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The caravan is to earn its keep this year so we have spent the last fortnight preparing it for a summer season of paying guests. It’s not all been hard work though, we have been out and about between the rain and generally just enjoying Dorset.

We always enjoy Lulworth Cove and today was warm and sunny. We were both surprised by the balmy weather.

On the way down to the cove we passed a house with this out the front. Most houses these days have a lavatory and some houses have a conservatory but this house had a bucketry.

The air was still and the sun shone and the coat came of. Still it was warm so I peeled of my jumper as well. Not to be outdone by the kids in the water I treated myself to a seaside paddle. In March? It was very cold but very, very enjoyable!

We decided to have an overnight stop at Oxford on our way down to Weymouth. I wanted to visit the Ashmolean museum but sods law decreed that it was closed on Mondays. Never mind, we had a wander round Christchurch College which is very beautiful.

The statue of a past Dean of Christchurch – Cyril Jackson met us at one point and I was mesmerised by the eyes. Wife suggested it was one of those human statues covered in paint but I dare not touch his knee in case he winked at me.

This is the fellows dining hall and if it seems familiar it maybe because it was used for the shooting of scenes in J.K. Rowling Harry Potter films.

A collection of Christchurch plate was displayed in a glass case and I was quite taken by this splendid chalice & patten. It is inlaid with pearls and is quite a pretty piece.

Out on the streets we passed a traditional albeit posh sweet shop and I had to take a couple of pics even if it was for the colours.

Closer to home I had parked the car and looking up I spotted this startling creation through an upstairs window.

I followed the path round and climbed some stairs and was invited into a shop by a very pleasant young woman. I asked if I might be allowed to take a picture of the dress and she very kindly took it from the window and allowed me to take a photo.

“One good turn deserves another” she exclaimed and asked if I could give her a plug. Here she is:

“Dusk till Dawn”
Dress hire for the special occasion – hire or buy.
Student Prom Nights 10% off.
01234 712200
http://www.dusktdawn.co.uk/

Out on the street I found this lovely old Bentley parked up. It just looked so right in the setting of an old Georgian market square.

Travelled back home the long way through Tyringham estate and stopped to take this picture of Tyringham Hall. Can’t you just smell the port and cigars?

Quite recently visited one of our favourite places – St. Ives. Straddling the River Great Ouse this small, picturesque Cambridgeshire market town is closely associated with Oliver Cromwell who came to live here in 1631. Today “the farmer” stands watch over the shoppers on the market square.

Just a short walk and this lovely old bridge spans the river. The small building on the bridge is a tiny chapel.

On the way home we stopped of at Brampton. I have a keen interest in the diarist Samuel Pepys and I wanted to see the house he grew up in as a child. After a few wrong turns we eventually found it.

Pepys spent a very happy childhood here playing in the surrounding fields and woodland and delighted recording in his diary how he had spent many happy hours “playing with my little bow and arrow”.

Spring has definitely arrived and a slow stroll down to the river at Newton Blossomville in the sunshine was a pleasure. Like floral sunbursts the clumps of huge marsh marigolds shone like gold against their green foliage and the delicately pretty Ladys Smock nodded in approval.

The trees had not yet put on leaf so I was ably to stand on the bridge and get a distant shot of Brafield House at the top of the hill as it looks out over the river valley.

And swivelling round another shot upstream.

We had a day out at Canons Ashby last week. It’s a National Trust place with a lot of work going on but there was still a lot to see. Work is in progress in the gardens but parts of the grounds were awash with spring flowers.

In the orchard underneath the old fruit trees were delicate red fritillaries and something neither of us has ever seen – white ones.

The side view of the house was best and this is it.



In the kitchen we found this. Now that’s what I call a range!

Our poor old country is going through difficult times indeed and spotting this suggests that Bedfordshire County Council are having to cut back on transport costs and use alternative means of transport for their library services.

Pip-pip chaps!

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It’s been a bit quiet just lately – well, it’s that time of year I suppose. We did wrap up well a week or so ago and drove over to Stoke Buerne to look at the canal. Even at this time of the year people were messing about in boats.

One such character at the tiller of a barge offered shouted remarks, ostensibly to his slightly embarrassed wife but in truth, for the benefit of us assembled spectators. She was opening the lock gates to let the boat through. As the doors came open to allow the craft through he bellowed in his best Brian Blessed style “Light, I see light!” I think his wife had probably seen the “light” well before but she loyally put her back to the door and bit her lip. As she heaved on the huge timber gate she surveyed the two dozen or so of us spectators and in a long suffering voice informed us “He’s always like this when he’s got an audience.”

We followed the towpath for a few hundred yards until it ended abruptly at the gaping black maw of Blissworth Tunnel. It was cold and damp and we could hear the receding, echoing voices of the folk on a barge which had just been swallowed up in the darkness of the tunnel.

I turned to wife and remarked that the place had a certain spookiness about it. It was only later that I discovered that the tunnel was a very well known “haunt” of various paranormal entities.

Up to Birmingham today to have a look at the Caravan & Boat Show. Not as good as last year. There were fewer exhibitors and fewer punters as well. Found a decent looking sort of craft which I fancied so we bought it.

However, I have never been one for taking unnecessary risks so we went back ten minutes later and ordered a second one just in case the first one breaks down :)

Have you ever tried to write a story? I find that trying to write creatively is like constipation – I know it’s inside me but getting it out is agony. So I am quite pleased that after a lot of effort I have managed to squeeze out the first chapter of my first story. Read it  if you will and pity my pain!

Being Little – Chapter One

The gathering gloom of dusk descended over the trees but some light still remained. A small human-like figure stood on a tree stump at the side of the track that wound its way through the darkening wood. Patiently he waited. From the ground the smell of rotten wood and mould rose on the cold dank air. It seeped into him like an icy finger. He shivered; but he shivered even more in anticipation as the sound of a ghostly shriek drifted on the air over, and through, thickets of oak and beech.

Again, and nearer now this time, came the wail; a sound which caused the little creature great excitement. He jumped from one foot to the other and clutched himself tightly as another shriek (now closer still) quivered through the cold, misty air. He wrapped his cloak closer round his thin, shivering body and waited.

Straining, his eyes searched for a sign of the source of the noise. He did not have to wait long. His heart missed a beat as he caught a glimpse of silvery vapour wafting over the tops of distant trees. “She’s coming, she’s coming”, he whispered under his breath; he farted nervously and his bladder threatened mutiny.

There was no mistake now; something really was coming, something large and noisy. He could hear the barking chuff-chuff as it got nearer.

A beam from a powerful lamp sliced through the gloom and a loud shrill “shweeeeee” echoed over the woodland. The twigs and leaves at the distant bend in the track were suddenly and violently swept aside. The little creatures face lit up as the most beautifully illuminated showman’s engine this side of Isambards kingdom, burst into view.

The throbbing, straining monster resplendent in maroon and gold towed a matching romany vardo equally fantastically decorated. The driver of the engine, a young woman clad in wind tossed flowing silk, brought the pumping, panting, shunting, hissing machine to a shuddering halt beside the tree stump and hollered loudly and plumily, “ Caccus m’duck – get up here and give us a kiss”

Almost unable to contain his excitement Caccus farted again….noisily, “nearly a trouser event there” he thought. His two inch tall body, big for a Nan, rose on a small cloud of glowing pink plasma to land fragrantly on the palm of the womans hand. She planted a warm kiss on his cheek and the little Nan blushed furiously. “Look at you”, she teased, “the glow from the firebox is making your face red”. His heart raced for her and her kindness at saving his embarrassment. Her nose wrinkled though as she caught his whiff and she wondered, not for the first time, how such a charming little fellow got to smell like a flatulent ferret.

She looked fondly at the little chap and he lowered his gaze shyly.” Now then you little bugger, take me to your leader”. She laughed happily and he giggled excitedly as he squatted down beside her onto a folded potato sack. She opened the steam regulator on the giant Burrell Dreadnought 3211 and yanked on the whistle chain. The magnificent chugging monster lurched forward and away they went in a clatter of spinning steel and swirling swathes of steamy smoke “shreeeeee – eeeeeeeee – eeeeeeee!!!

© Grampy

Our holiday in Gran Canaria was lovely. I will not go on to much about our lovely hotel as I have already written a review about it which if you are interested can be found here:

http://www.tripadvisor.co.uk/ShowUserReviews-g230095-d264627-r54152548-Maspalomas_Princess_Hotel-Maspalomas_Grand_Canary_Canary_Islands.html#CHECK_RATES_CONT

But here are a few photos of the grounds:

with resident ratter “Bruiser”

and his apprentice, “Gizmo”.

The beach and dunes are a pleasant twenty minute walk – warm though in the 70F temperatures -  but a taxi either there or back is cheap at 2.8 euros. You would likely feel a bit out of place on one stretch of the beach if you wore a swimming costume and did not speak German – that’s right folks – it’s the nudey bit. There’s nothing quite like an old and wobbly naked hausfrau to turn a man of his knackwurst!

We took a short bus ride along the coast to Puerto Mogan on one day. A really beautiful little port with neat houses and flowers everywhere. The resort is approached by a precipitous mountain road and wife was visibly moved as she held her breathe and gripped my arm as we negotiated one particular hair pin bend with a four hundred foot drop. I had wondered why the bus driver had signed himself with the cross at the start of the journey – now I knew!

We wanted a relaxing holiday so we were not to ambitious about doing a lot of travelling but what we did see was smashing – much nicer than Lanzarote.

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Out recently to Lyme Regis. Heavy rain all the way but I told wife that by the time we got there the sun would be shining – it was! (We still got wet though!) Bought a beautifully illustrated book bound in blue calf leather from an antique shop.

Documenting the First World War it is richly embellished with gold decoration and gold edged pages and weighs nearly a stone. I have had it looked at by an antiquarian bookseller. He believes that “this beautifully bound book” was the work of a gifted amateur who probably intended it to be a contribution to the Arts & Craft movement which was active at that time (1920’s) At a fiver it was a steal and as much as I admire the fabric and content of the book I am quite sure that someone out there on Ebay will admire it even more than me. And if you are wondering why that strange object is in the photo - wonder no more - its a plug for my new book............

On the journey back we stopped to have a look at the church of St. Candida at Whitchurch Canonicorum. In the church we were met by Sue – a churchwarden – who shared with us some of the churches history. It is the only church in the country to have a shrine complete with bones, the bones of St. Wite to be exact. It seems that St. Wite may have been a hermit living on cliffs nearby who also may have been a beacon lighter (to warn of seaborne attack). She may have been killed by an invading army of Danes coming in at Charmouth but nobody is sure of the exact facts. Neither is anyone sure how the shrine escaped Henry VIII’s reformation blitz or Cromwells vandals but it did and Sue explained that the story goes that the villagers spirited it away and hid it until it was safe for it to return.

This church and its shrine has been for centuries, a place of pilgrimage. Sick pilgrims would undertake long journeys to visit the shrine to find a cure for their afflictions. Take a look at a photo of the shrine:

The top is a stone casket containing a lead coffin which holds the bones of a fortyish woman (they have been checked out). Underneath are three holes in which the pilgrims would place their poorly body parts praying at the same time for a cure. Many years ago there existed a leper colony nearby and in those days there were also holes on the outside wall so that these poor people who were forbidden from entering the church could also take advantage of the saints remains. Pilgrims were expected to leave a gift for the saint and risked life and limb from marauding robbers in their approach to the church through thickly wooded country. The churchwarden painted a vivid picture of what it must have been like for hundreds to have come here for “the cure” and as if to emphasise the point, and while standing with our backs to the altar, she pointed out the distinct downward slope of the stone floor to the door at the rear of the church. “It made it easier to sluice the blood and vomit outside” she explained. History always has had the ability to shock and I found this a powerful example.
Incidentally – and I only remembered it after we had left to resume our journey home - the Bulgarian dissident, Georgi Markov who was assassinated in the 70’s near Waterloo Bridge by having a ricin pellet fired into his leg from an umbrella gun, is buried in the churchyard.
Taking a roundabout route back to the caravan we stopped at one point on the route and watched a buzzard perched atop a carcass enjoying a delicious meal of “road kill” pheasant. I was barely ten feet away from him and as we stopped he paused, looked up and fixed us with a beady stare. Wife remarked that the expression on his face was quite clear “It’s mine and I’m not sharing!” Shame I did not have the camera ready.

Brisk walk down to the beach and snapped these cormorants on the pier – first time I have seen them there. Looking toward Weymouth the beach was windswept and invigorating.

Visited an antiquarian bookshop in Dorchester and bought a leather bound copy of the 1922 edition of T.E.Lawrences’ “Seven Pillars of Wisdom”. Some people pray – I buy books! Outside in the car park we saw this tree.

I know that counting the rings in a tree tells you how old it is but this tree just seemed “tyred”!

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The two S’s left us this morning; they had a nice evening at the party last night. We were pleased to have their company and see them enjoying themselves.

Last year we found a pub in the small village of Plush here in Dorset. Today, we returned and enjoyed Sunday lunch. My ladies pork was a bit fatty but the venison I ordered was rare and succulent – served with roasted vegetables and accompanied by a glass of bitter beer from a tapped cask it was a delicious meal.

Wife remarked on folk in the pub – “snobby” was the descriptive word she used for them and yes, I agree to some extent. This is one of the last areas in the UK that nurtures the old British way of life with its class divisions and country pursuits. As a child of the fifties though, I find it comforting that these social values are still alive and well – just! All the same, I still can’t help thinking that we had lunch today in a pub that in this day and age is an oddity - a social museum even?  It was very nice though and I look forward to going back there.

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I have had technical problems which have prevented me from updating the blog for a little while. I think I have sorted it now so sorry to my thousands of readers if you thought I had forgotten you.

We had a grey and rain sodden trek down to Dorset on Saturday but it has brightened up and we have enjoyed warm sunshine since arriving.

A couple of nights before coming I fired up the laptop and connected to the hi-fi and we both watched a number of episodes on YouTube of “Last Choir Standing” – the human voice is capable of producing a vast range of sounds and when joined - as in a choir -  is unsurpassable by any instrument or orchestra. What we enjoyed that evening was quite simply,  uplifting. We will continue to search out more beautiful choral efforts. As olduns’ our human spirit needs this stuff like it needs water and Viagra, indispensable life essence.

It's nearly Armistice Day but I’d not thought of that when we diverted from our route to Rushden and turned into the Airfield Road at Poddington. We drove as far as we felt was polite – the control tower still there at the end of the road. It’s been converted to a house now but they have done it well and the external observation balcony with its steel railing is still in place. Returning back down the road we stopped at the American memorial and I snapped some shots here:

The marble of the memorial commemorates the men of the 92nd Bombardment Group (H) who flew missions from here and were posted as missing or killed in action. Lots of young men who would now be old men - with grandchildren – and with stories to tell and love to share. Many, like me, will not forget what they sacrificed and I know that others like me will remember them for their bravery.

Expecting a visit to the caravan shortly from S’s who wants me to make fishcakes for them. While on the subject of fish, I am reminded of another fishy moment a few days ago in a certain branch of TESCO where we asked to have a whole salmon filleted. Turns out that the bloke who normally does it is away sick and it’s left to this dozey middle aged fish hating brunette to serve us. As she handled the fish she was retching and had us in stitches as she recounted that on being deputed to the fish counter a few days previously, she had attempted to bag up a fresh salmon for a customer. Now salmon are slippery right? – everyone knows that - but she didn’t: Even dead, the salmon objected to being confined to a plastic bag and demonstrated its displeasure by launching itself into the main aisle of the supermarket and very nearly taking out an old lady with her shopping trolley. If only a younger woman could have speared the careening fish with a well placed stiletto heal we might have witnessed the first example of salmon surfing seen in a supermarket.

Recently watched this heron circle lazily over our house and land on the roof opposite – what? – on the roof? Strange behaviour for a water wading bird I thought. Was it simply admiring the view or just looking for a higher plaice……..?

Came back from Yeovil yesterday and decided to take a roundabout route well away from the beaten track. This photo gives you an idea why they are called “beaten tracks” – this one was very beaten indeed. Very shortly after I took the picture, the road became a river as well.

We visited the cider museum today as it was “open day”. They showed us the traditional way of making scrumpy cider. It was all very unhygienic and ethnic; the apples were in an old trailer, muddy and half rotten. They were given a token wash in an old bath full of very muddy water. Next, they went through an ancient apple mangle and then shovelled on to layers of straw in the juice press with a shovel that looked like it had just mucked out the pigs. I tasted the juice which was expressed, it was sweet and pleasant but as a precaution I have programmed Dorchester Hospitals number into my mobile phone.

Shortly after we did our supermarket shop – our checkout lad was passing our stuff through the till when he suddenly doubled over with his hands over his face and gave a massively snotty sneeze. With an embarrassing glance he wiped his palms on a paper towel and carried on checking our items through: that’s right I thought – now go and contaminate all our food – then I remembered the cider……….!

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Some time ago now I spotted a nice framed and glazed oil painting in a charity shop which we have handed over to be auctioned. I was curious about the location of the subject – Winterbourne, Avon and did a “google” on it. If you click on the link or copy and paste it into the URL bar and then scroll down to the article headed “Annual Visit” and read what this person has to say about their memories of this area I hope that the nostalgia invoked makes you smile as it did me.


http://www.francisfrith.com/winterbourne-down/

It made me think of our family excursions down to Wiltshire to visit granny and grampy at Liddington near Swindon. These early memories came only shortly after the hostilities of the Second World War had ceased and austerity and ration books were constant reminders that there was still much to be achieved before normal life could resume. But as kids, my brother and I were in our element – there was so much here away from the town to explore and experience. Grampy had a smallholding and kept pigs, ducks and chickens all of which had to be fed twice a day. My Uncle John had a beat up little Ford van that he used to drive round the local villages – Chiseldon, Wanborough etc. to collect swill that people had saved for him. I'd go with him when I was able, their was no passenger seat as this space was normally reserved for a swill can but this was temporarily chucked out and replaced by a wooden box for me to sit on. The swill was tipped into butts in the back of the van. The smell inside the vehicle was something to be experienced and the whole inside of the rear end of the van was encrusted in a dried biscuit like coating from the splashed swill. Absolutely disgusting! But Uncle John with his foot hard down on the gas and going at suicidally breakneck speeds round the little country lanes – foul smelling pipe clamped firmly between his teeth – was probably only thinking of Phyllis, the lady (she was probably only 15) on the racing bike I had seen him with the day before.

Once a week, grampy would hobble of on his deformed foot, this time with me in tow, where we would head for the shed on the smallholding. Inside were large kegs containing cornmeal and the tin walls were hung with gardening tools. The floor was hard packed earth and in one corner stood a brick built affair which had had a large bowl like vessel let into the top; a wooden cover sat on top and at the bottom of the brickwork was a little fire hole - this was the swill boiler. Once a week - or when it was needed, the boiler was filled with swill from an old oil drum outside, all the veg parings and leftovers from grannys kitchen from the previous week were also added. A little coal fire was lit underneath and soon the grand boil was under way. I can still smell the earthy, primitive smell of the swill boil and even now as an old bloke I can time travel back if I get a whiff outside of someone’s jacket potatoes or burnt cabbage. I loved it when grampy allowed me to stir it all up with an old wooden bodger. When the whole mess had had a good boil it was left to cool. Then twice a day it was mixed with cornmeal and fed stodgy to the poultry and runny to the pigs. There's nothing quite like watching a half dozen pigs competing for a trough full of sloppy swill – pure magic!

Incidentally, granny had an identical “swill boiler” in the bathroom which was used for heating water for the bath and boiling clothing on washday. There was an old range in the living room which cooked our occasional roast dinner. There was gas lighting in the kitchen, no electricity upstairs (we took a lighted candle to bed), lino covered floors and a jerry under each bed. In the winter the wind would blast down from Liddington hill and moan through the draughty Critall windows but tucked up in bed on a flock mattress and snug under blankets and an eiderdown I dreamt of another lovely day to come.

Enough of that for the mo – out and about recently and snapped this snazzy little confection of a Smart Car in its Liquorice Allsorts paint job – it made me chuckle!