Tag: England

One Day In London: Shopping For Kids, Buckingham Palace, and Time To Go

September 17th, 2022

Looking down the Mall toward Buckingham Palace late this afternoon…it proved impassable in the end, but I did try.

FOR THE FIRST TIME since my ex-wife spent a night in hospital nine years ago and our (then) six-month-old son spent the whole night crying and wailing, I’m pulling an allnighter: I have to be at Heathrow soon after 6am to go through the usual rigmarole ahead of a 9am flight to Abu Dhabi and thence home to Melbourne, and as this really necessitates being ready to go before 5am, there’s not much point risking a missed alarm or three. I will sleep on the aircraft. Fitfully, and in short bursts, but I will sleep.

I’m starting to feel a bit stiff and sore, and for all the wrong reasons; having lugged my fat-arse suitcase from Heathrow to the train terminal beneath it yesterday, and then from Chiswick Park station to my hotel past Gunnersbury to avoid a second change of train — and having carted a growing number of shopping bags through central London today for several hours — my shoulders, arms, and one side of my neck (the side I favour for lifting heavy loads) are all registering their protests this evening.

One can only imagine what state they’ll be in when I finally walk in my front door in Melbourne on Sunday night…

I’ve been in London this afternoon buying stuff for my kids; it wasn’t possible to enable them to come on this trip, and I have been anxious to ensure there’s enough for them when I get home to make them feel like there’s been a dividend for them from Dad disappearing for a month. Between the two of them, there’s about £400 worth of stuff cramming every last inch of space in the fat-arse suitcase, and in the backpack responsible for pulling muscles on my left shoulder and neck.

I can’t elaborate on precisely what’s occupied that space; there’s a risk my daughter, at least (who is extremely media-literate and internet savvy) may chance upon this very site, and a surprise is meant to be a surprise…but I can say that some of the stores involved read like a “who’s who?” of traditional London retailers, including Fortnum and Mason, Waterstones, and Hamleys of London, which bills itself as the oldest and most famous toy shop in the world (and probably is, dating as it does to 1760), in addition to purchases made in the gift shop at Blenheim Palace, Walker Slater in Glasgow, and a particular museum in North Yorkshire.

(I’ll add that provided it isn’t confiscated by Customs in Melbourne, fat-arse also contains a Dundee cake from Fortnums…I love Dundee cake…)

My trip into central London was not devoid of tedium; I’d made it from Chiswick to Piccadilly (a good 45 minutes by train, plus walking time), and had picked out the Dundee cake and (ahem!) a couple of other items at Fortnum and Mason, only to find — when I went to the pay point — that before I left Chiswick I’d picked up my room key, my Oyster card…and my myki card (for the uninitiated, myki is the Melbourne equivalent of an Oyster card for paying public transport fares, albeit infinitely less functional). My credit card was sitting on the dresser in my hotel room…

…and so — after a return trip between Piccadilly and Chiswick to collect the bloody credit card — I restarted my shopping mission at Fortnum and Mason at 4.30pm. Grrr…

The afternoon in London wasn’t devoid of light relief, either; walking up Regent Street en route to Hamleys, I spotted New Zealand Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern coming the other way on foot. “Jacinda Ardern,” I said. “Oh, hiiiiiiiiiii!” she replied effusively, looking as if she was going to stop and chat (which she didn’t, thankfully). She looked a bit surprised anyone had recognised her, to be honest. “Just keep moving,” admonished what I took to be a security minder two paces behind her. And that was that.

I looked around a bit nervously: was Albo out shopping too?

And the three women (who looked like they’d stepped out of The Only Way Is Essex) who were running up and down the middle of Regent Street trying to hail a cab — while running a loud and obnoxious commentary on their own endeavours — bemused and amused the scores of horrified but delighted onlookers who watched the debacle unfold. It was difficult not to speculate in which of the salubrious bars and saloons adorning Piccadilly Circus they’d spent the balance of the afternoon making extensive investments in tomorrow morning’s hangover.

Finally, the shopping for my kids was complete (and the expenditure, including the items purchased elsewhere around the United Kingdom, was more or less even: one is inadvertently getting £8 more than the other, which out of a £400 spend is hardly an outrage of unfairness), but I realised that given it was after 6pm and I was weighed down with parcels, there was no way I was going to get back to my hotel, and then back into London a third time for the dinner I wanted so badly at Roast: I don’t regret it, for the credit card oversight was my own fault, and I think it more important to ensure the kids get what I wanted them to have than ensuring I got to eat Beef Wellington overlooking the Borough Market.

And it wouldn’t have done to have hauled all that stuff across to London Bridge to cut the trip to my hotel out, either: I’m sure Iqbal wouldn’t have wanted what would have looked like a market stall being set up in his restaurant alongside my table.

So (in a move my aching limbs are already regretting), I decided to wander down to Trafalgar Square instead, and head up the mall to Buckingham Palace; as people will have seen at the top of this post, it’s being readied for Her Majesty’s funeral on Monday, when her body will depart Buckingham Palace at 2.22pm on its journey to Westminster Abbey.

Already, parts of it are partitioned off, and members of the public being funnelled along metal-fenced corridors on either side of the Mall; rather stupidly, I opted to head off down the Mall, thinking I’d at least get a photograph of the tributes outside the gates of the Palace.

Ha, ha, ha…

Two-thirds the way down the Mall, the crowd was dense. This lady had no chance of a snap of Buckingham Palace.

Nearer the Palace, this looks clear…except people were being walked in stages to join a huge pack in Green Park…

…to ultimately join the thin line on the left waiting to filter past Buckingham Palace. Estimated wait time: three hours.

Suddenly, I didn’t feel like such a cheapskate for not bringing flowers: it wasn’t possible to wait until 10 o’clock at night, and so I would never have been able to add them to the tributes anyway.

But surely, the important thing is that I made the effort to come at all? Of the hundreds of millions of people for whom the Queen was either Head of State and/or a role model, a respected figure of leadership, or simply someone liked and admired, the overwhelming majority would not have had the opportunity to even get as close as I did today, and that includes the vast majority of the 70 million people who live in Britain itself.

Readers will have seen various photographs over the past week featuring flags at half mast — including, to my pleasant surprise, in Scotland — and the tributes and marks of respect have been everywhere; I do feel it’s been an accidental privilege to spend this time among British people, and to see and hear their heartfelt sadness and grief that the Queen is gone. Nobody has had anything bad to say about Charles, interestingly; the British — with their tremendous sense of fair play — may very well be keeping their counsel on that one and seeing how he does, or their reservations may simply be “on hold” during this period steeped in the utmost respect.

Either way, the anguish is genuine, and the markers of it widespread; many retailers across Britain have placed displays in their shop windows (with some even creating shrines to the Queen inside their stores).

Retailers have paid tribute to the Queen: some simply, some more elaborately. This one is from Toni&Guy in Chiswick.

But as I near the end of the final post I will publish on this travelogue whilst on British soil — and this will come as no surprise to those who know me — I am going to miss London, just as I miss Scotland already: I love coming here, and London genuinely feels like a home away from home, as does Scotland. I’ve been to a lot of great places across England and Scotland on this visit, and I’ve met some sensational people, some of whom I’ll stay in contact with.

There are those I was able to catch up with that I’ve waited a long time to be able to sit down with, and the handful with whom I couldn’t — largely on account of the havoc that bout of illness wrought for a couple of the precious few days I had in London at the start of the trip — I’ll either see next time, or catch up with in Australia if they head our way. I know a few are proposing to do precisely that.

Those who read my initial post on this site on 24 August will know I came on this trip for a plentitude of reasons and with things to do and accomplish; with the few exceptions noted below, I would have to say I got everything I came here for: including the little matter of head clearing and banishing something from my past, which simply doesn’t merit or warrant the bother, given the circumstances. It just doesn’t matter any more.

And while Marcus Wareing’s restaurant was closed (for renovations, I believe) for the duration of the month I’ve been here — and while I missed out on visiting Westerham and Chartwell due to that horrific navigational fail the day I set forth on the road, and have missed out on eating at Roast through illness and my own forgetfulness with the credit card today — these could be regarded as very early items for a list of things to do next time: and whilst I have certain priorities to pursue when I return to Australia that will take time, this isn’t my last visit to the UK. Far from it.

The simple truth is that just as I love Australia, I love Britain too; I have always said I could appear at Heathrow, descend into its Underground station, and just disappear: it was with great satisfaction that I did exactly that four weeks ago, with assistance neither required nor sought (apart from needing help with a defective Oyster card payment machine, which doesn’t qualify). It remains one of my few genuine regrets in life that I’ve never been able to live here — at least for a time — and now aged 50, the prospect of being able to do so is becoming sharply less likely.

There will be those who sneer, and bleat about forelock tugging and disloyalty, but I don’t care; it is perfectly legitimate to love two countries to which there is a genuine connection. I identify as a Scottish Australian anyway — I always have, and with faultless familial reasons for it — but London sits alongside Melbourne as the two best cities on the planet in my eyes, and I’m not a native of either.

And to those who decry British history — and our British inheritance as a country — on the basis it is somehow evil and morally repugnant, I simply say that it could be a hell of a lot worse; the civilised world has evolved, grown and moved on, but there are others who haven’t and won’t: and if the Marxist “woke” crowd doesn’t believe that, it should look at what’s going on eastern Europe right now, or in parts of Asia, and be a little more careful and circumspect about what it wishes for.

(There are Ukrainian refugees everywhere in the UK at the moment; one night in Scotland I was sitting in a bar when an eight-year-old Ukrainian boy came in; he was brandishing a toy Kalashnikov: after seeking and receiving a hug from the astonished bartender — a gorgeous Scottish girl in her early 20s — he tried to get patrons to play a game with him called “self defence:” they had to try to shoot him, and he would defend himself with the toy gun. Just think about that).

This won’t be the final post on this site, however; once I’m back in Melbourne I do intend to review the places I’ve been, the accommodation and the food I’ve experienced, and perhaps a few other bits and pieces too. Just give me a few days, one of which will be spent at 37,000 feet.

But I’m off for a shower (the last one for almost 30 hours, to be sure); then it’s Gunnersbury Station (about a quarter of a mile away) to Turnham Green, then a change for a Piccadilly Line train to Heathrow…and then away we go.

Even lugging fat-arse around like that, the fare is £4.90, as opposed to a taxicab estimate of £40 to £50…if ever there was a concrete quantification of the price of laziness, that must surely be it 🙂
Fare Thee Well, Scotland: I’m Back In London…Briefly

September 16th, 2022

Back on familiar ground: the Chiswick High Road, seen from the Gunnersbury end.

AFTER YESTERDAY’S see-sawing chain of events, today has been quite straightforward, although tinged with sadness; I have departed my beloved Scotland once again — not knowing when next I’ll see it — as the first leg of the long voyage home to Melbourne played out.

It has, however, been an interesting day; something I have been dreading — ever since I began accruing bits and pieces to take back to Melbourne, some of it for me, some of it for my kids — is the need to confront the growing sense of unease at how in hell to fit everything into one suitcase.

There are two beautiful new casual shirts to go with the lovely tweed coat I bought in Glasgow; a polo shirt from Bowmore Distillery; an all-weather anorak I bought on Islay; a decorative cushion from Blenheim Castle; more stuff from the tweed shop in Glasgow; two bottles of marmalade (my nine-year-old son, Angus, is addicted to the stuff)…and about 15 190g bags of Bassett’s Jelly Babies — easily the best jelly babies on Earth — which cost £1.60 each at Sainsbury’s (as opposed to $8-$12 each on the rare occasions you can actually find them in Melbourne).

All of this is in addition to about £600 of tweed products en route to my apartment building in Melbourne by mail as we speak, along with one of my daughter’s gifts…and I’m sure there are a few items I have left out: the list is off the top of my head, rather than rifling though the suitcase to see what I’ve missed: the precise detail isn’t really that important.

Even so, one expects the problem is readily perceptible.

The good news is that I got everything in and managed to get the suitcase closed; it was new not long before the pandemic struck, so I expect it will be sturdy enough to make the trip from London to Melbourne by air intact. The bad news, however, is that the suitcase is now officially a fat bastard, weighing in at some 27.5kg (60lb) and 4kg over British Airways’ weight limit: the beautiful check-in attendant must have liked me, for she smilingly waived the £65 excess weight surcharge (and had she been based in Melbourne, I’d be taking her to a restaurant next Friday night. Truly. 🙂 )

This pudgy bastard has been consuming too many Bassett’s Jelly Babies, methinks…

At least Etihad allows 30kg. It charges $USD100 per surplus kilogram, and my understanding is that it’s pretty strict about enforcing it, too. But that’s not my problem, thankfully.

Leaving Scotland is always a bittersweet exercise; by this stage of a trip I am ready to go home (but paradoxically, would love to stay in Britain, too: go figure). But clambering onto one of BA’s A320s — with a bird’s eye view out the window at the Scottish countryside beyond the confines of Edinburgh Airport — tends to yank on one’s heartstrings, and hard. I don’t know when I’ll next be in Scotland (or England either, for that matter), but once again, it’s the fact I’ve been able to go there again at all that’s important.

And in a quirk of fate, I was just 80 miles from Her Majesty when she passed away at Balmoral: not the 12,000 miles away that separate Melbourne and London. I was literally just down the road.

As an aside, the A320 British Airways flew today was brand new (and by “brand new” I mean it hadn’t even done enough flights to dull the paint on the wings, or to put those black marks all over the flaps where they extend and retract). This was an A320neo (the latest updated version from Airbus) that is just beginning to appear in airline fleets around the world; it is also the exact plane Qantas has ordered 75 of to replace its ageing Boeing 737-800s. I’m a Boeing enthusiast, but this thing was so quiet and comfortable I’d be happy to see it in the livery of the flying kangaroo: and really, with the deadly early service record to date of Boeing’s 737MAX, no safety-obsessed airline like Qantas could ever have ordered it, no matter what “fixes” Boeing says it has made.

The mileage tally, when I handed my Hyundai Ioniq back to Europcar at Edinburgh Airport, was 2,145 miles: a solid effort indeed. Disconcertingly enough, those miles were undone in a flight to Heathrow that was airborne for just 49 minutes. Britain might be bigger than it looks, and the miles I’ve racked up underline the point, but it’s still small enough to fly from one end of it to the other in less than an hour.

So I am back in London; as I have previously noted, the 24-hour delay Etihad made to my return flight means I have a bonus day and two nights in London, and the fuck-up (which is what it is) that Agoda made by taking bookings on a hotel that was shut for business means I’m in a hotel at the “other” end of the Chiswick High Road: and Chiswick, the availability of accommodation permitting, is likely to be something of a stomping ground on future trips to London. Sensational spot.

I took the opportunity to return to Côte Chiswick on Turnham Green Terrace for dinner this evening — it’s the third time I’ve eaten there on this trip — partly because the first two visits were that good, and partly as I wanted to get another look at two of the dishes I’d eaten there previously (to go home and attempt to recreate them, of course). The Breton Fish Stew might take some work, but I’m good for it; but the second night I ate there, I had a smoked salmon plate that would make an excellent starter for dinner parties, now we’re heading into summer in Australia: smoked salmon, with finely sliced fennel and green apples (dressed lightly in olive oil) with pistou crème fraîche, crisped capers, finished with dill sprigs and served with toasted slices of baguette. Splendid! It shouldn’t be difficult to replicate, either.

The Côte smoked salmon starter: after I’d taken a few bites out of it, admittedly.

And tonight is a night with a late bedtime, with tomorrow having no bedtime at all: as I have to be at Heathrow by 6am on Saturday for my 9am flight, I won’t sleep tomorrow: what’s the point? I have to leave my hotel by about 4.30am, which means being up anyway to get ready by 3am, which makes going to bed (at my usual time just after midnight) pointless, and fraught with the danger of sleeping through alarms. After all, there will be plenty of time to sleep on the aircraft, in jumps of six-and-a-half and thirteen hours respectively.

I’ll thus be up for a while: so long as I’m out of bed early enough to go into central London tomorrow to get the last couple of bits and bobs for my kids, that’s really my only firm commitment.

I may wander down to Trafalgar Square and peep up the mall to get an idea of the crowd outside Buckingham Palace, and potentially go and lay a bloom in tribute to Her Majesty; but I won’t be joining the queue to view her lying in state at Westminster Hall: a queue I believe is now eight miles long, and which necessitates a wait that can include an overnight component to ensure one’s place in line isn’t lost. Er…no, I think not.

And while this may sound corny, I’ve realised in the past few days I can hear music again: ever since I was a kid I could hear music in my mind, especially when happy; after certain things that happened over the past 2-3 years, I haven’t heard it at all for a long time. It’s another sign this trip has done what I’d hoped, and cleared the cobwebs away. There are better days ahead.

Life is for living, so get busy living or get busy dying. It’s a no-brainer.
No Post Today: Rest In Peace, Queen Elizabeth. God Save The Queen; God Save The King

September 9th, 2022

In view of the announcement by Buckingham Palace some 30 minutes ago, I will not be posting a regular article on my travelogue today as a mark of respect.

The death of Queen Elizabeth II marks the end of a remarkable era, and one hopes she rests in peace following a remarkable lifetime of selfless public service.

At the age of 50, Her Majesty is the only monarch I have known in my lifetime; my parents, born in 1948 and 1950, have no living memory of her father as King: these factors highlight the constancy and stability the Queen has lent to a turbulent and changing world.

I will be in Aberdeen on Tuesday, and will lay a wreath at the public memorial at Balmoral that is set to run for several days from now.

One minutes best wishes to the King for a successful and prosperous reign.

God Save The Queen. God Save The King!

I will resume my regular posts tomorrow.
We’re Halfway There: Yorkshire Today, Scotland Tomorrow

September 5th, 2022

One of the many faces of the Yorkshire Dales, as seen from Grassington.

It’s hard to believe half of this trip is over (or, indeed, more than half over if I’m being pedantic, and allowing for the fact Melbourne is nine hours ahead of Britain: in exactly two weeks I’ll be readying for my Monday trivia night in South Yarra). It’s been a great trip to date — a few things I’ve missed doing, a couple of intended catch-ups that didn’t happen, and the bout of illness in London (replete with unwanted subsequent side-effects from antibiotics) wasn’t welcome; but overall it’s been precisely the tonic I needed, and have needed, for more than a little while. I actually feel relaxed, and I can’t remember the last time I could honestly say that.

It was put to me by a mate of mine that this trip sounded “full on;” perhaps it is, but I didn’t book the type of holiday on which one generally lounges by the pool with a pina colada in hand. No, as much as I needed a break, this was about doing things, too: I love long drives (tick), I’ve been exploring places outside London I (mostly) haven’t been before (tick), I’ve caught up with some people I wanted to see and will catch up with a couple more toward the end of the trip (tick), I’m accruing “goodie bags” for my kids (tick), I’ve bought some nice new clothes, and will acquire some more from the tweed merchants in Glasgow (tick)…and I may or may not yet get the tattoo in Glasgow I have been flirting with:

The bird that never flew.
The tree that never grew.
The bell that never rang.
The fish that never swam.

I also bought a very nice top hat from Christys of London before I came over here — a proper, fur-trimmed formal British dress hat — and had it delivered to me in Melbourne: while it’s nominally an acquisition from this trip, I couldn’t be bothered trying to get it home safely in the overhead locker of a B777 (or arguing the toss with flight attendants for having a second cabin item either, for that matter), so add that to the score too.

So is the trip “full on?” It’s a matter of perspective, I suppose, although there has also been plenty of down time for walking, thinking, sleeping, and plotting and scheming a few things for my return to Australia: strategic plans to cover the next few years — not the first few weeks I’m back.

What I haven’t done is any work on my novel; perhaps, in keeping this travelogue, my writing time could be seen to have been otherwise utilised. But once again, the information I have uncovered on this trip is percolating away in my mind, arranging itself into the correct order for me to simply sit down and type it out when I’m ready, so I can’t say I’ve made zero progress on that front either: and in any case, there will be plenty of scope for me to do so once I’m home.

Today has been both satisfying and frustrating: I did what most travellers do and found a laundromat, and laundered my dirty clothes; fortunately today was the only time I’ll have to do it. I bought two weeks’ worth of clothes with me this time to minimise the disruption.

But in a twist, this wasn’t the stereotypical dingy shop in a high street where you sit around for two hours waiting for the wash and dry cycles to run their course; this was something I’ve not seen before — a Revolution Launderette — in the car park of the Morrisons supermarket in Skipton, about nine miles from Grassington. I regret not taking a picture of it, but the one I’ve nicked from Motorway Services Online is a faithful replica.

It was “a revolution” all right: £10 to wash, £9 to dry, and away you go. (Image: Motorway Services Online).

That irritating task completed, I took the 42-mile drive from Skipton to Thirsk, to the World Of James Herriot museum…and found, infuriatingly enough, that not only was it closed but a local told me it hadn’t been open “for most of the day” (despite being advertised as open from 9.30am until 5pm). An 84-mile (135km) round trip isn’t just a colossal waste of time, but when paying 172p per litre for fuel, it’s an expensive lot of nothing, too. And I’m going to have to find the stuff my daughter wanted from All Creatures Great and Small somewhere else, for she doesn’t deserve to be let down by someone skiving off and taking an early afternoon off.

The “World Of James Herriot,” where Alf Wight and Donald Sinclair worked…but alas, nobody was home.

So today is my last day in England — at least until Thursday week, when I fly back into Heathrow for my two nights in an airport hotel before the big jump back to Melbourne.

Tomorrow, I’m driving back to the M6 Motorway, and heading north to Scotland; rather than simply zoom directly to Glasgow, I’m taking a route that hugs the south-west Scottish coast to Ayr, then cutting across to the old town. Apparently some people refer to this route, from the border to Ayr, as the “Scottish Great Ocean Road” — we’ll see. I’m staying in a delightful little seaside village called Portpatrick, and look forward to sharing some pics once I land for the night and get settled.

So tomorrow — in a sense — this Scot is going home. It’s a huge proportion of the rationale for taking the trip in the first place. Ten nights in Scotland out of a total of 26 in Britain underlines the importance to me of this portion of my visit to the UK, and there are some wonderful places — and in all likelihood, stories — lying in wait over the course of that time.
Heading North: Winter Is Coming

September 4th, 2022

I’m in North Yorkshire, in the charming village of Grassington; I’ve been here before, and anyone who has seen the Channel Five (UK) remake of All Creatures Great and Small currently screening in Britain (and elsewhere) will recognise Grassington as Darrowby, the fictionalised town in which James Herriot — who was, of course, Scottish veterinarian Alf Wight — practised his craft.

I love the James Herriot books, wanting desperately as I did to be a vet until my maths and science results at school showed I didn’t have the aptitude for it. But the original 1978-90 series of All Creatures is the only dramatisation of them worth watching, in my view, and it satisfies me somewhat that my 13-year-old daughter, who is flirting with veterinary science and zoological science as career options (despite, like her father, being an indisputable English/Communications type), has attempted to sequester my DVD copies of it as her own.

Holly Lodge, Windermere: replete with holly tree by the gate. The further north I travel, the more holly I’m seeing.

As I mentioned last night, it was too dark when I arrived in Windermere to do any photography: the place I stayed at, above, is somewhere I’d certainly recommend: but again, the heat in this old stone brick building was stifling, there was no air conditioning (heritage laws again, perhaps), and to compound this, the western sun shone directly into my room, which needed to have its blinds drawn to ensure neighbouring properties didn’t have visibility into it, thwarting the open window and the cool air it may have offered.

And it was cool: the British summer is almost over, but the room was like a furnace.

I know Britain gets cold (oh yes, I know this all too well) but in summer, there’s a need for cool air, or at least air conditioning: the heat and humidity can be on par with Brisbane weather, which astonishes people — until they actually come here and experience it for themselves, that is.

Lake Windermere, Lakes District, Cumbria.

I have good news and bad news on my touted enterprise to see a lake in the Lakes District: the good news is that Lake Windermere was, in fact, very close to where I was staying; half an hour after I checked out of the Holly Lodge I was ambling around its shores. Serene? Tranquil? It was spectacular. And quiet. I can understand why William Wordsworth, his contemporaries, and countless millions of others before and since, have sought this region of Britain out as a sanctuary, or at least a spot to escape the hubbub of daily life for a little while and to simply breathe.

Lake Windermere is the largest lake in Britain; even with the township of Bowness nearby, spending time there was like stepping into a wilderness unsullied and untouched, despite the pleasure craft sailing on it and the cafes and retail vultures, hungry for tourist dollars, astride its shores.

The bad news is that as far as I could see (and I walked around the lake as extensively as I could) there were no daffodils: more’s the pity. It’s one of what I would have thought the iconic pictures from this trip, to be caught wandering amid a company of daffodils, as Wordsworth put it. Alas, it wasn’t to be. But given the option of making it to the Lakes District at all, as I explained in my last post, was the result of a somewhat fortuitous set of circumstances, I’m happy. A coffee at the Windermere Jetty, before heading off on a lengthy walk to explore, was also good for keeping the spirits up. Coffee always is. But no daffs.

Bowness on Windermere, another of the plethora of stunning rural British towns. Note the Peter Rabbit shop.

And I should point out that this is the area to which London-born Beatrix Potter relocated after a visit to the Lakes District; the town of Bowness on Windermere is rich with Potter-related retail offerings, including a Wind In The Willows “experience” tour (which, in a sign of the times, was closed today due to COVID-related staff shortages).

Once I was done with Lake Windermere and Bowness, I set off for Grassington; it’s not a huge distance — only about 80 miles — but the nature of the rural roads in these parts dictated that it should take close to two hours. Naturally, when driving in these parts, the scenery is absolutely stunning, and what was to be seen on the A65 between Windermere and Grassington doesn’t even measure up to my likening of “driving through a picture book” when it comes to the Yorkshire Dales; I wasn’t even in the Dales at that point. But it’s stunning no less (and the smell of cow shit is quite pervasive, I can tell you, as the bovines roam freely, including leaving evidence of their presence on the road).

A roadside shot of the North Yorkshire countryside. It’s as easy as that to see beautiful English countryside panoramas.

And so — as I said at the outset — I’m in Grassington, and staying at the Grassington Lodge; it’s the only property from the 2008 trip that I’m staying in again, and whilst I would continue to recommend it to anyone who is of a mind to travel to this area, it’s nowhere near as good as it was then (although it’s still superior to some of the other places I have stayed in thus far, to be sure).

Grassington Lodge. Well worth considering, but it’s five-star pricing for a property that now struggles to merit four.

The property had an onsite manager when my ex-wife and I stayed here in 2008; fast forward 14 years, and the manager has been replaced by a management company based in Ipswich, in Suffolk, over 230 miles away. The decline in quality is stark; what was a veritable sparkling jewel of the Pennines is now merely just above average. From the outside, most of the buildings in Grassington (and, indeed, in many other rural British towns) look very similar; this one was like a palace inside, once upon a time. It’s the reason I rebooked it — premium pricing notwithstanding — and while it’s probably worth about £110 per night, it’s not worth what it actually cost now I’ve seen it (which was somewhat — but not hideously — more than that).

An Ottoman that is badly stained; carpets that haven’t been steam cleaned in quite some time; scuffed, chipped, dirty cabinetry; scuffed, chipped walls and doors (in fact, the place should be repainted throughout); carpet in different sections of the common areas that don’t match, suggesting parts of it have been replaced with no care to see they match…I could go on, but a slovenly approach to “management” has turned the exceptional and outstanding into the merely ordinary and — as I have said a few times in this travelogue — it’s a shame.

Still, in breaks in writing this piece, I’ve been standing on the front landing of the Grassington Lodge — almost 14 years to the day since I last did so — vaping, rather than smoking as I did back then; it’s raining steadily (as it also was the last time I was here), and the raindrops keep falling on one’s head despite the very best efforts to find shelter from them, as these old English houses are typically exposed directly to the weather. Even considering the disappointing decline in the management of the property, it still has its charms — and for that reason, I recommend it: with the rider that if it continues its journey toward cost-cutting nirvana (which I’m sure is a factor) that charm might, soon, be outweighed by an inclination toward staying somewhere that’s actually fit to stay.

Tomorrow, I’m taking an embarrassingly large bundle of dirty laundry to Skipton — a bigger town about 12 miles from here — to replenish my inventories: I bought two weeks’ supply of clean clothes with me from Melbourne, and aside from some dress items I had dry cleaned in London, it’s exhausted as of tomorrow. I don’t do “dirty,” so a couple of hours watching the spin cycle in an iffy laundromat is in order.

And from there, I’m going to Askrigg (where the “proper” All Creatures was filmed) and thence to Thirsk (the actual town Wight and his colleagues lived and worked in). I have been to both before. But I want my own pictures from them; and my daughter, who has come to love the Herriot works, deserves something of her own from the museum in Thirsk, which doubles as a James Herriot retail outlet.

More pictures from me tomorrow (but — I promise — not from the laundromat. Ha!)

AND ANOTHER THING: This (see below) greeted me on my way around Bowness on Windermere this afternoon; cuisine barely preferable to hunger, to be sure…that poster reading “Discover the Hot Fresh Domino’s App” is actually a digital billboard which, as I tried to get the picture, offered “Any Pizza For £12.95” (or in Australian dollars, $21.95 at today’s rates). For $21.95, one can buy four (4) Domino’s pizzas in Australia using a supermarket receipt voucher — not that you’d want to — and even then, they’re a rip-off. Why anyone would pay £12.95 for ONE (and think it’s a bargain, let alone worth eating at all) is beyond me…

Like the so-called “Golden Arches,” there’s no escaping some things, regrettably.
Woodstock, Windermere, Winston and the Windy Pig

September 3rd, 2022

Winston Churchill’s final resting place in the Spencer-Churchill burial area at St Martin’s Church, Bladon.

I should begin with an apology for last night’s rather half-arsed addition to this online travel journal; I was exhausted, and while in truth I’m no better this evening — it’s been a 240 mile drive today in and around a couple of other things — and so come midnight I will either be asleep or preparing to be so (and this is from someone whose idea of “lights out” is generally 2am).

That photograph you see at the top of the post is how the grave of one of the greatest Englishmen in history, Sir Winston Churchill, appeared when I photographed it this morning; more on that shortly, for before I made the short trek (and it is a trek) from Woodstock to Bladon, I took a couple of photographs of the historic town of Woodstock (in which Blenheim is based) that I would like to share.

Oxford Road, Woodstock: this is the through route, leading to Blenheim Castle and Bladon to the south.

Like many of the thousands of picturesque villages dotted across the United Kingdom (and particularly in a place like Oxfordshire, which is one of the prettier boroughs in England), Woodstock was charming: friendly and welcoming people, great places to go and see, and a gorgeous spot of countryside…

…but the accommodations left quite a bit to be desired on the part of an establishment peddling pristine images of a perfectly maintained property on its website, whilst having the unmitigated gall to charge £110 per night for the reality of broken drains, cracked bathroom tiles, ancient stained carpets, the miserly stipend of half a roll of toilet paper, and a near-total lack of ventilation betraying the lie.

Market Street, Woodstock: the main market street (like the sign says, of course). The offending hotel IS visible here…

I am flirting with posting a “hits and misses” scorecard when I get back to Melbourne to share some travel tips…this place will certainly be omitted from my recommendations (although, ridiculously enough, it served up the best omelette I have EVER had for breakfast this morning. Go figure).

As I tried to explain in my last post, there are plenty of knockers who, when told of a trip like this one, scoff and say, “how boring!” One can only opine that the loss is theirs; these historic old towns are interesting — they don’t have to be famous for much, although some of the ones I’m visiting obviously are — and it’s hard to understate the value of getting out into the countryside, with lots of sweet fresh air (and often fresh salt air, as I’m taking in a lot of coast), doing plenty of long walks and even longer drives. It isn’t like there aren’t people about — I’ve spent just as much time talking and laughing, with old friends and new friends, as I have on my own.

But I digress.

My last act of business in Oxfordshire — having inspected Blenheim Palace yesterday — was to do what I have made a personal tradition whenever I am in Britain: that is, to visit the grave of Sir Winston Churchill, and to pay my respects.

As I said last night, the free world owes Winston a debt; the debt is a continuing one, but a glance at the state of the world today makes one wonder whether his legacy of freedom and liberty is being squandered, but that’s a discussion for another time, and in another place, to be sure.

As I discovered the first time I decided to visit Winston’s grave in 2008, it’s not easy to find despite being in what doesn’t even pass for a one-street town — Bladon, a mile and a half from Woodstock — and it’s not even a case of “blink and you’ll miss it:” it’s tucked away up a side street, and if you don’t know what you’re looking for, you simply won’t find it.

Churchill is buried — in a familial burial yard with many of his ancestors, other relatives, his wife and his children — at St Martin’s Parish Church in Bladon; to approach from the “road” — once you’ve found it — is suggestive of very little. The building itself, while dating only from the 1890s in its current form, looks tired, and an old graveyard as one enters the churchyard screams of dilapidation.

St Martin’s Parish Church, Bladon, Oxfordshire.

It is believed a church has occupied the site for at least 1,000 years, with partial records dating to the eleventh century predating a mediaeval church that was demolished in 1802, with Churchill’s ancestor George Spencer, 4th Duke of Marlborough, funding the construction of a new church in 1804. This was partly rebuilt in 1891, and remains the current incarnation of the church today.

Behind that church, however, is a second graveyard: no bigger than the rundown cemetery at the front, but immaculately presented, well maintained, and as pretty as a picture. It should come as no surprise that most of the people buried in it are from the Spencer-Churchill clan; the construction of Blenheim Palace and the Marlborough dukedom ensconced the Spencer-Churchills as the pre-eminent aristocratic family in the area, and unlike some of their contemporaries there is plenty to suggest they were benevolent and very generous in their approach to commoners (which should also come as no surprise).

I won’t share the conversation I had with Winston.

But it was a still, heavy morning in Oxfordshire this morning — as it was the first time I went to St Martin’s — and as I entered the Churchill family burial area, a swift and robust gust of wind passed through the graveyard: then subsided completely. The same thing happened in 2008. It was very difficult not to surmise someone was aware of one’s presence. And I have to say, these visits to Sir Winston are surprisingly emotional events.

I wouldn’t miss visiting Winston when in Britain for anything – but these are surprisingly emotional, taxing affairs.

Once the “formalities” were out of the way, it was into the church to see what had been left out for visitors to buy; when I went to St Martin’s in 2008, I bought two stunning photographic prints — one of Winston in his office, the other of the grave prior to a subsequent restoration — for £10 each, and to the horror of my ex-wife had them professionally framed when we returned to Melbourne (which cost $300: many times more than the value of the photographs). This time I bought some replicas of old war-era postcards bearing slogans (such as “Winnie Will Get Us Through!”) and a CD of British ceremonial music: something that’s suprisingly hard to get really, considering the British have some of the best pomp and ceremony music of any country.

Inside St Martin’s: the worn exterior belies a beautiful interior space and magnificent stained glass windows.

Anything sold goes toward funding the maintenance and upkeep of the building, so I don’t mind spending a tenner or two there when I visit: I will likely leave a small bequest to the St Martin’s Church Trust “when the time comes” — albeit not for several decades yet, if I have anything to do with it — so a little bit now doesn’t hurt.

It was nice to have a few moments of solitude in there too…to reflect, collect my thoughts, and move on with the day.

And speaking of solitude, I had another six-hour dose of it after leaving Bladon late this morning; what should have taken a lot less time — driving from Oxfordshire to the Lakes District — was prolonged by roadworks on the M6 Motorway that created 50 miles of thickly congested traffic that at times barely crawled, dragging the average speed down by about 20mph.

Tonight, I’m staying in Windermere, in Cumbria: a classic Lakes District town, and one very close to William Wordsworth’s infamous daffodils, which I will attempt to get a look at tomorrow before I head up to North Yorkshire — James Herriot country — for the weekend.

If I’m honest, the night in Windemere is a bit of a bonus, and a partly unplanned one; I’ve never been to the Lakes District before this, and it looked impossible to incorporate a stay on this particular trip as I was planning it out. Even so, there was no need to stay longer in Oxfordshire; I couldn’t stay longer in Cornwall before that than I did; and while I have two nights in a gorgeous bed and breakfast in Yorkshire (it’s the ONLY property I’m staying in that was on the itinerary in 2008), it couldn’t be stretched to three nights.

So a night near lakes and daffodils it is: a quick visit, but perhaps better than no visit, and as the Yorkshire town I’m staying in isn’t actually that far away, I can spend most of tomorrow having a good look around before I go.

Hopefully when I post again tomorrow, I may have some lovely daffodils to show, and some snapshots of one of the lakes. It was getting dark by the time I finally made it here this afternoon, so photos — even of the lovely bed and breakfast I’m in for the night — had to wait.

Oh, and the “windy pig?”

I did get to have an excellent dinner at The Pig (apparently known locally as “the windy pig,” for reasons best known to the Cumbrians). A sweet pea and smoked ham soup followed by an awesome piece of pork belly, perfectly crackled and served with creamed potatoes, broccolini, apple sauce and red wine jus, and — of course — a lemon tart. Absolutely splendid!

AND ANOTHER THING: What idiot (and I use this phraseology advisedly) goes to motorway services to gamble? I’m a big fan of Britain’s motorway services system, which offers road travellers a safe stop with passable food options, patrolled toilets, well lit spaces, frequent opportunities to refuel cars and other conveniences, but this?

Each to his own of course, but I think this is just too much.

Stop to fuel your car, eat a Whopper and have a crap, and put your fortnight’s salary down a slot machine. Yeah, right.
From The Sublime, to the Exquisite, to Judging a Book by its Contents Page

September 1st, 2022

With the very keenest of regret, I’ve left Tintagel and Cornwall behind, as my sweep around and across the United Kingdom gathers pace; the first stop on this onward movement was a spontaneous and partly unexpected treat (and a tip for next time, if I’m honest). But all travel experiences have highs and lows, and it pains me to report that my overnight stop in North Devon is not somewhere I would recommend.

Time to say goodbye: one long, last look over the Cornish coast from Tintagel. The last for now, of course.

I shot a short video, from my vantage point in front of the Camelot Castle Hotel this morning, but I couldn’t add it to this post (and if anyone knows how to do that, tell me. Please!) I did however also take the photograph above, and with those two pieces of media safely in hand, I hopped into my hire car, and left.

Cornwall has long been a favourite place of mine, but this visit has affected me very deeply, to the point — I’m not ashamed to admit it — I was quite emotional and upset to leave Tintagel today. But I will return: and, God willing, it won’t take another 14 years to get my feet back on British soil, as it did this time.

I’m staying in the North Devon town of Barnstaple this evening (and more on that soon) but the drive across from Tintagel wasn’t long, and I was here soon after noon. Another little job relating to my writing projects — this time to verify some research I did remotely late last year in readiness to start writing my first novel — was in order, and so before I checked into my hotel, I headed to Combe Martin and “the hangmen:” Great Hangman and Little Hangman, the latter being the object of my interest.

Little Hangman in Exmoor, North Devon.

There was bad news at first: my assumptions about their accessibility were wrong, and I would need to rewrite a small portion of my draft; there was however a solution in terms of access, which I could incorporate into my story fairly easily, and so aside from the fact I couldn’t personally stand atop Little Hangman today (to do so would require a three-hour return walk up a steep slope) this bad news turned out not to be an issue.

The good news was that as a result of this discovery, other substantial threads of my plot actually become a lot stronger due to the change I have to make: it vindicates the decision to go and see for myself, for of course without credibility and integrity, my storylines would be worthless.

And I was fortunate to learn all of this through an accidental discovery: after roaring through narrow country lanes around Ilfracombe and Combe Martin at 40 and 50 miles per hour — desperately hoping not to meet a car coming the other way — I stumbled on what must count as one of Devon’s hidden gems: The Hunter’s Inn, at the edge of the moor on which the hangmen announce its border with the coast.

The Hunter’s Inn, Exmoor, North Devon. (Image: Wikipedia Commons)

Happily enough, one of the full time managers on duty — a Devon local — had spent a lot of her spare time hiking all over the moors, including the two hangmen, and proved a repository of detailed wisdom about them which I smugly hoovered up. The hangmen are more or less inaccessible by car, she said…and then explained how they could be accessed easily, albeit in a time consuming way, along the “coast path” from Combe Martin. Brilliant.

And as an aside…next time I come to south-west England, The Hunter’s Inn could be a good place to spend a night or two — particularly if an exploration of the moors, and/or the hangmen, is in order. It’s nestled in a super-secluded spot amid acres and acres of lush forest and grassland, in a beautiful old building that I believe has recently been acquired by the National Trust (I know…them again). But the location is excellent and the food menu looked great too, and whilst my preference in Devon is to stay in Dartmouth (which I have periodically flirted with as a place to “retire” — i.e. sit by the water and write books), this might be an acceptable substitute if my preferred spot on the River Dart isn’t an option.

For sadly enough, Barnstaple doesn’t cut the ice.

Every time I think quietly to myself about how much I love Britain, a place like this is thrown into my path: bleak, desolate, with unruly gangs of kids roaming streets which are punctuated by a plethora of empty shops and abandoned livelihoods. Very simply, there’s nothing here, and I say that with enormous reservations and, indeed, sadness. This just isn’t a face of Devon the outside world is meant to see.

Downtown Barnstaple: not a happening place.

I’m not being horrible. The food options are cheap, mostly trashy, and some of the eateries look like fronts for (ahem) other types of businesses altogether; the town itself isn’t attractive — I’m talking about the built environment, architecture, public amenity — and you get the sense that this is one of those places you don’t come to if you don’t have a functional reason or purpose to be here. Unless you happen to have been born in the nearby North Devon hospital: then you’re likely stuck here for good.

Once again, I’m not being horrible: in fact, I’m only judging the place on what is openly, and abundantly, obvious.

I wish the good people of Barnstaple every good fortune in the world, but I’m off tomorrow, and can only say I’m happy to be on my way.

But that’s travel, isn’t it? 🙂
Pictures, Pasties and Ice Cream: Days Well Spent in Tintagel, Cornwall

August 31st, 2022

NEAR THE END of my two-day stay in Tintagel (with some reluctance to leave), it’s been time well spent in one of my favourite places on the planet: there are several such places on my itinerary during this trip, which is surely part of the point. But the work I had to do here is done; I have explored this wild, rocky part of the beauteous Cornish coast — framed by undulating fields that are still green in parts despite drought across Britain — and made my own judgements on two of the things that make Cornwall world famous: its pasties and its ice cream.

As most of us in Australia are only too well aware, drought = brown and dry, and brown and dry = fire risk: especially if some idiot flicks a cigarette butt into a clump of dry undergrowth and walks away…today the consequences of this were all too obvious, as the spectacular Cornish seascape had something unwanted added to it this morning, which smouldered away for hours despite the best efforts of local firefighters.

Not a noted tourist attraction in Cornwall, to be sure.

Had it happened somewhere dry fuel loads were concentrated in far greater quantities, there’s no telling how bad the carnage might have been. Fortunately, this was at the lower end of the scale of possible adverse outcomes — and so, we move on.

I can’t sing in praise of Tintagel loudly enough; aside from the palaver of actually getting to it, as I mentioned yesterday (which, counterintuitively, is perfect for the purpose I sought to research it), it’s gorgeous, populated by friendly people, is comfortable to stay in and explore, and — unlike some places in Britain — has some pretty good food experiences on offer, although they’re not Chelsea restaurant quality, just to be clear.

As I noted yesterday I’ve been staying at the Camelot Castle Hotel, which is part-owned by renowned British artist Ted Stourton, whose paintings (and there are many) adorn the corridors, common areas, formal zones and all of the accommodation rooms at the hotel, which itself is a castle (albeit not the famed Tintagel Castle, whose ruins are picked over by Arthurian history buffs from across the world: more on that later).

The car park at Camelot features another of Ted’s artworks: his Aston Martin DB7. Purists and motoring enthusiasts, take a deep breath — the Aston has been wrapped in printed vinyl, not painted over.

I’ve had the benefit of a couple of really good conversations with Ted while I’ve been here, and I’d like to stay in contact with him; despite his own success — and a reputation that rightly continues to grow — he is very available to his guests, knowledgeable about local history, and particularly keen to offer guidance and mentorship to artists in all disciplines and genres, not just painters. In this regard we had a great chat about the book projects I am working on, and I appreciated his counsel greatly. Whether aspiring creatively or simply looking for an excellent place to stay, however, Camelot Castle Hotel is deserving of patronage — not least on account of its thoroughly decent ownership and the culture of excellence that has flowed from that to the staff. Well done, and thank you!

The Great Hall at Camelot Castle Hotel, replete with a genuine harp and a “Knights of the Round Table” area.

Over the past couple of days I must have walked almost twenty miles; from Camelot to the Tintagel high street is (at my brisk pace) a 20-minute return walk, and I’ve done it six times today alone. One of the great things is that everything in this delightful little village is nearby, and I don’t think walking everywhere is going to kill anyone should they choose to do so: in my own case, maybe I’ll walk off a few of the 15-20 extra pounds that appeared after I quit smoking cigarettes if this type of thing continues for the duration of my trip.

But without giving too much away (all will be revealed in due course, provided the books I’m writing are published once eventually complete) it’s been a very satisfactory visit to Tintagel for research purposes; it’s no secret this has been chosen as one of the locations for what I’m working on, but how it fits (and exactly where, in terms of a trilogy of novels) can remain a mystery to others in my view, for now at least.

Merlin’s Cave, Tintagel Beach, as seen descending down Glebe Cliff from the Tintagel high street (Atlantic Road).

Nobody will ever know conclusively whether King Arthur was a real person, or simply a local legend; either way, the ancient lore of Camelot and the knights of the round table have charmed, haunted, entertained and inspired for literally hundreds of years. In some respects it doesn’t really matter whether the story is true or not: but the ruins of Tintagel Castle — reputed to be King Arthur’s seat — attract enthusiasts from across the world, and while the castle is of little interest to me in terms of my writing activities, the coast is another story: see Merlin’s Cave in the image above.

What I did discover this afternoon — almost to my chagrin — is that stories of Cornwall’s lightning-fast tides are no myth at all; I got talking to a lovely English girl between taking pictures and making notes, and within the space of 20 minutes (and being somewhat distracted) the incoming tide had advanced close to thirty feet. Interestingly, fresh tide marks inside Merlin’s Cave are visible about ten feet off the sand level: have another look at the image I’ve posted, and imagine the cave at least half full of water. As children, we read stories about the Famous Five playing on the water at “Kirrin” (which is somewhere in Cornwall — that’s a fact — but exactly where, I don’t know). Today, I got to see the surging, swirling, rising tide Enid Blyton’s characters had such fun playing chicken with for myself.

And to be sure, I wouldn’t want to get trapped on that beach after another 20 minutes or so on the incoming tide; the water isn’t as calm as it looks, and the rocks look…sharp, to say the least…

While I’ve been here, I’ve made it my business to sample (the bounds of moderation permitting) the local offer in two of the things Cornwall is famous for across the world: its pasties and its ice cream. In the case of the latter, a blackcurrant and Cornish clotted cream ice cream sealed a runaway win in my view for one of a plethora of local dairy firms with shopfronts in the high street: Kelly’s of Cornwall. If you come to this part of England, indulgence is mandatory.

£5.50 for two scoops. Money well spent. Don’t take my word for it; come to Tintagel and try it for yourself.

(As an aside, I now have upon my person a traditional recipe for making Cornish clotted cream: and with some of the premium milks now sold by specialty providores in Melbourne with high milkfat and cream content, my children and I will have a crack at making it when next they come for a weekend at my place when I get back to Australia in a few weeks’ time).

The pasties were a two-horse race: one bakery was tastier and cheaper; the other was more generous in the size of its portions. I stuck to the traditional beef, onion and potato variety that is the traditional Cornish pasty: and should you find yourself in Tintagel, pay these people a visit.

The Cornish Bakery edges out its competition across the road on the question of the best local pasty in Tintagel.

My “razzy” award — a golden raspberry to the worst operator in town — has to go to English Heritage, which seems to think charging £20 to walk along the beachfront is an appropriate impost on tourists. (I didn’t pay, for the record). The same organisation was selling an “English Heritage” edition of Monopoly for £50 per set, which is utter highway robbery, notwithstanding novelty/co-branding/souvenir surcharge considerations. For the uninitiated, English Heritage and its rival, the National Trust, between them control access to many of Britain’s best-known and most sought-after attractions, be they buildings, landmarks, or (it seems) dirt and rock too. It was the National Trust that wanted £20 to get into Chartwell had I been able to get there during its truncated opening hours. Readers will note there is no endorsement, or pictorial support, for either of these organisations in this post.

And while the King Arthur’s Arms Inn looked fine, and with a good fish and chippery and several other decent-looking eateries, what started with a pizza last night finished with spicy Tuscan tomato soup and an awesome spaghetti and meatball dinner this evening: simple, rustic Italian fare that was a comforting revelation, and The Olive Garden is worth trying should you ever visit Tintagel.

Understated, simple and good — very good. The Olive Garden was a happy discovery in Tintagel.

Simply stated, Tintagel has been a wonderful place to visit.

Tomorrow I’m going north, to North Devon and the township of Barnstaple, before starting my pivot northward in the more general sense later in the week, heading first to Oxfordshire and thence beyond the Midlands to the Lakes District and North Yorkshire.

And, finally, the antibiotic crimp on my activities is now 48 hours away from being dispensed with, which means I can have a drink soon — and this has prevented me from drinking the best beer on the planet, The Proper Job, an IPA Cornish Ale that simply isn’t available in Australia; more’s the pity.

But at least I’ll be able to drink the whisky when I get to Islay in ten days’ time…to do otherwise would be, as a Scottish Australian heading to the old country, an absolute bloody heresy!
By Tre, Pol and Pen Shall Ye Know Cornishmen…

August 30th, 2022

…and for all that, I’m in Tintagel; it doesn’t sound like it lives up to the billing really, until one notes it’s actually known locally as Trevena: and so, like scores of other towns and hamlets across Britain’s rugged, beautiful south-west, Tintagel fits the formula by which shall ye know Cornishmen.

For the first time in the week and a half since I arrived in Britain, it’s actually pleasantly cool; part of this derives from the fact the first couple of places I stayed in after leaving London were heritage listed out of being allowed to install air conditioning in their buildings (does this shit sound familiar to readers in Melbourne?), and part of it derives from the fact I’m on the coast, with an open window, and a lovely seaside breeze is filtering pleasantly into my room.

But first things first: I posted a picture of sunset over the River Exe in Topsham last night; perhaps sunset shots will become a mainstay of the remainder of this trip — and perhaps they won’t — but here’s one overlooking the water from my hotel.

Sunset over the water as seen from Tintagel, Cornwall.

What a labyrinthine, convoluted place Cornwall is; on my last trip to Britain I stayed in Penzance (about 40 minutes further south on the M5 Motorway) which is literally a drive-in, drive-out type of destination; Tintagel is a different proposition altogether, with the last 20 miles of my drive after leaving the M5 spent navigating spidery laneways barely wide enough for one vehicle, let alone two, at speeds of less than 20 miles per hour and on roads probably unfit to travel on even that quickly. And after leaving the M5 at Launceston (pronounced “Lansen”, for the benefit of any Taswegians reading), perhaps 30 different towns were signposted — and passed — en route to Tintagel.

And then…as if from nowhere, a thriving, bustling little town centre sprang into view; I took some photographs of it after businesses began closing, as today was a Bank Holiday in Britain, and the high street you see below was teeming with thousands of people just a few hours ago.

Thousands flocked to Tintagel for the August Bank Holiday today…and thankfully, most of them were gone by 7pm.

I’m staying in an old castle — the Camelot Castle Hotel — and I expect I may have more to report on this when next I post; I met the owner this evening (who lives onsite), and he’s given me a tantalising snapshot of the history of the place, but I expect there’s a lot more to be learned. I’m catching up with him again tomorrow, but already I know, for example, that a Dracula film was shot here; Sir Edward Elgar wrote one of his symphonies whilst staying here; other luminaries over the past two centuries have ties to the property; and even monks have a connection to it through their work at the old Tintagel Castle — now in ruins on an island just off the Tintagel coast — stretching back centuries.

The Camelot Castle Hotel, Tintagel, as seen this afternoon as I arrived and readied to check in.

What I have also learned (and this is where I become a bit subterranean and euphemistic about what I say) is that what I have already ascertained about the area, its history, and those of its features that are little-known these days — after all, this place has a history stretching back well over 1,000 years — are perfect for the purpose I wanted to research for one of my novels.

Tintagel was the legendary seat of King Arthur: its high street is filled with merchants selling everything from wizardry artefacts based on Merlin to eponymous pubs and cafes seeking to eke out a living by trading off the Arthurian past.

If nature calls in Tintagel, be sure to have your 20p ready: I was astonished (and disgusted) to see this barrier at the entrance to a “public” toilet block. Apparently it’s to offset the cost of water. In reality, it’s despicable.

Frankly, I thought the pizza dinner I had at the Olive Garden — a lovely Italian-run bistro at the eastern end of the high street — was better than what any of these establishments might offer. The model for designing and ordering pizza was a masterstroke: here’s your basic margherita pizza for £9; now add ingredients to it for £1 apiece.

I’m not going to specify which ingredients I added — I don’t want to fuel the bullshit debate about whether pineapple belongs on pizza, for example, or whether in fact anything aside from tomato, cheese and basil belongs on it at all.

People should order what they like, and what tastes good. It is a matter of fact that irrespective of whatever does or doesn’t “belong” on pizza, there are thousands of purveyors of bloody awful pizza worldwide that isn’t fit to feed the dog if taste is the main criterion on which it is judged. To that end, I am happy to report the fare at the Olive Garden was delicious. It was regrettable when the last bite was the only one left on my plate.

I’ll be back to post again tomorrow, and perhaps I’ll show a little more of where I’m staying. But it’s great to be back in Cornwall, and tomorrow is a big day in terms of detailed, painstaking research to ensure I can write authoritatively about the place when I go back to Melbourne — even though the option to walk down the main street, for example, won’t be available on a whim — and even if it takes a little while to get to the third of the three novels I’m working on.

After all, the first one is only just nearing the point I can start to think about tarting it around to prospective publishers. There’s more to do in the series before I get onto what I have in mind to set here 🙂
The Longest Trip To Kent In Recorded History

August 28th, 2022

Yesterday was a fun — albeit frustrating — day on the road, starting with picking up a hire car at Heathrow shortly after 1pm, and then heading off from Chiswick on the 70-mile drive to Royal Tunbridge Wells just after 2.30pm…and arriving shortly after 7pm. It doesn’t take a mathematical genius to deduce this was a slow trek to Kent indeed.

And yesterday, there was a punchline, too: more on that later.

It may be that I lulled myself into a false sense of security: an inspection of the map at home in Melbourne showed that provided I found the entrance to the M4 Motorway after collecting my car, the exit to the Chiswick High Road was simply a matter of keeping my eyes open.

It was supposed to be a Fiat (and thank God it wasn’t), but this “environmentally nice” hybrid is gutless on a freeway.

And so it proved.

But that same planning session — I freely admit — coincided with a laissez faire assessment of the subsequent challenge of navigating away from London; getting out by car had been a cinch the last time I did a road trip here, and armed with a huge touring atlas book I bought in 2008, Google Maps, and various internet-based directions services, I was confident I could be in Westerham to visit Chartwell, the former residence of Sir Winston Churchill, before it closed at 4.30pm.

Wrong.

Lesson one: don’t trust online maps and directions…they’re hard enough to decipher at the best of times, and one becomes so obsessed over street names and where to turn that any progress actually made evades recognition.

In fact — following Google closely — I missed the turn out of the Chiswick High Road to head south, missed the first three turns and had to do U-turns for a second crack at them (and U-turns in inner London are logistical exercises in themselves), and ended up back at my hotel in Chiswick through another incorrect direction…and had to start again.

Eventually, 90 minutes later, I was confident I had departed Chiswick.

And this milestone (and it had indeed been but a few miles at this point) coincided with the realisation that if I simply ignored the street directions I was being given — and focused instead on heading toward each suburb as directed by various street signs, as I knew their order well even though I didn’t know the roads — then actual progress could be made. Soon enough I had made it through Twickenham, Kingston, Surbiton…moving steadily but inexorably toward the M25 Motorway and England’s south-east.

But even here, I’d sabotaged myself.

The one stop I made on my sojourn through London’s salubrious southern suburbs — at a pub near Kingston, and as much to reassure myself I was finally heading in the right direction as anything else — elicited the advice that I should get off the M25 at the Sevenoaks turnoff, after which the route to Tunbridge Wells would be clearly signposted.

It wasn’t, as I discovered 40 miles later.

A call to the hotel I was staying at elicited further directions that also proved circuitous, and finally — after yet another stop at yet another pub for yet another set of directions, I was given a reliable route to take that had me at the target 20 minutes later: nearly five hours after setting forth on a 70 mile field trip.

But I said there was a punchline: there was a surprise waiting for me when I finally arrived at Royal Tunbridge Wells.

Not the sort of hotel you’d expect to find in oh-so-proper Kent. “Howdy partners,” indeed.

I knew I’d booked an American-themed hotel to stay in for the night at Tunbridge Wells, but I was astonished to see this: it would have been the most natural thing in the world to encounter such an establishment in the Arizona of the 1800s. Or, at least, if it didn’t appear to have been built in the car park of a massive Sainsbury’s supermarket (I later learned the supermarket was built around it).

The punningly-named Smith and Western Hotel is situated in a disused train station abandoned decades ago.

Having been for a walk after I arrived to the Lower Pantiles — where a friend of mine opened a restaurant six or seven years ago — I decided to eat at the hotel’s restaurant, the Cattle Shack; I had half a rack of barbecued pork ribs, served with a delicious coleslaw laced with chopped chillies, as an entree. I can count on the fingers of one hand (with plenty of room to spare) the number of times I’ve eaten ribs before: tasteless, stringy and tough, they’re something I couldn’t be bothered with. But these were highly recommended by the cheery waitress who served me, and proved such a revelation I’m now contemplating experimenting with cooking them when I get back to Melbourne.

The main course was a perfectly grilled cajun salmon fillet, which came with fluffy Mexican-style rice and some sauteed vegetables (including jalapenos…yum). But the dessert, a lemon meringue pie (I did say I can’t resist ordering lemon tarts when they appear on menus) was about 90% meringue, and what little lemon filling there was had the consistency and appearance of Clag, which many of us will remember from primary school.

And I didn’t partake of any of the American beverages on offer at the bar: as a result of my excursion to the NHS in Hammersmith on Friday, I’m on antibiotics for a few days, and alcohol isn’t a great idea at such a time.

“Ranch rooms” indeed: Cherokee, Navajo, Apache…mine was called Mohawk. No room numbers here.

On the whole though, this place was fun, vibrant, unpretentious and very pleasantly staffed, and if Claire’s boss ever reads this, give her a pay rise 🙂 . There was one noisy, noisome individual on staff who seemed to find it acceptable to flatulate fragrantly as he ferried food to customers (and Mr “American Cowboy in Training,” with the long, dark, greasy hair, I’m looking at you) but as Catriona Rowntree once told me — speaking of her own travel adventures — I’m not going to mark a good place down because of one dickhead.

The only other point I’d make is that while the rooms were brilliant, there was no air conditioning, and the heat-retaining old red brick building makes this an unpleasantly warm night in summer: something to keep in mind.

Make sure there’s a stock of toilet paper in the room when you arrive, too: the half-roll I was provided with was pretty miserly.

Overall, I’d give the Smith and Western eight out of ten: it isn’t fine dining and doesn’t pretend to be; it’s a good concept well executed. As for its resident farting lummox, perhaps he should clean up his act, for everyone’s sake. But that’s not my problem and it’s not feedback I’m willing to provide directly. Just think about that for a moment…

And what of the restaurant in the Pantiles my friend started? It was nowhere to be seen. I am going to have to try to find out what happened there while I’m in England if I can.

The Pantiles, Royal Tunbridge Wells, Kent.

Today, after heading up to Westerham to see if I can get into Chartwell, given I missed out yesterday, I’m heading to Exeter — a 200 mile drive that, by rights, should take less time than my trip from Chiswick to Tunbridge Wells yesterday — but we’ll see…stay posted.

The Duke of York, Tunbridge Wells: wouldn’t you change the name, at least for a while?