Puffin Quest

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

We were bound for West Wales to see the beautiful coast, the tranquil countryside but most importantly, puffins. A magical place called Skomer Island is where these black and white creatures prefer to hang out and so we were aiming our sights there.

Getting to Skomer Island is a test of will and commitment. In this day and age, where you can obtain almost anything at the click of a button - concert tickets, holiday flights, clothes to be delivered by 8pm - the method for buying boat tickets to Skomer is refreshingly old-fashioned. But not particularly conducive to lowering the stress levels of a pessimist worrier like me.

To get boat tickets, you have to heave yourself out of bed (or out of a rain-drizzled tent in my case) and get yourself in an actual queue by about seven in the morning. Bearing in mind that the office doesn't open til eight and the boats don't start sailing until 10am, this is quite the effort.

Even once you're in the queue, there's no guarantee that you'll have the opportunity to buy tickets for the day. Firstly, they make a call about 8am as to whether or not the boats will actually run that day. We chose a day in late Spring for optimum Puffin sightings and thought the weather would be pleasant. Wrong. I forgot it was Wales we are talking about and so the wind and rain descended on what could've been a beautiful Spring day.

Nonetheless, we waited in the queue with waterproofs protecting us from the elements and willing the weather app on our phones that showed the rain clearing to be true. It was a nice queue. People were chatty and swapped stories and hopes. We were amongst similar personalities bubbling with excitement to get the chance to buy a Golden Ticket. Only 250 people are allowed to venture onto the island on any one day and so you had to hope that there were still tickets left by the time you got to the till-point. The nerves were palpable in the drizzle-soaked coastal air.

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

My pessimism still raged through my mind though. I still felt as though all the puffins would hide as soon as we neared the island. I needn't have worried though. Skomer does not have the reputation for a puffin paradise for nothing.

Even before we stepped onto the island, they were everywhere. The boat, laden with excited twitchers, danced across the white-crested waves and we were joined in the air by swooping puffins. The little black and white bullets were sailing past us to land on the water or head back home to the island. I have to admit that I squeaked with excitement the first few (hundred) times I saw one.

Have you ever seen a puffin? Not in a book or on television. A real life bird. Sitting there in all its painted face glory. No? Well you need to. Yes? Me, too - but let's go see them again! They are incredibly delicate and bold at the same time. They literally look like plastic models sat on a cliff. They are my favourite birds. There I said it. Sorry all you other guys.

One of my main reason for this favouritism is their approach to landing. They look graceful enough whilst flying yet when they land they look like they've forgotten all their training and just go for broke and hope to hit the ground in some fashion. It's that "gotta do it so let's see what happens" aura that they emit that has won my heart. Every time I saw one land I had an involuntary giggle. They bring joy and enthusiasm wherever they are.

I'd better point out here that all my worrying about trying to see a puffin was unnecessary. I though I might be able to see one or two, maybe a couple from afar. I had no idea that they would be everywhere. EVERYWHERE.

We stayed at one edge of a cliff for quite a while as we found a group of about ten or so. They were hanging about, flying off, landing, just generally puffining. It was amazing. Eventually, we continued on our path to a place called The Wick. It was like Grand Central for the puffin colony. Every part of the cliff was covered in puffins or their burrows. They walked across the path like pigeons in a park. I literally didn't know where to look. Every time I looked at one, another landed. And they kept arriving with mouthfuls of sand eels in their beaks. It was astounding. I couldn't keep the smile off my face. The face ache was worth it.

All this talk about puffins and I haven't even talked about the island itself yet. It is ridiculously beautiful. You may have heard me say before that I love an island. Skomer is one of the best. Top five for sure. We picked a great time to go. The ferns were a green that recalled memories of tropical jungles. The bluebells still had life in them and were gradually giving way to Pink Campion, so everywhere you looked was colour.

I cannot begin to put into words how bright and powerful and altogether life-affirming the colours were. They were just so... there. I've never been somewhere so real where I had to strain to keep my eyes open to soak up every single bit of the surroundings.

We walked round the whole island and I would have loved to have done it again. Or at least sat somewhere to watch more of the life of the island. On our final stretch back towards the landing point where the boat was waiting to take us back to reality, we were lucky enough to see an owl hunting in the meadow. It was incredible to watch him gliding not ten feet above the bountiful wild flowers.

He was amazing, but it was not enough to claim my heart. That had already been won by the hundreds of little black and white guys. Yes there were thousands there, and yes it would be difficult to not see one, but every time I saw one, it made my stomach flip in that little way like when you see a dog in a hat or a sign for free cake. Puffins = smiles = happiness. And on Skomer Island, there was happiness everywhere.

Puffin Quest complete.

Hidden In Plain Sight

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

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

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

In the absence of any great, exotic travels, I have made the executive decision to try to explore more of my local area. To try to search out interesting places that are just on my doorstep, but where I may never have previously ventured: my mission is to discover the jewels in the journey that are so close to home that I've never thought to look.

And so a sunny Sunday morning took me through fields and winding country lanes to the shingled shoreline of Titchfield Haven. Even the name sounds idyllic, and indeed, the sun gives everything a glow of positivity. I walked along the prom and I walked along the stones. The best way to spend a Spring morn.

A fair distance into my walk, as I was sandwiched between the waves and the back markers of a line of unnaturally long gardens, a plain, grey shape, bobbing slowly on the waves, caught my eye out to sea.

This was no normal boat.

It was steel gun-metal grey; the sort of shade that you only see as a tiny plastic boat ready to be torpedoed on a Battleships board. It was smooth but blocky in shape - a rounded body with no edges. There was a plastic control shelter that looked like the top of a submarine such was the even, industrial shape. Save for a few black lines, there were no other markings at all. No name. No numbers. Nothing. Someone was trying to be incognito.

As I stood on the beach, blatantly ogling the strange sight, a rumbling started behind me. Turning around, I was met by the sight of a motorised trailer emerging from one of the long gardens. The metal frame was led by two small wheels at the front. These pulled a large gas tank that sat atop a single large wheel at the back. The whole contraption was about the length of a transit van. Mouth open, I stared as the metal monster trundled independently down the shingle of the beach towards the shoreline.

There was no driver and no line. I glanced towards the grey shape circling just offshore. The trailer must've received word from its sea captain. It was responding to the call.

Steadily, it approached the water's edge and still it kept going. Front wheels submerged. Back wheel submerged. Until I thought the gas tank was going for a dip too. But it stopped, perfectly positioned. The driver (I'm not a sea-goer by trade - is that the right term?) of the boat spun the grey vessel around in a rude-boy style so that it didn't seem so lumbering any more. It was now lined up to dock with the trailer. The driver edged it towards its target and the engine pushed against the waves to force the boat easily into the frame. The squeaking of rubber on rubber announced that the seabird was nestled in place.

Then this mysterious driver (maybe captain is a better term) whipped out the controls that had done all the communication. They were no larger than a toy remote control, albeit a high end toy. A black box held in both hands with four dials was all that was needed for one man to land a damn heavy vessel back onto dry land.

With a flick of a dial, the free-wheeling fame lumbered back through the shallow waves and up the incline of the stony shore and up to the garden to be safely stored away in the secret shed.

Now, I'm not an evil genius by any means, and nor do I know the details of their code, but I'm of the opinion that villains should keep their business secret. When this guy takes his boat in or out, EVERYONE stops to look. Or to take photos. Not a good plan for keeping your evil goings on low key. So many men, women, children and dogs were fascinated by the event.

The fact is that this whole process of using the remote control to wheel your trailer in and out of the water speaks to everyone who once played with a remote control of some type. Anyone who had a remote controlled car wanted a remote controlled truck. And anyone who had a remote controlled truck wanted a remote controlled plane. Once you had that, where was left to go? Apparently a ten-foot remote controlled boat trailer, that's where.

The mere concept delves into that childhood need for power over technology. One man I witnessed, stopped to talk to the villain (NEVER talk to the baddies!) and was visibly bursting with boyish excitement. He was smiling the inane smile of a kid in a sweet shop as he asked questions and basked in the glory of being in the same air space as the spy boat and radio-controlled trailer.

During the whole 'interaction' with our villain, I was pleased to see the villainous, covert entity stayed in character. He answered questions in simple responses, never elaborating; the baseball cap stayed on; the collar stayed upturned; the obligatory dark glasses were stuck to his face; the expression on his face was constantly resting as a slightly grumpy mannequin; all of which kept his identity more or less indistinguishable. But at the same time, he was never rude or villainous to the caller hovering enthusiastically on his boating doorstep.

Well handled dear villain.

Titchfield may not be the most exotic of places, but sometimes "nice" is all you need. Nice can be everywhere if you know where to look. The walk along the beach in the sun was nice. Watching countless dogs playing in the surf was nice. Clearly, the ice cream that I was forced to indulge in was nice. Even the Bond villain was affected by the sun and was being nice to the drooling fanboys who stopped to admire his boating infrastructure.

Twenty minutes from my house and I could find a haven of my own. Sometimes these places are closer and more obvious than we think. Even the places where villains hang out are less hidden when the sun shines. And he didn't even seem to mind that much. Courteous but curt. That's all I want from a villain.

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

Edinburgh Love Part One

The set is complete. I have now visited all four countries in the British Isles. I finally made my way over the border to Scotland. 

As the train made its way through the breathtakingly beautiful countryside of the Borders region, I knew I was falling in love. Outside the window I could see the expanse of fields, trees and rivers criss-crossed by dry stone walls. It was exactly like the scene set in the Sam comics in my beloved Twinkle magazine from when I was about five. It was taking me back to a time when I thought everything would be beautiful. 

I soon realised, when I climbed Waverley steps, that everything in Edinburgh is beautiful. Over-used adjective alert: I couldn't stop thinking everything was beautiful. Everywhere I looked there was beauty, often in the strangest places. Every street had the old time charm and every mysterious stairway beckoned with its cobbled floor to take me on another adventure. I must've looked like a simpleton, staring up at the numerous, looming buildings in awe. The castle alone looks like it's a Gothic horror prop that's been dropped in via CGI. 

But my favourite vantage point across the city was up on Calton Hill. I was more than fortunate to narrowly miss the Scottish rain. In fact, I was treated to the most awe-inspiring sky one evening when I climbed Calton Hill. I bloody love a cloud-strewn sky, and I kid you not, this sky was one of the most impressive that I have ever seen. I sat up on that hill as the sinking sun lit up both the surrounding hills and the city below and I thought my heart might explode with the beauty of it all. The sky looked bigger than I ever thought possible. There's magic in those Scottish skies.  

The photos don't do the beauty of this city justice. Arthur's seat was bathed in the late evening sunshine, and although I enjoyed climbing it the day before, I think I preferred taking in the view of the magnificent rocks from afar. The sun shone a warm spotlight of the grand and dramatic countryside that sits looking over the city of Edinburgh. Like I said, head over heels with this place. 

Obviously I didn't spend all of my time in Edinburgh looking at rocks; my love for the festival will earn its own blog post. But the natural beauty of the place deserves a mention in its own right. My only regret is that I didn't have enough time to explore more. It pains me to think I didn't even make it to the coast. Next time.

As my train dragged me away from my new found infatuation, I listened to the same album that had, only three days previously, ushered me across the border into Scotland. Frightened Rabbit's The Midnight Organ Fight is a painfully beautiful piece of music. The songs are so wonderful and they perfectly sound tracked both my initial excitement about my first visit to Scotland and then the reflections on my short time in such a beautiful place. A song like this also has the power of inspiring you into taking action and making the most of the short time we have. A train journey with a magical, moving picture outside the window and a well-laden iPod is a dangerous combination.

Listen and learn.

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.