Truro Beckons, Sunday July 21st

We are due in Truro for a birthday lunch. That is one of the wonderful things about Cornwall, everywhere is so close together on this little peninsula. Two tin cans and a bit of string are all you need for communicating from South to North, East to West.
As we enter Truro we are delighted to see there is 'A New Hydrotherapy Suit' at the local vets. Surely this augurs well. Is it a one-size-fits-all suit? Come Cornish creatures great and small - gerbils, giraffes, guinea pigs, Great Danes. What wonderful new material shrinks and stretches like this? Perhaps the magic suit came out of the same stable as the robotic milker, another amazing new invention.
Listen to this, and I swear it's true, I heard it on Radio 4, and if that isn't Gospel these days, what is? No longer does the dairy farmer have to be up at the crack of dawn for his cows. They now have their very own milking parlour on tap 24 hours a day. Whenever they feel the urge to be milked, they wander into the robotic milking parlour, check in at the desk, and get milked by robots who never sleep - or smell of tobacco. The milk is pumped straight into containers, all without a human hand in sight. This means they often get milked thrice a day, and the net result, as any lactating mother knows, is an increase in milk production. How about that for a spot of genius? There has to be a dark side to this little ray of freedom for cows, but I have yet to discover what it is. Will they wear out quicker? Answers on a postcard.

We are received with joy at the birthday lunch, feasted, entertained, and then given a challenge working on the knotty problem of cats and seagulls. What problem and whats is the link between fur and and feathers - other than the usual sneak and squawk afflicting this charming town? It all comes down to the bins. Well, to be precise, the lack of them. Truro does not provide these handy items for its residents. Want a bin? Buy it yourself. No doubt the well-healed think nothing of buying a few bins, but for the rest of the town it is a weekly fight to keep black bin bags from the claws and beaks of night time marauders. An old curtain is recommended as a deterrent, but who has an old curtain? Not many it seems. To add insult to injury the Esteemed Council not only refuses to en-bin its residents, it also prosecutes them if their bags are ripped. There is something reminiscent of Pol Pot in this thinking, which is further seen in evidence at the local Tesco's - what is it about this otherwise delightful town?
To wit: would-be shoppers are instructed in large print that genuine Tesco customers can park for the first two hours for free. Regulation Superstore practice, so far so good. But this is stretching the truth from here to John O Groats: the small print below advises the shopper that free parking is only available for those who pay £3 shopping in-store.
'What!' we cry. 'What's free about that?'
Nothing, it turns out. The small print further reveals that your number plate is automatically recorded, so should you fail to spend £3 in Tesco and receive a parking ticket from the checkout, then feed this into a machine before you leave, they will fine you £40 rising to £70.

Now on this in auspicious day I was introducing BB to the delights of shopping with a scanner, something he has never had the good fortune to experience. As a result we are not issued with the requisite parking ticket at all: you have to go to Customer Service and request one. We rage helplessly. It is only by the merest good fortune that BB's suspicious ferrets insisted he investigate further. He got out the binoculars to read the smallest print before we left the car park and spotted the trap. Those less wary are tracked down via a Satanic pact with the DVLA. All very sinister. BB trots off, cursing, into Tesco again, has to find a man to issue a ticket, feed the parking meter and finally, out we go, never to return. From now on it's Sainsbury's, Aldi, anywhere - except Big Bully.
Don't get me wrong, Truro is a delightful town to visit, just steer clear of this car park. Sainsbury's on the other hand has genuinely free parking for 2.5 hours, no catches. They even let us park the Duchess sideways across three bays to avoid her delicate proboscis sticking out and blocking the lane - what more can you ask?
Right, back to the seagulls...
The task is to design a poster for local residents to encourage them to cover their bin bags. We need a simple catch phrase. BB says, why fix what ain't broke?
'Cats and Seagulls spread diseases, Cover up your bin bags please!'
I wanted to write Pleases, to rhyme, but was outvoted.
So that's the words, now the pictures.

This is the result: one happy host, two chuffed guests and a partridge in a bin bag.

Sunset calls along the river below the house, and photos are taken...

The Doc and His Number 1 Fan July 11th 3013

A quiet night in our Brit Stop, up early to photograph the exquisite river Exe and the other pub on its banks (drink there, eat here we were advised by someone at the Trout last night).
The Fisherman's Cott, has to be one of the prettiest pubs in England. We suspect its flood damage was even worse than at the Trout's. The thatched roof is certainly less golden, but with a huge willow tree,

and purple hanging baskets suspended above a lawn clippered within an inch of its life, this is Henley-eat-your-heart-out country.



Under the picture-book bridge are Ophelia-like swathes of green hair tugging to get free. This movement in the river, reflections, shallows breaking over rocks, set against the intermittent but careful cultivation along the banks is truly exquisite.

We move on towards Cornwall, BB at the wheel - this is serious knee-jerking territory.
'Look, small horses!' he exclaims.
I look.
'Aren't small horses called ponies?'
'They're Shetland horses.'
'And there was I thinking they were called Shetland ponies...'
Silence from the driver, then a giggle. BB has rebooted his positive hard drive. Hurray!
We pass through Half Moon, yes it is the name of a village, and it has a giant lay-by and a bacon sarnie cafe. Must remember that for another time, but for now we have a date with Cornwall, need to move on down the A30. After ten minutes there is a sign,'Long Delays!'  No doubt Kuala Lumpur Man at it again, but we'd better check as the sign didn't happen to mention which part of the A30 was blocked. With about a hundred miles of it ahead, we are spoilt for choice.
'Use your new App,' I suggest. I made BB buy it when we got marooned on the M5 yesterday, It is the sort of App you need to buy before you hit a Lumpur, not once you are stuck in its jam like a wasp.
We check. The entire A30 is red from a couple of miles ahead all the way through Bodmin and out the other side. So much for the A30 then. We exit and escape, make for Port Isaac, not Lanhydrock. (No, it doesn't have two lls, this isn't Wales. Keep up.)
PORT ISAAC:
We find a rare Cornish layby about two miles outside Port Isaac, stop off, unload the bikes and pedal off. It is a lovely day, sea regulation blue, cliffs rocky, cliff tops green - the sort of coast we only dream of up north.

Chaining the bikes at the top of the steep descent into Port Isaac we wander off down the hill.
'Does this path take us down to the village?' I ask a seafaring chap with a white beard and a salty look.
'No idea,' he replies, his accent is not Cornish - got that one wrong.
I ask the next couple.
'We only went a little way.' They are equally unhelpful, slightly apologetic for their lack of knowledge, but at least I have now located the source of their uselessness. They are Scottish.
'The coach leaves in five minutes,' they remind me kindly. I thank them, wondering what BB would make of it if I transferred to another tour, but I doubt I'd enjoy one of those where you get just enough time to pee, never enough to see.
Slightly anxious that what goes down, has to come up again and in such fierce sun, we  descend the steep path into Port Isaac.

Sea a deep green, a tiny little place, quaint, full of shops to buy ice cream, fish, souvenirs, pottery - all on the expensive side. A small loaf of pretty standard bread is £1.75, probably justified by the historic logic that if you make it into Port Isaac at all, you will feel pretty much marooned, and therefore willing to pay helpful natives far over the odds for your survival.

There is a lifeboat, and the cottage where Doc Martin lives. We know this because over a pint of cider we got chatting to a man from Lowton/Louton/ Loughton (take your pick on spelling we are not on Google today) no, not Luton - I made that mistake too. For this cheerful fella, think Piltdown Man and fast forward 15,000 years. Looking the authentic old grizzled sea captain, it turns out he's a computer man from Essex. Well, that's about right for a modern Piltdown person. He spends all his holidays in Port Isaac waiting to find the courage to boot out his adult kids so he can sell up and buy a place down here. He is at a loss how to do this and feels his life is draining away.
'Charge them rent,' I suggest, ' And write out a list of terms and conditions they have to abide by, or lose their roof.'
He looks at me as if I'd just invented alchemy. I do believe he actually had no strategy of his own until that point. There is an expression of relief, even revelation. Let us hope epiphany.
'I like a woman who comes straight to the point,' he says. 'Most women are a mystery to me, they always seem to want you to know what's going on in their heads. Leaves me in the dark.' He sounds puzzled, wounded.
'No chance of being left in the dark here mate,' BB chips in with possibly a little too much feeling. But he is right, there isn't a chance. After how many aeons of women waiting for men to decide every detail of their lives - still so popular today in parts of the world today - it's now or never girls. It isn't Alchemy or even a mystery why we are a mystery, it's the unhappy result of being forced to play a complicated game of social chess resulting in expedient dissembling and reticence. If this survival tool got us a name for being mysterious, aka devious, manipulative, hard to read -. just playing by your rules, mate. So don't give me the old, 'Can never work them out routine.'

Seagull extra, fine profile. 

Of course I don't dump this lot on Loughton Man, it's not exactly his personal fault that the entire mind of Woman has got a bad name. He looks quite sorry for himself, feels a victim of some female plot. It would take too long to explain that his ancestral heritage backfired.
''I could do with a woman like you,' he says with feeling.
'Nice of you to ask, afraid I'm taken.'
'No, I didn't mean....' He looks anxiously at BB, things like this can get you into a lot of trouble in Loughton. BB is grinning.
'Good sandwich?' he asks.
Loughton Man is eating a delicious-looking crab sarnie, but leaving the soft crusts in neat stripes across his platter. His mum probably taught him to do that in 1952. Why break an old habit if it works I say. BB finds it quite astonishing behaviour in a grown man, but unlike me, finds himself able to keep his thoughts from popping out of his mouth in anything above a mutter. He goes to order a sandwich, comes back from the bar, eyes popping.
'At £9.50 this had better be brilliant.'
Fortunately it is, and the salad is actually dressed, but Loughtom Man is a hunter not a gatherer. He eats the bits of raw onion, leaves the rest. Must be a Loughton thing, no crusts and raw onion. Effectively he paid £9.50 for four tiny triangles of bread. The streets of Loughton we begin to suspect, must be paved with gold. Wrong. We learn all is not an idyll, his life will only be complete when he lives in this particular Cornish retreat.
'Oh, so you have friends here?'
'No, not really.'
'What will you do here when you move then - will you get a boat?'
He looks a trifle surprised by the question, it appears he hasn't thought further than moving house from the Big Bustle to this tiny salted tourist-trap-on-sea. He shakes his head, looks alarmed.
'Oh no, no boat! The tides are too dangerous round here.'
'Perhaps you'll take up fishing'?' I was struggling to understand the attraction of living in a place like this without spending some time in, or on the sea. Loughton Man helps me out.
'Lovely people here, they're friendly to dogs.'
We are very glad to hear it, wouldn't want the RSPCA prosecuting the natives.
'Ah, so you have you a dog then?' we ask, looking down at the mutt under the table.

'No, no I don't, that isn't mine.'
The conversation threatens to stall, we have run out of ideas but Loughton Man has warmed up, is on a roll.
'When I move here I'm going to get a dog like they have inside the pub. A cockerpoo.'
Words fail us. BB is inwardly convulsing, I know the signs; he thinks the pub owners are taking the piss. He doesn't get to Crufts much.
'A cockerpoo, how lovely!' I exclaim, wondering which genius thought that would sound better than a Poodlecock.
'Lovely dogs,' I'm assured by our happy new friend. 'Cost quite a bit you know.'
'I'm sure they do. I once had a Springolurch, mind you I was paid to take it away.'
BB murmurs in my ear,
'Didn't they used to be called mongrels, free to a good home?'
I keep a straight face and am rescued by Loughton Man pointing across the bay,
'See that cottage there, that's Doc Martin's! I was an extra in the latest series.'

By accidental good fortune, at the far right is the Doc's cottage - we think.  Or we might have missed it altogether. Fans feel free to put us right..

He is very proud of this. We wonder how he will cope when the glamour of TV crews and famous actors have gone home for good, but he is very animated telling us the nitty gritty of film practice.
'Doc Martin never goes inside the cottage you know, you see him open the door, but the interiors are all shot in a studio over the hill.'
A ripple of shock goes through us. In spite of the fact that we never watch this programme, we felt cheated on behalf of those who do.
Sadly it is time to leave Loughton Man, we feel certain if we return, he will be there to greet us in 15,000 years time, but now it is time to visit the local pottery shop situated inside an old chapel where The Fisherman's Friends - no, not the lozenges - practice their Cornish music. At least the place has found a new use, and it isn't a Bureau de Change. We aren't the table turning types anyway, we leave without a purchase - not disapproving trade in a church, but the price tags are beyond us. Was that the problem all along?
Probably the maximum time an average visitor (with the sole exception of Loughton Man) would want to spend in Port Isaac is about one hour perambulating, one hour eating. Allow a further half hour for finding and looking at the exterior of Doc Martin's cottage if required. Then it is time to ascend the hill past the metal sculptures and head back to the coach/car or electric bikes.

Port Isaac sculpture - we didn't check the price tag

A possibly more interesting sculpture (NFS)

We set off to find a spot to park up for the night and head towards Padstow. Somewhere between St Columb and St Merryn, BB finds the ideal site in an unused farm gateway overlooking a waving barley field, with windmills on the horizon.
Yes, I know some of you out there prefer to call them turbines, but we like the word windmills, finding the name romantic, their action compelling in often bland rural scenes. they are a dramatic POI. We have yet to find a turbine romantic though many are magnificent, and suggest that anyone who has an antipathy to these elegant giants changes their nomenclature and then sees how they feel about them. You never know, it might help.

To us they bring the same joy as a wave to an ocean, a fountain to a fishpond. The perpetual motion drawing the eye, and the sheer scale of those pristine columns quite humbling. Windmills also have a secret life of their own. We have yet to see an entire cluster in full working order. (Is cluster the collective for a group, or is it a ripple, a roundness?) There is always one windmill refusenik. They always say that is due to maintenance, but we came on an entire roundel of windmills on strike, on a very blustery day. Ten of them stuck in space with nary a twirl between them. What's that about, wind blowing, windmills wedged? To see something designed to spin, refusing to do what it was made for, is as strange as seeing barley refusing to ripple in gale force 10. Windmills are creatures of mystery, possibly magic, so here we are, almost hidden from sight by honeysuckle and rose hedges within photographic shot of a huge Windmill Wedding.  Tall ones, small ones, dissenting ones, consenting ones, towering over us. What more can we want?

Spot the duchess

A heavenly spot somewhere - no idea where. That is the magic of wild camping, you think you will find nowhere to stop as it is getting dusk, slight panic sets in, you note five possible places if nothing else turns up and then, there it is, the perfect pull-over. You know you will never find it again, so the moment is all the sweeter.

Wild Sunrise

Westward Bound July 19th 2013

This is a sample of Things to Come: The Trout Inn, somewhere in Devon - just asked and it's Bickleigh near Tiverton.

After a long day in the scorching saddle, we have found heaven at this beautifully thatched and coutured pub where we can stay overnight in their car park for nothing. More of that later...
Back to the Beginning:

Irrifutable evidence of 2013 heatwave

The Duchess threw a wobbly on the motorway today. We think she was just objecting to a change of driver in the middle of a traffic jam on the M5. I surrendered the wheel to BB as my knees no longer respond to the calf-high clutch with joy. The moment the swap was made, the Duchess faltered and stalled in the middle lane. We suspect it was in deference to her age and status, that  the rest of the traffic stalled too. We pulled over and had a 2 hour cooling off period - for the Duchess and our melting feet.
As we wait for rescue, with traffic streaming past in tight formation,  BB's newfound positivity visibly wilts. It's mixture of heat-stroke and hope-loss.
It wasn't that he thought the Duchess was terminally doomed - he feared our holiday was: that we would be transported back from whence we came only this morning, ignominiously on a trailer. Having deeply celebrated leaving both work and home only four hours earlier, the anticipated humiliation was making him miserable. I have to say he is a very fine worrier when the opportunity presents itself.
It is wonderful to be gifted with a quicksilver brain, but if you have ever tried doing one of those puzzles tipping the slippery stuff down a labyrinth, you will know how hard it is to control those jiggly little blighters, rolling and splitting off all over the place. Give me a good old lava flow of a brain any day. You know exactly where it is going, how long you've got to empty the bins, rescue your photos, and still have time to phone a friend. I am prone to worrying after the event, not before, which is why we complement each other like a pair of perfect Plum Duffers. In fact I recommend installing single-line panicking tracks into any union. Check them out before you set off anywhere, even up to bed. If you both panic in unison it is unlikely you will get much further than the first iceberg. You could sing a rousing song as the ship goes down, but don't expect serviceable lifeboats.
Perceiving signs of a weary body and ferreting mind, I read BB extracts from previous holiday blogs long forgotten, mostly in the hope of distracting his ferrets. I am hoping that like the spurious motorway signs from Derby to Bristol prophesying doom on the road. ahead, our problems will be just as ephemeral. It turned out that the forewarned traffic problems only existed in the mind of the traffic controller - probably based in Kuala Lumpur. Perhaps he didn't know he had post different signs for North and Southbound traffic. Whilst the Northbound traffic stalled for twenty miles, ours hardly faltered, and kindly arranged its sole fit of hiccups to coincide with the Duchess's.
Finally when I was beginning to run out of distractions, a Little Green Flag Van draws up behind us, and out steps a little green man - who as BB observed, was aged possibly twelve and a half. More to the point he wasn't waving any sort of flag. That was quite disappointing. We like a flag.
The green boy looked totally lost when we described the problem (engine runs, but power fails) however since he was only in Year 8, his lack of ideas was hardly surprising. More surprising was the fact that his Headmaster had allowed him to cover his arms in tattoos, and drive a van.
Given that he was obviously bunking off from double science we didn't actually expect him to diagnose anything, but he obligingly unscrewed an air pipe, screwed it back on again, and the Duchess came to back life at the first ask. We suspect she just got overheated and needed a couple of hours off piste, she's an old girl and the temperature was up in the 90's so she can be forgiven.
Relieved to say goodbye to the little green lad and his little green van, we set off again, travelling rather later than we'd hoped, down the A38 from Weston-Super-Mare (cue Psalm 115, 'The sea saw that and fled') towards Tiverton. But tempus had flown too, so back onto the motorway hoping to reach a pub in time for grub, and find a spot to park up for the night.

Trout Inn Car Park - aka campsite

Tiverton seemed dead, so with dusk falling we drove into Bickleigh, saw a spacious car park for the Trout Inn and went inside.
'Greetings!' cried the man behind the bar. 'And what can I do for you?'
'Answer me questions two,' I reply - feeling like someone in a fairy tale. 'First, are you still serving food?'
'Indeed we are!' says the cheerful host.
'Second, could we park our van in your car park overnight please?'
'Indeed you can! For free! We are a Brit Stop.'
'We aren't after a ten-second tyre change...'
He grins.
'Like on the continent, you can stay over for free in certain places, and we are one of them. There's a sticker on the door.'
'Very cheery, isn't he,' I observe to the waitress who is passing, hands laden with the most scrumptious looking grub. I have to restrain BB from following her.
'Hmm, it's just an act,' she confides. 'Wife's covered in bruises...'

BB and I suspect this is heaven. Food, bed - and a sticker - offered just when the sun is setting and we have had more than enough of this day. We order the most wonderful, interesting fish dishes, lightly spiced squid for BB( £9) and panfried fresh mullet fillets with new potatoes in an oily, lemony, minty, caper sauce with green beans for me (£11). Both utterly delicious, and the same price as the Yorkshire Bridge Inn, which wasn't. The best meal out we've had on our travels, and a chocolate mousse to finish with.
The owners, Nathan our cheery host, and wife Emma (unbruised - we checked) opened the pub with friends Rob and Fi last August. They re-thatched and renovated it, got flooded to ankle height in November, undaunted, got themselves an ace chef, and were opening for Christmas when the heavens opened, the rivers, drains and all hell, rose up to hip height on Dec 22nd. Christmas was drowned, but they got back to business by Boxing Day. A remarkable story, and a remarkable menu.

 This is a 4x4  job. Bring magnifying glass.

On top of this they provide public toilets for, well, the public, and free overnight space for motor homes under a relatively new scheme called Brit Stop, the sister of France Passion. (Do try to use a French accent, it sounds naff in English.) The idea is for businesses to attract punters with motor homes, (not caravans, god forbid, they're a totally different sub species, don't get me started...) by offering overnight accommodation, in the hopes you will purchase their wine, cheese or other commodity. And, as everyone who has watched the Tour de France knows, France has the best line in posh Motorhomes this side of the Atlantic - clever move.
You aren't obliged to buy a thing, but by relying on an ancient technique perfected by the Catholic church, and therefore tailor-made for French campers, success is pretty much guaranteed. Who can take something for free and not feel morally obliged to cough up for the alms tray? We can vouch this technique works just as well for Brits Stopping too. It felt like a free night, and technically it was, but in fact cost us nearly £40 in food and drink. You have to be hard of heart and short of cash to resist the charms of Jim the sacred Exe River-chef of the Old Trout's kitchen in Bickleigh. And besides Mine Hosts were so charming and chatty it would be churlish not to fill their coffers as fast as they filled our glasses.

Blue Trout at night, a diners delight

Durham May 25th 2013

The road to Durham is festooned with orange gorse at this time of year. Well, I say orange, BB claims it's yellow. We spend an hour shouting and pointing at Things Orange and Things Yellow along the roadside, scoffing at the other's sightbuds. Both convinced the other is a visual plonker. As an artist I obviously have the more subtle palette, but who needs subtle when faced with bright orange gorse? I wonder if there's a Specsavers in Durham, he's due a new pair of specs. We compromise  with Yellowy Orange and Orangey Yellow. I'm right though...

Durham is said to be the prettiest city in England. I'm glad someone else has the responsibility of awarding such prizes, but we agree it is certainly a very striking place. It is perched on a bend of the Tees, complete with Castle, Cathedral, University Colleges, Libraries, Museums and Theatres.
We park the van outside the city centre, not realising just how small the centre is, and unbungee  the electric bikes- a lengthy palaver -  put on all our fluorescent gear and set off into town - which turns out to be all of 400 yards away. We tether our steeds securely to a large cast iron pillar. You can't be too careful in unknown new cities, however pretty they are. Un-fluoresced, we set off on foot to the town over a bridge and up a hill to the market square. The roads are full of pedestrians - very quiet pedestrians, I think it might be nice to hear some music.

 Be careful what you wish for in Durham....  A wiry man in a kilt, from the Cameroons, plays ceaselessly on his bagpipes for four hours on the bridge. You have to admire his endurance. And his knees. Not sure if you can call this eerie wail music though, unless you live north of the border. It is the equivalent of Morris dancing, aka skipping with sticks, which can hardly be described as dancing- unless you live south of it.

It is a strange fact that when you hear the Geordie tongue in isolation on TV, it bears little resemblance to the Scottish brogue, but up here in the wild, so to speak, the Geordie tongue is very obviously its first cousin. No doubt in Newcastle - a future Duchess destination - the dial on the accent wavelength will twiddle towards Full Scots. Being a colourist, I like shades of almost anything - except 50 of the grey variety - and, with Henry Higgins, can well imagine it would be possible to pinpoint anyone by their accent within two streets. No of course I can't do that. He was fiction, remember? But on our travels it feels like England is gradually being subtly, tonally, coloured in, and there is something delightful in that mile by mile progress. A vocal picture of the UK is beginning to emerge.
If Full Scottish is deep purple, Durham would be lilac.

In the market square is a strangely proportioned bronze warrior, a hussar with a huge busby on a rather small horse - not being unkind, but it's actually more of a pony. Perhaps tall horses were a rarity near the Northumberland border in the 19th century. I can almost hear  the sculptor, in deep purple accent saying,
'Will you look at that, Jimmy, why didn't someone tell me I got it wrong before we cast the wee bronze?'
'Och, no one will notice his busby's as high as the pony's legs, they'll think it's perspective.'
And sure enough, they did. The mammoth-headed warrior, Lord Londonderry, coal miner of the 22nd Light Dragoons, and his sturdy steed are still there to tell the tale, and very striking he looks too.

The indoor market ought to be a place we could buy slippers for Best Beloved - or so I thought. He has resisted this purchase for two months since he discovered the soles of his existing pair had literally broken in two, on both feet.  I didn't like to ask how he achieved  that precision.
   BB likes to think things through before committing to anything new, but there is time for thinking and then there is action. So we make for a shoe stall, me full of hope we will finally bin the ex-slippers, he, actually in the mood for a slipper quest. Do not mock, this mood is rare as a working-class Tory Cabinet.
Wonderful shoes. Astonishing prices. There has to some very well-healed brass in Durham if a market stall sells shoes for £375.  Maybe that's the result of having a bishop in residence. To be honest, it felt unsettling, a market stall with Bond Street prices. So we exited the market sharpish and found a pair of suitable denim shoes outside on the street for £11.99.
   I catch sight of a shop window that is crying out for capture, and force BB to offer himself up for white handed torture. He looks disturbingly  relaxed about having his ears cleaned. Must try that sometime.

 Faith in market stalls rekindled, we wend up to the Cathedral - a huge old monument, not lovely, but solid, like a castle in its austerity.
It is an interesting Cathedral, you can almost hear history chanting in the aisles, hear the chip and chisel on the massive pillars. Once a place of worship, now a tourist attraction. Is that the future for the Bank of England?

We enter the Cathedral, excited by the thought of wonderful photographic opportunities. Out with the cameras, No, wait! A huge billboard proclaims photography is a sin. They've updated the Commandments: 'Thou Shalt Not Photograph Thy Neighbour's Church, has been tacked on the end. 

The disappointment takes BB to a place darker than the cathedral interior. That's because he's got the bug. The one that makes it impossible to enjoy somewhere unless it is captured and brought back home in triumph to be admired. I've worked out that behaviour is a remnant of the Caveman instinct; he goes out in the morning to shoot things, shoots a thing, and drags it back home to his cavewoman for her appreciation. Why do you think taking photos is called shooting for goodness sake? It's therefore perfectly normal male behaviour to feel thwarted when there is no shooting and no trophy.
Eventually, feeling sorry for my thwarted hunter-gatherer, I approach one of the purple- clad guides and ask if we might be able to buy a photographic permit. I feel a bit like the Wife of Bath petitioning for a pardon.
'Oh yes,' she chirps, trotting off at a pace Lord Londonderry's pony would have found invigorating, 'the verger can sell you a permit.'
'The notices say it's forbidden.'
'Yes, we don't like to advertise it.'
'Curious,' I mutter, 'first time I ever heard of  a church not wanting to rake it in.'

But to be fair, they didn't charge for entry like York and Lincoln. Just asked for a 'suggested donation' of a fiver. I must admit, left to my own devices I would probably pop a pound in the box, so their canny suggestion works very well at raising guilt levels, and a cash bonanza.  Since we refused to pay to go round York - at £9 each it was beyond possibility at the time - I have often wondered whether such a rather grasping approach works? Isn't it better to guilt-trip every tourist, not lose every other other one through poverty, or anger? I've held that act of discrimination against York ever since our visit, see it as a place less than welcoming to the non-affluent. Not that it cares.

As we search the aisles of the cathedral for the elusive verger our guide suggests, sotto voce,
'Of course we have very good photos taken professionally you can buy in the gift shop... Very interesting angles you can't take yourselves.'
Ah, so that's it! Architectural porn. Everything becomes clear. No wonder the permits aren't advertised, they've got a nice little earner going down in the vestry. But I can resist her temptations. Where's the self respect in carting another man's kill back home?
'I'm sure your photos are excellent,' I respond, 'But it is the taking of  interesting photos for yourself, that is the point for a man with a new camera.'
  I forgo to mention he is a well-disguised but rather frustrated hunter-gather. There are good historical reasons to believe that pagans are not encouraged within these hallowed halls..
Unable to buy me off, we trot on looking for the Elusive Verger, but getting tired of us trailing behind her, she breaks into a canter, and I fall behind, unable to keep up with this athletic pensioner. As she gallops off into the distance we find a promising looking man in a long dress. A fully dressed man in a church is always someone worth talking to, don't you find? He turns out to be the under-verger, who tells us the permit-wielding Top Verger is on his lunch break.
BB is so fed up by now he decides to take a photo anyway, and that is that. We now have one illegal photo of a wooden statue of Mary, and very fine it is too. Cost us a fiver in donations, but it's from a unique angle, from having to hide his camera under his t-shirt. All the other visitors are too busy taking photos to notice this strange, suspicious bulge...

It is tiring being a tourist. We need chips. We sit in the overcrowded market square in the shadow of Lord Londonderry, and next to the obligatory town centre Bank Holiday Funfair. Far too many chips and not enough space to pack them away inside us, but we struggle on, unable to leave what we've paid for.
 A few gifts later and we are ready to repair to the Duchess.
We have a rendezvous with Ivy. I didn't tell you about Ivy - not her real name - but she's a gem. I had phoned last week to make a booking for the Sat night in case we needed electrically recharging ( how prophetic that turned about to be) and found a rural campsite near Middleton-in-Teesdale. BB was very pleased with my choice since he'd once been there on his Pennine Way hike as a lad. I was pleased to have found anywhere at all as I'd left it a bit late to book. But sitting having a cuppa about an hour after the campsite was booked, a very angry lady phoned me up and accused me of not liking her campsite enough, and I could go somewhere else if that was the case.
'No, no,' I replied, bemused and amused. 'My husband is very excited by coming to stay on your farm, as am I.'
'Well you can spend £20 and go to one of the big campsites if you want.'
'No, if I'd wanted to do that, I wouldn't have booked with you.'
'Well, you sounded like you didn't like our site.'
'If I did, I am sorry. I've never been to your site, or even to your locality, so listen Ivy, my name is Ali, let's start again shall we?'
    She grudgingly agreed, and our booking was confirmed, so now we have to be in time, or Ivy is quite capable of selling our space to a more favoured camper.
We found the site more by good fortune than instructions in the Caravan Club handbook. Ivy seemed to enjoy making her site unobtainable in multiple ways. A creative old thing. As soon as we entered the farmyard, there she was, chirpy soul, asking for the £12 fee before we had even ascertained we were in the right place. I decided not to mention her hissy fit in case she threw another and turned us away. Cupboard love I know, but we needed the electric cable kept in her cupboard. So, all smiles, we parked up a bit too close for comfort to a caravan and awning on the bottom hard- standing. Mainly  because the ground was too wet, the hill too steep to attain the top one.  A big field, five vans in a little row down one side.  Cue a song: Five white campervans parking in a row...

Now I think about it,why are all campers and caravans white? I will give that some thought and get back to you later.
So we plug in, next to the world's quietest sheepdog, and his two pets who seem to spend a lot their time pestering him for walks. They don't say hello, or anything at all to us. I expect we are regarded as fly-by-nights. They have a car, a caravan, an awning full of kitchen equipment and an electric buggy. Ready for anything - except civility.
We  recharge our leisure battery. It works. Now we have lights, pumps, happiness. Pleasant countryside, but we find we like the wild bit of camping now. No neighbours at all improves a night out. It does not necessarily improve the evenings and the  mornings however.  We can stay until midday on a campsite, so no rush to avoid parking charges. Or angry famers.


Off across the Dales we go in search of waterfalls. Well, why not. They are here, so are we, neither of us have anything better to do.
High Force is what it says on the tin. High and forceful.

A massive storm brought down half the forest in 1992 - and proof that no one uses open fires any more, there they still are, all along the  path down from the High Force pub. We pay £2 each to join a stream of other camera-wielding humans, but when we get there we aren't allowed up to the top of the falls. If I was ten years younger I'd vault the locked gate, but I'm not, so we content ourselves with a spot of raging. BB does a good rage when he's prevented from re-treading the boards of his youth. The Pennine Way was one of those boards, all 270 miles of it he danced along, and now there is no knowing what he will do if we don't feed him soon. So we make our way back to the local pub to find it has been taken over by aliens.

Dressed like power rangers, they have to be recorded for posterity.
'Would you mind if I take your photo? I've never seen aliens before.'  BB starts to edge away with that look of, 'Nothing to do with me, mate.'
I was only being polite, asking for permission. Always a good idea towatch your manners with Space Invaders. They look at each other a bit non-plussed to have been found out, and confer with the mother ship.
 'I won't put it on Facebook' I assure them. Still hesitation. 'But if you have a camera, I could take a photo of you two on that.'
 I get my photo, they get theirs. How do I know they are aliens? That's easy, all the other bikers take their gear off when they get to a watering hole, possibly because they are overweight and sweaty, whereas this pair are slender as sticks. Bodies not standard biker sissue. Their bike is slender too, unlike the padded and furry monsters that gleam all along the front of the pub.

One is a tricycle, the height of  a Landrover, and height of comfort for its Master and his Missus. It's powerful speakers blare out rock music as they all get booted and spurred. There is strict protocol here. The men start gathering, opening compartments to reveal their leather togs, the women trail after, then have to disappear back into the toilet to do whatever it is that female bikers do to prevent hat-hair.  A spot of lippie, squeezing into leather trews in private, whilst the men complete their toilette in public.These men are confident, don't care who sees their hairy chests or sweaty feet.  Off with the trainers, on with the boots, jackets, helmets - with less hair, fewer worries about hat hair. Finally at an unseen signal they line up along the road and peel off, probably in order of superiority. They are all over 60 and all over 16 stone.
An amiable crowd that keeps the country towns and pubs in business. It is a very social lifestyle, like a troupe of baboons moving along with furious speed to the next watering hole to repeat the exact same rituals: de-robing, quaffing,chatting, preening,grooming, re-robing and off they go again. It is one of those fascinating subcultures that only emerge on Sundays. Exit the church, enter the Old Gits Club.

Now we are off across some of the most beautiful rolling empty countryside to be seen in England. The occasional biker roars past, but generally it is Bank Holiday Sunday, sunny, and not another soul in sight.
The Duchess is ideal for seeing over the dry-stone walls. In this part of the country they sport extra layers, stony frills, two ruffles deep that run the length of all the walls and distinguish them from the common and garden types seen elsewhere.
And here are Gypsies parked up along the wide verges with wide-girthed ponies. We are near to Appleby where the great horse fair takes place, and in front of us is a curragh, driven by a young man down the left hand side of the road. His dad drives a van down the right hand side so we are unable to overtake. The pony looks so skittish I wouldn't like to try it anyway. Then Dad zooms off, the boy makes a pointing manoeuvre with his whip, I think he is beckoning us past, but in fact he is doing a U turn in the road. Somehow the Duchess avoids collision with this one-horsepower vehicle and we drive on to the highest waterfall in England. We think we might collect waterfalls like stamps, so this one is essential viewing:

Hardraw Force... More Hardraw than force I'd say. We find a spindly stream pissing over the edge of a cliff. It isn't impressive in terms of water, but it is high. We see it on the day after the skies opened and a lake fell out, so this is a good day. Don't think I'd bother if hadn't rained for a week. It actually looks better in a photo than in real life. We paid £2 each to view this,
 The Penny Black of waterfalls, simply because of its height. No, I can't remember the exact measurement, but it was at Hawes and you have to go through the Green Dragon Pub to reach it.
A very unfriendly bar person has to guide us through her pub to the waterfall path. She is not happy about it but we have no idea why. There's a notice saying muddy boots aren't welcome. This proves a bit of a problem because unlike the path at High Force, this path is entirely made out of mud churned up and freshly liquidized by yesterday's storm. What a shame the only way back is through the bar room.

Right, now it's time to set sail for home where my Diddly Daughter awaits complete with Kindersprouts, (A bit like Kinder eggs, sweet and full of fun) husband and niece (Ditto). They are occupying our home on a Northern break, whilst we are skirmishing amongst gypsies and waterfalls. What a wonderful happy ever after weekend.





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Richmond North Yorkshire May 24th 2013

RICHMOND  on the River Swale

 Friday May 24th 2013

It's officially summer, the Spring Bank Holiday - only three weeks till the longest day. Forecast: a good sunny weekend. Out come the maps, the trip is planned...
       The day of travel dawns: threatening clouds, 6C. Marvellous. And according to the Radio 4 it will feel like 1C. On with the thermals.
        Equipped with six layers of clothing and looking and feeling like a pair of reet Derbyshire Onions, we hit the motorway northbound just as the heavens open. It isn't so much the rain, driving into the windscreen with the force and purpose of a glass etcher, it's the winds, north winds, that succeed in thwarting the Duchess from achieving even 40 mph, downhill.
        As you will know, owing to the well-known tilt of our island, in travelling north, all roads are pretty much uphill. Southern and Eastern coasts are slowly sliding into the sea -you can almost hear the distant crumble and cry from cliffs and home owners - whilst to the north, accompanied by cheers from the SNP, Scotland rises like a breaching whale out of the Atlantic. So, it's a mammoth struggle against wind, weather and topography but we are made of stern stuff. Besides, we have a  whole B & B outfit on board: kitchen, toilet, 87 pillows and more wine than the South of France.
The gale is buffeting us from side to side, lorries with flapping tarpaulins thunder past and in doing so, for some reason, very unkindly push us backwards. Do they know something we don't, about The North?
        On the southbound carriage there is an ever-stretching queue of stationary vehicles. One of their lorries has blown over, and they will be kissing each other's bumpers for hours. We wonder if they'll have time to form new friendships, perhaps spread a few STDs along the lines... There's a lorry parked in the outside lane. BB says it's to prevent people from trying to jump the queue, I think the driver's just  jumping someone himself... We pray to any god who's listening, that the same thing won't happen to us. It turns out Northern Gods are as under-employed as their worshippers, so we're in with a shout, and our prayers are  answered. The windscreen wipers begin to make headway against the spray, and the tiniest patch of blue sky peaks through. We celebrate by stopping for a pee, but then can't get out of the lay-by for 40 minutes as traffic thunders past. The Duchess needs a longer runway than a jumbo jet and there aren't many gaps that big. We finally growl back onto the A1 and as the wind drops reach the dizzy heights of 50mph. Oh still, my beating heart!
      Next stop Richmond - not in Surrey, we went north remember, keep up. We're in North Yorkshire. A breathtaking little town, even with storm clouds rolling above its castle. With multiple layers of clothing and a waterproof on top, it still feels colder than midwinter. Sorry Richmond, but we can't face paying to go inside the castle on a day like this. There is something less than inspiring about the prospect of climbing an old ruin to be exposed to an arctic buffeting. We look at each other and shake heads in unison, offering the irrefutable excuse of "knees."  With no break in the cloud to ensure panoramic views worthy of Best Beloved's new camera (Wash your mouth out Canon lovers, it's a Nikon) it will have to wait for another day.
 We have parked down by the river, the centre of town being occupied by a ghostly funfair. Now, if you are seeking a way to kill off your town centre, park thirty garish, mechanical vampires smack in the middle of it, and only let them loose after the hours of darkness. We didn't stay to see either the  shops or the sunset resurrection. Instead, we went looking for the theatre. BB was 'encouraged' to forego his fieldcraft and ask someone the way. I've worn out too much shoe leather in the past to retain patience after seeing the same street more than twice.
'The theatre? Let me see, if you make for Madame Vasari's Vonderland, go round the coconut shy, past the huge memorial obelisk, cant miss it, duck between the kiddie karts and the dodgems, find the pavement on the other side, turn left, go down the hill...'
We find the theatre: joy, it is open. The Pirates of Penzance plays tonight. What are the chances.... We saw it last summer in Buxton, and seriously doubt we could see it again without  curdling. Never mind, we're told, there's an ex-Railway Station at the bottom of the valley with a cinema.

So down we trot  past a very fun-key church. No idea what their poster means, but it's kind of quaint. We are in time to eat at the wonderful Station cafe, Seasons Restaurant, a real find with delicious gluten free cakes and soya hot chocolate. Lulled by the friendliness of the folk and the cosy warmth of its deep leather sofas, we decide to stay and watch Star Trek: Into the Darkness, in 3D. The theatre fills with six other denizens of Richmond, (all over 40.) Where are the young residents, the children? Did the Pied Piper whip them off across the Swale? There were none in town, nor in the cinema, maybe along the beautiful river valley ending in some broad falls near where we parked the Duchess? No, they've obviously been eaten by the funfair ghouls.

     The weather is still windy and grey, not a soul in sight as we step back into the world. Captain Kirk has saved the day and we can sleep safely if we can find our way back to the Duchess. Which way was it? The car parks are empty of people, ice cream, even the toilets are shut. We walk the length of the river and pass a lay-by which will do very nicely for our next visit, but for now, we've paid £4 for a ticket that takes us through to 8am, so will stick with that. No one likes to waste their parking ticket, even if the view is ten times better elsewhere. Two other camper vans are in our carpark but no one in sight.
Nuts! Our leisure battery is out of juice, so we turn in early and sleep well to the distant thump of the funfair up in the market square. No one disturbs us, apart from one camper leaving at 4 am, probably a fair-man having stowed away the fun.
By 8 am we're on the road, all the way down to the car park by the falls to eat a cooked breakfast - with the storm quite spent, and the sun shining in a clear blue sky.
Ah! We forgot. No leisure battery - therefore no water pump. No water pump - no coffee, no coffee - no smiles. Best Beloved takes the kettle and tries the Gents, now open. He returns, bereft. It's only got an all-in-one water-and-pink-soap-sprinkler. Not very macho I know. I take the kettle, shun the Ladies, go straight for the jugular - otherwise known as the  Disabled. Well, I reason we are effectively disabled until BB has had his coffee, and it does sport a very nice old fashioned tap with no soap, and lashings of unsprinkly water.
Coffee and breakfast achieved, we are still alone in this beautiful spot, and the river Swale is in full glory, chucking itself over the broad rock falls with the sort of abandon that only a soggy country can afford.
Gallons and gallons of the clear brown wet stuff surge past the Duchess sparkling in the sun. (That's the water sparkling, not the Duchess. To be honest, she could use a full body wash, but our local garage only rises to a stool, doesn't do ladders, so she only gets a midriff sponging. We suspect there might be rare mosses on the roof. Quite exciting when you think about it.)
In the absence of the water pump, washing-up is a paper towel job. We might be wasting trees, but by 'eck, we're saving on water. Feeling mightily refreshed by a grand morning, grand breakfast and a grand, unspoiled-on-an-unBank Holiday little town,we programme Molly, our intrepid onboard computer, point the Duchess in the direction of Durham and think we might return one day. High praise indeed. We're very picky...