The alternate reality of Guernsey

Being a thrifty, bargain-hunting sort, when I saw an offer for a day trip for TWO people to Guernsey for only thirty quid, I knew I'd soon be sailing south from Poole, with my good friend Jen along for the adventure. Special mention to Condor Ferries for having the most unexpected, tongue-in-cheek signage of any big company that I've seen.

A three hour skip across the English Channel brings you to the Channel Islands. A day trip being as it is, we only had a little over three hours before we had to ready ourselves for the three hour return journey north. It was a three-hourly segmented day. So, the big question was how best to spend three hours ashore as first time visitors. It was a challenge, and I thrive on the pressure of a challenge. But the thing about Guernsey is, that there seems to be a lack of pressure around.

Life on the island seems to move at a more sedate pace. As we got onto the bus to take us to the boat, Jen and I realised that we were considerably the youngest passengers (something that doesn't happen very much any more). We were surrounded by the older generation. Everywhere that is except in our wallets. Guernsey (and the Channel Islands in general) have their own form of currency. And on said banknotes, our dear Queen Elizabeth II looks startlingly younger than the reality. It's like they're stuck in time.

This was a theme that continued to appear during our short trip to the island. Guernsey in general is not too different to the mainland, but there are small details that are slightly...off. It was like being in an alternative reality. An alternative reality loosely based on Enid Blighton novels.

A distinctive feature of life on Guernsey is the 'Hedge Veg'. You can't go far along the road without seeing a small box offering excess vegetable, fruit, dairy or floral products for sale (honesty box ready to collect the money). It's such a lovely idea and the variety of goods on offer was very exciting to see. Some were lone boxes outside a house and some were long rows of offerings in a lay-by. It was just a shame that we were passing them on the bus, so that gave us limited opportunity to stop and shop.

Speaking of the bus service, I was very impressed. It cost just £1 for any journey, any length. As such, we paid our fare and took the seat on the bus that loops the island. Our own hour-and-a-half tour for a quid. Can't say fairer that that. And if you're looking for where to get on and off, you look for a bus stop right? Not on Guernsey. Here, there is just a big, bold word on the ground. Does the same job I suppose, just eliminates the risk of walking into a pole. Guernsey, you are very wise, in an alternate reality way. 

As we're on the subject of public services, the differences continue with the post service. On Guernsey, the post boxes are blue, not red. And the craziness doesn't end there. The phone boxes are yellow. Madness.

Once we got off the bus, we headed into the town centre. We passed buskers, but not as I've seen them before. This was corporate busking. Each busking spot had a gazebo, sponsorship signs and an amp. I have very high standards when it comes to busking, and this was just not right.

Past the main stretch of the high street, with the musical accompaniment, we started to feel alone. There were still shops: clothing shops, pet shops, hairdressers and tat shops to name just a few. All normal in that you might think. But they were all closed. In the middle of the afternoon. On a Tuesday. In the height of the Summer season. It was like a ghost town. It was all a bit odd, and we were relieved to rejoin the main throng of shops. Just don't get me started on the HMV branch that seemed to be located in an old medieval church.

Thankfully, some things were normal but extraordinary in their beauty. Guernsey has many beautiful beaches and harbours. We didn't get to explore many of them, but it was good to get a whistle-stop tour so I know where to go when I return - Ladies Bay, I have my eye on you. We managed to get a walk on the sand at Havelet Bay, which had to tide me over for beach exploration.

I shall endeavour to return to the Channel Islands now that I've had a taster, although, on the subject of taste, I missed out on tasting any Gache (prounounced 'gosh') so that's another reason to return. To find out more, we'll have to search the internet - with the Guernsey addresses ending .gg - see there really is no end to this crazy alternate reality.

First visit to Paradise

For some reason, I had never been to Gran Canaria before this summer. That might not sound so absurd, but the fact increases in absurdity when I add that my mum has an apartment there. 

She always said that I should go. She offered me use of her place. She talked it up constantly: it was her "Paradise". 

Maybe that's why I was so reticent to explore it for myself. It was mum's ideal. And I had imagined her apartment to be just like her house, but concentrated into a one bedroom apartment. I need to point out here that my mother doesn't know how to do anything demurely or schematically. Minimalism is not in her vocabulary. She is a maximist. 

There were other reasons for not going, but I won't go into those here. Suffice it to say that all the hurdles had disappeared and I was packing my backpack - no need for suitcases when you'll be wearing shorts and t-shirts all week!

Gran Canaria was just what I needed. The weather was incessantly hot. My mum's apartment has a view of the ocean and a pool within a two minute walk from the sun-lounger on the balcony. I was never far from the coast in the week I was there. Altogether now: life is better by the sea. 

I was in need of some relaxation and warmth. And I got both. In some ways I felt like I was not making the most of my holiday as I wasn't rushing around in my usual frenetic way to pack as much in as possible. But as I stared out at the ocean one evening from the balcony I realised that all the nothing was very worthwhile. Sometimes we need to just do nothing. 

Maybe it's because I'm getting older, or maybe it was the heat, but I did a lot of sitting in Gran Canaria. I quite enjoyed just sitting if I'm honest. I also did quite a lot of thinking. Often these activities were simultaneous. In my times of contemplation I whittled my holiday down to many statistics. Some of which I shall share now:

8 days in Gran Canaria 

6 days of swimming in the sea 

4 novels read

2 bikinis worn (a personal milestone) 

4 cockroaches shrieked at 

1 cockroach caught  

2 bats watched in flight 

1 festival flotilla witnessed 

The part of the festival I was lucky enough to witness took place on the second day of my trip. It was part of Fiestas del Carmen. This is a festival that honours the Virgin of Carmen. She is the patron saint of fishermen, and seeing as this is one of the main industries on the Canary Islands, and in the area I was staying in particular, she is a pretty big deal.

The festivities go on for weeks, but the part I was lucky enough to witness was one of the most bombastic parts. A flower-strewn effigy of the Virgin is taken to fishing boats in the port of Arguineguin. There, she boards one of many boats. She is then taken as part of a colourful, flag-covered flotilla of fishing boats, ferries, yachts, speed boats, ribs, jet skis and any other sea-worthy vessel in the area, along the coast to Puerto de Mogan. 

We had settled down to watch the excitement at El Faro, the restaurant at the foot of the lighthouse that gives the restaurant its name. By the time the heaving, beating heart of the flotilla arrived (late, obviously - the Spanish adhere to their own timekeeping), I was pretty excited. I heard them coming before I saw them. All the boats were playing music and honking horns. Every inch of deck on every boat was used by passengers. How the accompanying coastguard didn't have an anxiety attack, I'll never know. 

It was like a sensory overload to watch the sea of boats sail past. There were so many that at times it was a wonder that they didn't bump into each other. In fact, I reckon it would've been physically possible for me, sat at the end of the protruding harbour wall, to walk across the boats to the opposite harbour side, such was the density of vessels in the water. It was amazing. Music was pumping out from various boats and everyone was dancing or shouting or waving or generally celebrating. 

My hosts told me several times how the Spanish know how to celebrate. I could see this clearly that afternoon. It's clear how important the sea is to the people in that coastal community and this is the perfect life-loving celebration and religious acknowledgement of all that the sea can offer and the perils it can bring. I hope Carmen continues to keep them all safe. 

That afternoon, I returned back to the apartment well fed, in both food and local culture. At first, I thought I'd seemingly wasted my afternoon sat in one restaurant for close to five hours. But then I realised that sitting should not be the enemy. When you can soak up the activity happening around you, and as such become part of the kaleidoscope of life, it's never a waste of time. 

Another of my sitting sessions brought a different kind of spectacle. I had taken an evening walk down to the beach to sit on the sand and watch the day disappear. As dusk took hold, I saw two swooping shapes above me. My initial presumption that they were birds was soon superseded when their aerial acrobatics became more dynamic that any birds I'd seen. It was, in fact, a pair of bats. They were diving and soaring with breakneck speed, presumably on their early evening buffet hunt. 

I sat there for almost an hour, captivated by the show they were putting on. As they dived increasingly closer to the ground as the light faded to almost darkness, I was oohing and ahhing as much as I have for any firework display. Nervous but joyful laughter escaped from my mouth as they dared swooping lower and lower. 

A Spanish family passed by and stopped to watch with me for a while. The kids were almost as excited as the dad to see "Batman", one of the only words I could distinguish from their Canarian chatter. In my broken Spanish, we had an excitable conversation. FYI 'bat' in Spanish is 'murcielago'. Another important word to add to my repertoire. 

For a while, I tried to document the moment with a photo. I don't know if you've ever tried to take a picture of a bat or two in mid flight, with a poor quality i-Pod, in the failing light, but it's not as easy as it sounds. 

Trust me, the back splodge is a bat. I may not ever make a wildlife camera operator, but I had fun at the time. Photo taken, I resumed the sitting and watching. Sometimes doing nothing can bring the most unexpected enjoyment. When the darkness had made it impossible to see the bats any longer, I made my way back through the complex towards my home on the hill. I passed people heading to restaurants for dinner and a disco drawing the crowds. I reflected that given the choice, I would always choose sitting on the beach watching nature's entertainment. 

Gran Canaria gave me many treats whilst I was there. I can now see why it's paradise for my mum. There is great joy to be had in sitting by the sea and soaking up the sun, the culture, the nature and the life going on all the time in paradise. I'm not sure it's my paradise. Paradise is a strong word. But I shall definitely head back sometime for another taster of a beautiful and welcoming place that has much to offer. 

Muchas gracias Gran Canaria. Hasta luego. 

Journey to the brink of victory

Summer. It's for lazy afternoons in the park, sun drenched days at the seaside and ... honing your long forgotten sporting skills?

This summer, I spent a fair amount of time falling back in love with the game of cricket. I had played in the back garden as a very small child and then had several failed attempts at joining or organising teams at school (I quickly learnt that my friends weren't keen to stand around a lot on the Veracity at the weekend, even if I coerced my dad into chauffeuring them to practice).

So, my love of cricket took a more passive incarnation as I matured. I made do with scoring matches as well as taking more than a passing interest in the aesthetically pleasing athleticism of cricketers. But this summer, a new initiative was made known to me. Word of mouth brought W10 into my life. This was a project run by the Hampshire Cricket Board to encourage women who had not had the opportunity to play cricket, to try out the game in a shorter, more accessible format. Eight cricket clubs across Hampshire were offered the opportunity. I joined my local club, Old Netley and Highfield - big up the Old Netters (is that a thing?).

As a team, we were offered ten weeks coaching that would lead us to a semi-final round robin competition and then, all going to plan, onto the W10 Finals day. But, I'm getting slightly ahead of myself here. First we had to learn how to play.

Some of us came to the crease, metaphorically speaking, with a background in cricket knowledge and a smattering of playing experience. Some of us started only just about knowing which end of the bat to pick up. But it didn't matter. The ladies I met in training this summer are some of the nicest, funniest people I know. Nobody judged anybody. And every one of us gave it a bloody good go.

Cue Rocky style training montage. Visualise if you will, throwing drills on the outfield, fumbled catches, saving balls from the jaws of an over-keen springer, bowling in the nets, practise games and, a highpoint for me, being coached by a nine year old. We trained weekly, weather permitting - I love cricket for its sensible attitude to playing in the rain, and we readied ourselves for the semifinals.

The fateful day came, and to cut a long story short, we smashed it. We played three; won three. Then we ate copious amounts of cake. Exactly like the pros right? It was a very good day.

And so our training continued in preparation for the finals day (repeat training montage, albeit with a rotated selection of players absent as the summer holidays took precedence). And finally the day came, of course on the second attempt; the English summer made itself known on the originally scheduled day and it was rained off. Undeterred, we approached the rescheduled finals day with gusto. We had our matching team tshirts, we had some supporters (thanks to all!), I had an emergency stash of jelly babies, and perhaps most importantly, our captain, Jo, had the game plan.

The first two games yielded two more scalps to our winning run. Despite the onslaught of summer drizzle in one innings (I was severely disadvantaged as a spectacle wearer - I remember thinking that if a catch came my way, I'd be lucky to see it, let alone catch it), we powered though to chase the required runs. It was going well. Almost too well.

The third game began. We were playing Lymington, who had to win to join us at the top of the leader board. They were batting. We were able to restrict their runs to a certain point. We were ticking along nicely. However, in the last two overs, a young lady came to the crease and we started haemorrhaging runs. She hit sixes for fun. But alas, we were having none of the fun. All our thrifty fielding counted for nothing as the score raced on.

But we remained positive. We had excellent batters and we had the determination. The chase was on.

Our innings started brightly, reflecting the positive attitude. We were steadily adding runs. For those amongst us not batting, our fingernails were taking a battering. Now, I'm quite a competitive person generally - quizzes and tennis tend to bring out a less than pretty side of me - but so far in this competition, I had limited myself to enjoying the experience and having fun in the games. Yet as this last game built towards the pinnacle of the summer, my competitiveness emerged. I wanted to win. In fact, at that point, we all wanted to win. My teammates who had been laughing at our silliness in training and making jokes about being champions had pushed that English politeness aside and we were all prowling the boundary line, cheering on every single. Whenever the ball joined us over the boundary line, we erupted in cheers, pushing our team on.

Alas, it was not to be.

Our friend, the six-hitter, was fielding on the boundary. Our batter pushed a delivery out to where she was. This young girl, probably about fifteen with jazzy leggings, a long, swishy ponytail of black locks and the enthusiasm of youth on her side, picked up the ball and hoofed it towards the stumps.

Direct hit. It was incredible. I was astounded. But relieved. Our batter was already in. But blimey, what some fielding.

The next over, a similar ball was played. The girl with the magic arm collected the ball again on the boundary and lobbed it with intent towards the stumps again. Direct hit again. My jaw hit the floor. The rest of our team were in the same state of shock. This time however, our batter was out by a mile.  Well played Lymington.

We continued through the remaining balls, edging towards the total but never speedily enough. The penultimate ball forced another wicket through sheer frustration and desperation. It would've taken a record-breaking amount of no-balls on the last delivery to even push a draw. Our winning streak was over.

Some maths calculations later and the overall victors were announced. The mighty Old Netley and Highfield had the taste of victory snatched away by the virtue of Lymington having taken more wickets than us.

Defeat is hard to take at the best of times, but this was the cruellest form of defeat.  There were even medals for the winners (medals for the love of God! I've never won a medal in my life!).

Despite coming so close to victory, only to have it denied by a tally of wickets, I had a wonderful day and an even better summer with my new teammates, or should I say now, my new friends. And if we get the chance to play again next year, Lymington better know that Old Netley and Highfield are out to claim those shiny, shiny medals of victory.

This girl can, and will. (As long as the rain's not too hard and I have cake waiting at the end.)

Island Escape

What is it about an island?

Islands have a magical pull over me. And I'm sure I'm not the only one. It's come as quite a surprise to me that it's taken this long for me to visit a relatively famous island that lies not too far from my door. Essentially, I've lived on the South coast of England my whole life (an educational respite at a Welsh university notwithstanding) and yet, I'd never been to Brownsea Island. This summer, I decided to remedy that.

Brownsea lies in the mouth of Poole Harbour. It's a National Trust run island now, but has a rich and varied history, much of which I learnt about on my guided tour. As I stepped off the boat (which was only a short trip from Sandbanks, but enough to give you a small, seafaring sense of adventure), I was informed that a guided tour would be starting shortly. I love a guided tour and when the lady at the desk said that this one was to be conducted by one of their most highly rated guides, I was ready to go. The elderly gentleman in question, with white hair and matching beard, guided us through a potted history of the island as we walked around the core sights. His Scottish accent (I'm not sure either) made the details of the battles and perils even more dramatic. He guided us around with his peaked train-drivers' cap at a jaunty angle and his hands either in his front pockets or arched in front of him like a wise professor. We lucky tour guidees were certainly educated as well as entertained.

The most interesting pearl of knowledge shed light on one of the former owners of Brownsea: Mary Bonham-Christie. The year was 1927 when she bought the island and from the outset, Mary was not out to make friends; she was, essentially, the modern fore bearer of the crazy cat lady. Mary didn't agree with the exploitation of animals and so proceeded to set free all the livestock on Brownsea. All the animals were free to roam and graze as they wished. She then evicted the few people living in the one village on the island, chased any visitors away and generally wanted the island all to herself. It was just her, the wild, former livestock and the native red squirrels.

I know it's not a very nice thing to do, but I do admire her for her stubborn indomitability. And if you see the island, I think you'd understand.

Brownsea is a breathtakingly beautiful sanctuary of the English countryside. At one point as I walked the paths, I glanced to my right and there was an explosion of purple, green and white heather next to lush, green grass. On my left, I peered through a tall canopy of trees to the clay cliffs and the shingle beach below which opened up onto the sparkling blue sea. A pure picture of the garden of heaven.

I took a path down to the beach and walked along the shingle as far as the tide would allow me. Once I had left behind the picnicking families, I found a warm spot and settled down to soak up the sun-drenched scenery. Like I said, I completely understand Mary's thinking, although maybe not her methods, in trying to preserve Brownsea's natural wonder. So I thank her for her efforts, and I thank the National Trust for their safe guardianship of such an unspoilt haven. Long may it continue to afford all of us the opportunity for an escape to secret island life for just a little while. Everyone needs that now and then.

Hay Festival

I think I've been to my fair share of music festivals. But when I went to my first literary festival at Hay-on-Wye a few weeks ago, it was a new, and very pleasurable, experience indeed. There were so many reasons why Hay is so wonderful. Here's just a few:

1) Book shops - Clearly books are what Hay Festival is all about. And of course they have books for sale at the festival site, but the real treasure troves are found in Hay village: it's not called the secondhand bookshop capital of the world for nothing. There are so many bookshops, stalls and even just boxes stashed inside the doorway of other shops or buildings that it's overwhelming. When I first arrived and had stepped inside my second store, I felt a little dizzy looking at the floor-to-ceiling rows of books. My eyes couldn't move fast enough, and my poor little brain certainly couldn't process all the information fast enough. The situation wasn't helped by the fact that I had the relentless pangs of hunger stalking me. Once I had remedied the hunger issue, I addressed the bookshop challenge afresh, with the verve of an explorer setting off on an expedition. It was wonderful. I found so many oddities and interesting pages. Yet I was strict with myself and only ending up buying four books (and one was a present). My favourite shops were the outdoor shelves by the castle where the books had a slight weather-worn tinge, which only enhanced their charm, and the Hay Cinema Bookshop. This giant of a shop (as the name suggests, located in the converted cinema) swallowed me whole. I literally got lost in it. Towering shelves of books on every subject surrounded me. There are steps up to various floors and half levels between floors to add to the confusion. At one point when I found myself down another dead end, I thought I'd have to find some comfy tomes and bed down for the night. It's worth noting that despite spending a lot of my time in Hay exploring the secondhand bookshops, I barely scratched the surface. Next time I'll equip myself better for such a challenge.

2) The queues - As the stereotype goes, we British are pretty nifty at queuing. If that is the case, then Hay Festival has got to be the crown jewel in the queuing calendar. When queuing for events, there was the obligatory velvet rope to indicate the general direction of the line. But then it disappeared. It was replaced by a painted line on the ground, and in some cases, no markings at all. But lo and behold, everyone queued perfectly. We all happily followed the orderly line in the fashion it was meant. It would've been easy to jump the queue in some stretches but that's not the spirit of Hay.

3) The facilities - The toilets were nothing like festival toilets: not a port-a-loo in sight. They were mobile buildings with running water, flushing and mirrors. It's a very different crowd. The inverse to these were the water points dotted around the site. You could take your trusty bottle and replenish it with fresh drinking water. As an aquaphile, I was as happy as a fish in water.

4) Welsh cakes - The beautiful, doughy, yet crispy edged discs of joy. Flat, sugar coated bites of raisin filled goodness griddled to perfection. For sale at several locations at the side of the road. AT THE SIDE OF THE ROAD. Like me, do you struggle without a handy snack? Fear not! The five minute trek betwixt the festival and the village is enhanced by kindly people offering a sugar rush for pennies. I've never done one, but I imagine it's like the pitstop stations on a marathon route.

5) Frank Turner - This man's music has soundtracked my life, through good and bad, over almost the past decade and being part of the crowd at his shows is one of the most life-affirming things you can do. Frank had just released a book about life on the road as a travelling musician. Hay was offering the chance to see him play and talk about his book (honestly, his music shows are heavily laden with story-telling anyway). It was a no-brainer. I've been to a lot of Frank Turner shows, but this was a new, if slightly surreal experience. The music took place in a kind of lecture theatre and so, accordingly, everyone was politely sat down. Things soon took a turn for the rowdy when a few odd woohs escaped into the auditorium. The crowd was looking around to see who would start the standing. It didn't take long. I mean, there was no mosh pit, but the guy I was with, who had worked there all week, said it was most certainly the liveliest he'd seen it.


6) David Crystal - A linguist, writer, lecturer and all round very clever man. I first came across David Crystal in my reading list at college. His books helped me to success in my A Levels and on to university. They also gave me much more enjoyment than anyone should have the right to have when picking apart the workings of English, and language in general. In short, he's a hero of mine. So I had to go see him, and his son Ben, talk about their new dictionary of Shakespeare. They were so entertaining and brilliantly insightful. But the real charm came from their stage shenanigans, where despite working together, that father-son repartee was clear for all to see. I left very happy and with a renewed love of language.

7) A poet for hire - On the cobbled streets of Hay, outside the castle sat a young man dandily dressed hawking his wares. His wares were poems, typed up for you then and there on a tiny antique typewriter. What's not to love? Seems normal in Hay.

8) The countryside - Hay-on-Wye is positioned on the River Wye. It sits just on the Welsh side of the Wales / England border and at the North tip of the Brecon Beacons. In short, it's blessed by a sublime, lush landscape of rolling hills. Driving to and from the village is a sensory treat itself. Even arriving amidst black storm clouds hovering over the mountains made it breathtakingly beautiful.

9) Honesty boxes - Honesty plays a big part of life in Hay. I guess there's just no point in being underhand here. Many of the book shops and some of the hidden treasure troves of bric-a-brac 'shops' are just left to fend for themselves. Customers are invited to browse and if they find something that interests them to the point of purchase, then they are trusted to deposit the required funds in a box on their departure. The whole process is beautiful in its simplicity, nonchalance and honour.

10) Enthusiasm - Everyone at Hay Festival is there because they are enthusiastic. Enthusiastic about books, writers and reading. You can feel the positivity in the air. We were all united in a common love, and a common purpose for that moment in time: to celebrate our love of reading and maybe to discover new loves. Every person I spoke to (and I spoke to quite a few people - enthusiastic people are keen to share their enthusiasm) was helpful and friendly. People were keen to pass on recommendations and reviews of speakers they'd seen or books they'd read. The kids that were there in their droves ran about with a spark that was shining so brightly, even for sugar-addled youngsters. I think it was the magical spirit of Hay. Everyone was happy to be there. I hasten to add it wasn't cult-like in its positivity; I'm the first person to recoil at the slightest idea of organised happiness. The topics discussed didn't shy away from important issues and the arguments in life. It was just that Hay provides a forum for all. It was just the right mix of enthusiasm and cynicism, with tasty Welsh cakes thrown in for good measure. 

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.