn't just the music that made the visit to the Dome so enjoyable. I had heard how beautiful the building was from many people; to see it for myself was a real treat. The entrance foyer alone is a work of art. It wears its Art Deco legacy well and even the little details adorning much of the building make you feel like you're getting a glimpse into the past.

Earlier that day we had explored the famous Brighton Lanes. This also felt like a trip backwards in time as we darted down the cobbled alleyways, ducking into almost forgotten shops such as antique jewellers and milliners. Hoods up in an attempt at protection against the stubborn rain, we jumped puddles to get to newer additions to the constitution of The Lanes. Dog accessory shops and speciality cupcake bakers have found a fitting home in this part of the city. I'm not sure which I enjoyed looking at more: the ridiculously beautiful works of art that are actually creamily delicious baked goods, or unbelievably cute dogs dressed up to the nines in the latest fashion trends. One French Bulldog was sat so still in the middle of a shop that I thought they even had dog mannequins before he bolted out the door to retrieve a tempting bone.

As darkness swept in, helped in no small part by the dark clouds and driving rain, we headed for the beacon of light that is Brighton Pier. Stuck out into the churning English Channel, it beckoned me with its teasing neon lights, fairground music and the wafting smell of freshly fried doughnuts. Running along the seafront, we didn't seem to move anywhere very quickly. The wind was so ferocious that it was like being in a wind tunnel; I'd long given up on my brolly but had struggled to even put it down in the horizontal wind conditions. After much fighting against Mother Nature, we bundled into the glowing warmth of the amusement hall. I was just about aware of the flashing lights and jingling sounds surrounding me; I couldn't see much as every inch of me, including my much-needed glasses, was covered in rain. I think I'd have been as soaked if I'd have gone for a dip under the pier.

Still, there was money to be won, so we had to focus. I changed up 30p into the familiar pot of bronze tuppences. We threaded our way through the crowd to search for machines ripe for us to pick some winnings from. I won some. Then I lost some. Then I won some more. Then I lost the lot. Gah. Big corporations win again; I'll never see that 30p again.

But fear not. On the way out, before heading back into the incessant rain, I paused at a sweetie shovelling game. I wished my 20p luck as I inserted it into the slot. With baited breath, I pressed the button to load up the digger arm. In what seemed like slow motion, the arm released the sweets and they tumbled into the winning chute. Winner! I collected the booty (two fizzers, refreshers and two lollies) and stuffed them into my soggy pockets.

I think I left Brighton Pier richer than I arrived. I loved the thrill of the gamble and 50p was well worth the experience. And the sweets just topped off the arcade fun. That's the Rock 'n' Roll spirit!

Sexy cats!

If those sexy cats got your attention, be patient as we'll get to them shortly.

There was once a time when I would never have dreamt of driving the 450 miles plus from Southampton to Leeds and back for the weekend. But I feel that my perspective has changed. After driving a good four hours a day when we made our way across America, I wonder what stops me from doing it around the homeland. About half way down the M1 on my return leg from Leeds, the realisation hit me. Like a thousand looming brake lights in my windscreen.

Traffic.

In the USA, travelling between towns and cities is relatively stress free. The only traffic we ever hit was the swirling, hellish vortex of the Los Angeles road network. The rest of the time we were coasting down the open road. This feat is not so easily matched in England's green and pleasant land. But to be fair, the roads were pretty kind to me. A Saturday lunchtime drive up to Leeds spared me any traffic headaches. It was only the Sunday evening return when the motorway snarled up.

The reason for my expedition was to attend Thought Bubble Comic Con as my brother's wingman. Whereas my graphic novel knowledge is limited to film adaptations, his is encyclopaedic and lovingly, artistically worshipping. I arrived Saturday afternoon to find him wide eyed with glee, arms laden with bags of purchases and freshly signed prized posessions. With a childlike joy, the words to describe his day at the convention tumbled from his mouth like pages from a sketchbook. My brother never apologises for this unbridled enthusiasm for his passions. And I love him all the more for it!

Sunday morning, before the dawn dew had lifted we were trekking towards the convention for a packed day. First on the list was getting a special edition poster from some guy called Jock. This meant queuing. Queuing in the cold. Queuing for half an hour and then another hour because the fella we were waiting for hadn't arrived yet. When he did arrive, he started the day how one presumes he ended the previous night: downing a bottle of Smirnoff Ice. Who says comic books are for nerds?!

Our time in the queue gave me an insight into the comic world. It was like Disneyland for geeks. People dressed in weird and wonderful costumes (it's not often your Sunday starts with an 8 foot metal soldier sauntering towards a tiny, toddler Hulk) and queues for everything. The people around us traded stories about signings they'd been to the previous day, compared victories they'd had in finding a long-yearned for issue and shared opinions on a whole range of topics. I was so out of the loop that I couldn't even see the loop.

So I left my wing-manly duties and went wandering. Away from the big-hitters of the comic world, I found more to explore. There were less queues for a start. I browsed meticulously drawn comics on a whole range of subjects. It was astounding to see how committed so many are to this art form despite reaching limited commercial success. Amongst my favourites were a touching poetry comic book about a bus stop and a range of posters and books exploring animal sounds in a variety of languages. I even put my hand in my pocket to buy two mini comics: a story about a car journey and a heroic platypus.

Later that afternoon we treated ourselves to a seat in a lecture theatre to watch a sketching spotlight. Four amazing artists took it in turns to put their drawing skills under the camera and talk about their experiences and opinions. It was fascinating and hilarious. Three of the four sketched incredibly skilful, detailed characters from their work. I have such respect for their vision and how they use their skills to realise that vision. One of the artists was Natasha Allegri. Being a novice, I had never heard of her, much less seen her work. She took a different tact to the others. Sheet upon sheet of paper she filled with sexy cats. Sexy cats in a variety of poses and shapes. They were cute and naughtily funny, and she was having a ball. So were we as the audience. 

At the very end of the day, as the stewards were trying to shepherd us out we found Natasha! And she was still signing. My brother asked her if she could draw a sexy cat for him. She happily obliged. Then he asked if she could draw one for me. I turned into a complete fangirl and got starstruck by this woman I'd never even heard of a few hours ago. She was so sweet and drew a whole page of sexy cats. Then, I presume it was her fiery artistic temperament, declared them to be not very good and said she could do better! I thought they were all ace, but I didn't argue and we came away with three sheets full of those fiendish felines. When I look at them now they represent such pure, random joy and remind me of an equally random weekend in Leeds. 

Every weekend should feature a sexy cat somewhere.