tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17157279870605727902024-02-18T22:07:14.862-08:00Certain WomanMusing and amusing around BritainGeraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.comBlogger111125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1715727987060572790.post-71037664666470359162014-12-15T04:46:00.000-08:002014-12-15T04:46:22.966-08:00From Devon into Dorset<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-US">I had a wonderful few days visiting
Dartmouth and Dawlish where I stayed a night with my friend Knocker and saw the
famous Dawlish black swans and met the team of orange railwaymen who have
restored the line that was so devastated in February by the storms that hit the
south coast. Massive sea defences were being put in place in case it ever
happens again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I looked in at Exmouth at teatime where
beyond a vast shingle beach people come to windsurf after work, and from
Budleigh Salterton to Lyme Regis and the Jurassic Coast. Cheyenne and her
husband, wardens at the Pooh Cottage Campsite at Budleigh Salterton, had a
wonderful trip, travelling around the coast of Britain like me but taking two
years to do it. She recommended that I should see the quarry at Beer, where
stone was quarried from Roman times until the 1920s. The enchanting village of
Beer is on my list of ‘places I’d like to go back to for a weekend’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipoefP_lM2HqE5rlDeoIYPtdezRrCkaBCK5XQYBzj-B_wqleF_jrfsPekgbneAqYUFn353Gen8m3Gb_Mlz5k_Bt5IH8kINhL-kzDufi6KgLRvJyT6mgG3r30cy2tIKzDLNQU0rAOTepzKf/s1600/P1030814.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipoefP_lM2HqE5rlDeoIYPtdezRrCkaBCK5XQYBzj-B_wqleF_jrfsPekgbneAqYUFn353Gen8m3Gb_Mlz5k_Bt5IH8kINhL-kzDufi6KgLRvJyT6mgG3r30cy2tIKzDLNQU0rAOTepzKf/s1600/P1030814.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chesil Beach</td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-US">The Jurassic Coast is an incredible 95-mile
stretch of 180 million years of geology that starts near Exmouth and ends at
Swanage. I visited Lulworth Cove and Durdle Door and plan to visit again, maybe
in February when they won’t be so crowded. Golden Cap near Charmouth is the highest
point along the south coast and well worth the climb for the views, and maybe
the best view I had of Chesil Beach was from the top of the Isle of Portland.
The Swannery at Abbotsbury is another must, and I was there to take a full part
in teatime (feeding time is at 12 noon and 4pm) which I loved. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_jo6KivElm2uZmH_xcXJUSrprPffx4Xn3Q1yu4BW-X7b9xKcRlis9HOBIYDd8vBF3zR4RyDeJ5JLGDaroL-HamVNlYZIj9YbdJUHa6KTrA3D4N8QpnVAKQ42_S2s3FsWLK_MfjKrEygQN/s1600/P1030826.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_jo6KivElm2uZmH_xcXJUSrprPffx4Xn3Q1yu4BW-X7b9xKcRlis9HOBIYDd8vBF3zR4RyDeJ5JLGDaroL-HamVNlYZIj9YbdJUHa6KTrA3D4N8QpnVAKQ42_S2s3FsWLK_MfjKrEygQN/s1600/P1030826.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Feeding time at The Swannery</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This entire stretch of coastline is such a
wonder and, after all its wild geology, I thought Poole Harbour sounded a bit
tame, somewhere I would ‘tick off’. I headed for the quay and saw the glitziest
array of gin palaces bobbing in the water. They must be a rich lot in Poole, I
thought, until I realized I was looking at the parking lot for Sunseeker which
has its HQ here. I got on a more modest vessel for a tour of the harbour and to
see Brownsea Island which is run by the National Trust and was another
delightful surprise. Lord Baden-Powell brought his first ever band of Scouts to
camp here and it is home to a rare colony of red squirrels.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAozrVCo7GbpknaBiPo2fuTKLiMeXqHGFRfDiS3Q0Cbs4zUVJIcekGClsxKqlSaFd-J8fXd5N_XnW5N2QwXX7GzlVLOAEg6vRZmHDumqAF2_OFjSlt2KkvNQ3ByJOUAXu9XYv3ly9ch5n5/s1600/IMG_1147.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAozrVCo7GbpknaBiPo2fuTKLiMeXqHGFRfDiS3Q0Cbs4zUVJIcekGClsxKqlSaFd-J8fXd5N_XnW5N2QwXX7GzlVLOAEg6vRZmHDumqAF2_OFjSlt2KkvNQ3ByJOUAXu9XYv3ly9ch5n5/s1600/IMG_1147.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Poole Harbour</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The boat came back past Sandbanks and the
helpful skipper, giving his commentary, said: “The middle one of those houses
over there belongs to Harry Rednap. He doesn’t much like us pointing that out!
And the one next to it has just been sold for £9million.” And when he said ‘next
to it', they really are close together. I would expect something more secluded
for my £9million!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Geraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1715727987060572790.post-49889232089673511212014-11-17T13:03:00.001-08:002014-11-17T13:03:43.580-08:00South Devon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">I have been off air
because I have had a spell at home. The weather has turned and the
clocks gone back and I have been moving along the south coast in fits
and starts. I had great weather <span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">along
the Devon coast: it was so beautiful, the sun shining and the horizon
indiscernible between the blue of the sky and the sea. The village of
Aveton Gifford, close to where I met the swan man, is charmingly
Devonian – I half expected to see Miss Marple come strutting round
the corner. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">From
there the road to Hope Cove leads down to a sweet narrow bay with two
beaches protected by a headland called Bolt Tail. In the village shop
I bumped into the people from Poole I'd had coffee with at Burgh
Island who, like me, felt the urge for an icecream. (This is an urge
I have had for too often as I have driven around Britain – it has
become a problem!)<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA0RrfL3fEOj-Uy6OMj-APUCIzeKVx2YMmOgqJAgzc59NGaevsrXLLH208P_k8VejKkUP_NSu8A4ZvJW6Xf-eBpJqPbPoRp2PVdnIe-rsYSea8omKGnuEYEc0I-C48TXOuIkQ13aENYAaV/s1600/P1030708.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA0RrfL3fEOj-Uy6OMj-APUCIzeKVx2YMmOgqJAgzc59NGaevsrXLLH208P_k8VejKkUP_NSu8A4ZvJW6Xf-eBpJqPbPoRp2PVdnIe-rsYSea8omKGnuEYEc0I-C48TXOuIkQ13aENYAaV/s1600/P1030708.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Kingsbridge estuary, Salcombe</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">There
is a carpark above Salcombe but I had been advised that I would
probably be able to get into the small one in the centre of town and
that it was opposite a pub with wifi. That was all true, it's right
by the water, and I had to shoe-horn Baa into a tiny space next to
another campervan. I walked around the town which is lovely and
has a large water frontage up the west side of the large
Kingsbridge estuary. I just caught the end of the holiday season –
mainly 'seniors' and young couples with toddlers. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Salcombe
is very middle class - women with loud voices talking to men in
shorts the colour of bricks - and shops like the Salcombe Coffee Co,
White Stuff, Fat Face, Jack Wills - they're all there! </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">When
I came back to collect my laptop from Baa I was alarmed to see that
the camper I had hemmed in had a disabled badge in the windscreen,
but by then Baa was hemmed in on the other side. I went to have tea
in the pub and use the wifi... and when I came back an hour later,
the camper next to Baa had gone. I did some nifty reversing in order
to extricate myself and a woman waiting for the space (at a safe
distance) congratulated me on my efforts!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitFf4WBYo41aEuI_cy2MUlqP7Fxz3YpNUylJW11XxGbo_HIPgB4sQylrK_PktsYAQrrIKjaWHB7lmii3Q__KZF5gP9KnaA29evaA-VOvAZ6MmxDt4P0bgh4bfvM9lhI5cYXn6bN8tswwAF/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitFf4WBYo41aEuI_cy2MUlqP7Fxz3YpNUylJW11XxGbo_HIPgB4sQylrK_PktsYAQrrIKjaWHB7lmii3Q__KZF5gP9KnaA29evaA-VOvAZ6MmxDt4P0bgh4bfvM9lhI5cYXn6bN8tswwAF/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blackpool Sands, South Devon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">I
was heading for Dartmouth and had a wonderful drive alongside Slapton
Sands. It's a</span> </span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">stunning
stretch of coast – apricot sand with clefts in the cliffside
dropping down to sandy coves - a lovely</span></span><span style="font-family: Didot;"> beach called Blackpool
and the prettiest Devon village called Stoke Fleming.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
</div>
Geraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1715727987060572790.post-66447033742531609402014-10-25T06:51:00.000-07:002014-10-25T06:51:09.267-07:00Burgh Island<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">When Jane left from
Plymouth I decided to head for Bigbury-on-Sea. I
found the campsite on a hill above the village, looking across the
water to Burgh Island. The Burgh Island Hotel, ultra art deco and
gleaming white in the late afternoon sun, was built in 1929 and was
popular with Agatha Christie and Noel Coward and other such
luminaries in the 1930s and 40s. Today (the website tells me) it is
popular for weddings and parties and themed events for people who
like pearls and cocktails, nostalgia and comfort.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">Back to that other
iconic, white place to stay .. Baa wasn't in quite such romantic and
sophisticated surroundings. The campsite was in a great position and
had (very) basic loos and showers. There were three other campervans,
and two caravans and I parked next to an elderly combine harvester.
There had either been a hell of a party the night before or the
dustmen were on strike, but either way the wheelie bins were groaning
under the weight of bottles and beercans.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwedZynQPebE2gUaOCQnCkZ4cuYZLKSBB9xgFDK1Npki_vrwOHjeCDoUD1xA-2cYFDLjW6Fgi4SyJQ9MpWvt9hD7zVpPvcw-QY5_Zctabggt9x0OqaO47px_q_mCGLZ8bjpotRr7MLWBME/s1600/P1030690.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwedZynQPebE2gUaOCQnCkZ4cuYZLKSBB9xgFDK1Npki_vrwOHjeCDoUD1xA-2cYFDLjW6Fgi4SyJQ9MpWvt9hD7zVpPvcw-QY5_Zctabggt9x0OqaO47px_q_mCGLZ8bjpotRr7MLWBME/s1600/P1030690.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Burgh Island Hotel from the campsite</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">The charming farmer
came in the morning to be paid and said the hotel isn't open to
non-residents which was a shame, as I wanted to do a recce for Fiona
– and because I'm interested. Fiona sent the hotel an email. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">The tide was low and
I walked across (when it's higher a tractor with huge wheels takes
guests over). I had coffee with four very nice people from Poole
Harbour at The Pelican Inn which is owned by the hotel and at the
bottom of its drive. We watched black RangeRovers chauffeuring guests
to and fro through the electric gates and down across the causeway,
and it felt very Dickensian! I got through the gates behind one of
the cars and the lobby was full of hung-over thirty-somethings
checking out after a wedding the day before, so the fearsome
manageress had her hands full. I was just able to ascertain that she
hadn't received an email from Fiona, so I got no further and can only
say that the lobby is spacious, art deco and has a navy blue carpet.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
drove from Bigbury to Hope Cove </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;"><span style="font-size: small;">along
a 'tidal road' which crosses the Avon above Aveton Gifford. The
estuary was crowded with birds: Canada Geese, Mallard, Widgeon, gulls
and White Egret. I parked to watch them near a man binoculars. He
had a mane of unkempt hair and the smiliest brown face with bright
blue eyes shining out of it.. and he loves those swans! He said
Timothy White and Rosalind had two cygnets (probably the foxes got to
the eggs) and how Timothy fought with Toby who, with wife Janet, has
five cygnets. He knew most of their names. The biggest hazard is
foxes – and mink. Rosalind had a nasty puncture wound where her leg
attaches at the back – probably due to a fox - so he made a mash
of organic oats, Ribena and vitamin c and she's right as rain now.</span></span></span></span></div>
</div>
Geraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1715727987060572790.post-35325659362765441262014-10-18T13:02:00.000-07:002014-10-18T13:02:13.715-07:00South-east Cornwall<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">Jane
joined me for a sisterly nostalgia trip along 'our patch' of
Cornwall, the south-east. She was born in Ivy Cottage, Wilcove next
to Torpoint where the chain ferry crosses to Plymouth - you can't get
much further east in Cornwall. Our father was a Royal Marine in 42
Commando at Bickleigh Barracks near Plymouth, and our parents bought
Ivy Cottage in 1949 from the Antony Estate.</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv4Js0JZcgZpOCpgDQkkw8okRb_abmgu2MW3QlZdbUPN_1GjI5qmYBzoF1bOr7E4IweQFYcZ6j_e-bS-Xhpm-mJRvYTHP2_kSlH_11ZcuM9NJ9S2P9RYkhM8a1QbGpoQ8pJozaGf4FYCPA/s1600/P1030665.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv4Js0JZcgZpOCpgDQkkw8okRb_abmgu2MW3QlZdbUPN_1GjI5qmYBzoF1bOr7E4IweQFYcZ6j_e-bS-Xhpm-mJRvYTHP2_kSlH_11ZcuM9NJ9S2P9RYkhM8a1QbGpoQ8pJozaGf4FYCPA/s1600/P1030665.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Gunnera at Trebah</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">We
started at Trebah Gardens on the Helford River which is owned by the
Hibbert Family who we were at school with. It is a beautiful garden,
sub-tropical and with a private beach on the Helford River. There are
magnolias, camellias etc earlier in the year, and we had the
hydrangeas and the incredible gunnera. There are spectacular trees
whatever time you go, and the garden is open all year round.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQilYAaRsfoZeGGfX3n7vJcY8o7h9rG4_ShLb8G47taDctWuSPmn5qb30U0xIueMZJHrNvx5dBBre6MTKdYAenUKtr-eZ6d2R8ouHsxCasYAiIVUmLDBaSsV7aaKYOEtcucUlmpWdLWVx5/s1600/bayne-julia-waterfront-fowey-cornwall-england-united-kingdom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQilYAaRsfoZeGGfX3n7vJcY8o7h9rG4_ShLb8G47taDctWuSPmn5qb30U0xIueMZJHrNvx5dBBre6MTKdYAenUKtr-eZ6d2R8ouHsxCasYAiIVUmLDBaSsV7aaKYOEtcucUlmpWdLWVx5/s1600/bayne-julia-waterfront-fowey-cornwall-england-united-kingdom.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fowey</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">It
was dark and very foggy by the time we got to Fowey and we couldn't
find the campsite we had chosen from my book. Diana, the satnav, took
us to a petrol station and the man there said it was always
happening, he shared a postcode with the campsite half a mile up the
road.</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;"> </span></span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">After
breakfast we headed for Fowey. </span></span><span style="font-family: Didot;">This is real Daphne du Maurier country; during the war she rented a house near here called Menabilly which was such an inspiration for her writing. </span><span style="font-family: Didot;">The
town is crowded round the most beautiful natural harbour. Among the sailing boats, large ships
come up, turn round and are towed to the docks round the bend in the
river to collect cargos of china clay. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOPvmCMm-9-nFjplj7jzfmoKx4LB5OgJmKf-8HjZ5p0_vBELPgs9NN2RdfxgnLZ_JRMJxrp75_mSaD1nwTN5Mb6oyn1XmnItgmyXqDfEg0wcnO5eFQhlz3OpmC3_dZh9sPhkhqAdOAn-wk/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOPvmCMm-9-nFjplj7jzfmoKx4LB5OgJmKf-8HjZ5p0_vBELPgs9NN2RdfxgnLZ_JRMJxrp75_mSaD1nwTN5Mb6oyn1XmnItgmyXqDfEg0wcnO5eFQhlz3OpmC3_dZh9sPhkhqAdOAn-wk/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looe Harbour</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">The
Looe Music Festival was in full swing, the streets thronging with
people, brightly dressed, pushing buggies and eating – fish and
chips, hot dogs and burgers. It was very summery and colourful
and it's hard to imagine what these narrow streets were like when
Looe was hit by storms and flooding in the winter.</span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">
</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">We
drove through Downderry and Crafthole towards Whitsand Bay. The
roads, and the lanes leading off them, reminded me of my Baa wishlist
– 'the van mustn't be too big, and be easy to drive down narrow
Cornish lanes'. These roads are so Cornish: wooded either side with
oak, beech and hornbeam, curling branches meeting above the road,
forming dark, green tunnels, rivers and streams running below. After
Crafthole the road to the Rame Peninsular is high and clear with open
fields of wheat and pasture.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0x26YXjhfCmz8jSexm39b4Oixo86jZwgrYI7z4kZSXm762qAOEJ24C4Qx3N3Mul4fOtPFZLscpgDhCtVKUmigA7W9z6_IxGh-v-9ikAYdxxd8qUg6ASbcpjBlDDR6IglaVuLHmNTQSJ-B/s1600/P1030669.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0x26YXjhfCmz8jSexm39b4Oixo86jZwgrYI7z4kZSXm762qAOEJ24C4Qx3N3Mul4fOtPFZLscpgDhCtVKUmigA7W9z6_IxGh-v-9ikAYdxxd8qUg6ASbcpjBlDDR6IglaVuLHmNTQSJ-B/s1600/P1030669.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Whitsand and the chalets at Freathy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">We
turned right at Tregantle Fort which was built in 1865 to repel the
French. There are still firing ranges here which slope sharply down
to Whitsand Bay, and then we came round a corner and were suddenly
surrounded by handsome young men jogging along the verge and peeling
off their wetsuits. Surfers park their cars on the clifftop and climb
down to the beach, and we met them as they returned – like Mapp and
Lucia suddenly finding themselves on the set of a Rip Curl promotion!</span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">
</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">On
towards Rame Head, past Freathy, the clifftop is peppered with little
cabins with the most stunning views out to sea, which were originally
built to house people evacuated from Plymouth during the War. Most of
them have been rebuilt and look very chic but planners restricted
them to the same footprint and height.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmAW7XwQIwepoAF3_9ki_-qc3etYX3jr2Y_vEmLTjxsnNm8DTSQoog5TY9qHT9lHwP9Mw7Mlud-tsVdIUcn-_fE_OO4jzL4CMjypExB9cETPvPRpKLIQp3orMY7lougWbh6tRjYKdOlbQd/s1600/P1030673.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmAW7XwQIwepoAF3_9ki_-qc3etYX3jr2Y_vEmLTjxsnNm8DTSQoog5TY9qHT9lHwP9Mw7Mlud-tsVdIUcn-_fE_OO4jzL4CMjypExB9cETPvPRpKLIQp3orMY7lougWbh6tRjYKdOlbQd/s1600/P1030673.JPG" height="249" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our home for the night and The View behind</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">The
View, is a wonderful restaurant in something not much bigger than
those modest cabins - but the food there is anything but! We first
came here last year when the family came to scatter Mummy's ashes at
Portwrinkle, and Jane and I decided to treat ourselves again. The joy
of Baa is that we parked in a layby hard up against the cliff, and
walked to dinner.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;">
</span></div>
</div>
Geraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1715727987060572790.post-67781232487442710552014-10-09T03:46:00.000-07:002014-10-09T03:46:17.881-07:00Helford to St Mawes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">William joined me to
explore at a friend, Clare Latimer's house by the Helford River.
Clare has lived down here for much of her life and knows all about
it. We had lunch in the <a href="http://www.shipwrightshelford.co.uk/">Shipwright's Arms</a> in Helford and
then Will and I set off for Marazion and St Michael's Mount. The castle is still home to the St Aubyn family but the Mount is
owned and run by the National Trust.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRVML42IHcvLqXX6noH5DYVZvYkcXwHfqhde2HGtuHWx8VdOh5A3aAKiWCq5jNbeBjfhTJuX_3tjEH1o8MlktiTAOn9uCI1nCLtRnH5FZ-DorSjxoEvUo9ZajzVnNsKbzzX_TGdfZP1Z3F/s1600/P1030586.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRVML42IHcvLqXX6noH5DYVZvYkcXwHfqhde2HGtuHWx8VdOh5A3aAKiWCq5jNbeBjfhTJuX_3tjEH1o8MlktiTAOn9uCI1nCLtRnH5FZ-DorSjxoEvUo9ZajzVnNsKbzzX_TGdfZP1Z3F/s1600/P1030586.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St Michael's Mount</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We saw it – <u>so</u>
beautiful - in the evening light, too late to cross (by foot at low
tide and by boat at others times) and I am glad we did see it then
because the next day was dull. No matter, we had other fish to fry –
pan fry. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">Will is a chef and I
have to say that the two suppers I had with him surpassed my previous
best – crab starter followed by salt marsh
lamb in Kent with Fiona. We were too late for the fish stalls so bought dover sole, </span><span style="font-family: Didot;">and wonderful Cornish butter for the beurre blanc sauce,</span><span style="font-family: Didot;"> in a supermarket in Penzance.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE2gW9M_5KkcEf-iAxDu-5GA9I1wdMiMBr3c9aiE8_2lbskjPAUhDL9Q_z21vfY7cvuNue7G7bp41WIw3WbyZ6TZSYNnu00nHo_rbwb6-VrVdsket1ZfG3nquK_aCkTaG3wmqtiHBrPvh5/s1600/IMG_1121.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE2gW9M_5KkcEf-iAxDu-5GA9I1wdMiMBr3c9aiE8_2lbskjPAUhDL9Q_z21vfY7cvuNue7G7bp41WIw3WbyZ6TZSYNnu00nHo_rbwb6-VrVdsket1ZfG3nquK_aCkTaG3wmqtiHBrPvh5/s1600/IMG_1121.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Will preparing supper</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">We stayed on a piece
of scrub land near Newlyn in a strong wind, with the sea banging and
crashing beside us. Expletives from the kitchen (one metre away) from
where I sat when chef realised the fish hadn't been scaled, so he
went out into the wind with the (only) kitchen knife and transferred
the scales from the fish to the back bumper! They and the sauce were
utterly delicious.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Didot;"> <span style="font-family: Didot;">Next day we wandered
around Newlyn Harbour</span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">.
Will was intrigued by a decrepit fishing boat lying in the water at a
worrying angle beside the harbour wall, its heavy cables now very rusty.
A mechanic for Stevensons Fish said the boat had
been working 5 years ago but the man who owned it became ill and
stopped work, and the boat had sprung a plank and now it was beyond
repair...</span> C</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;"><span style="font-size: small;">ommercial boats have to work 12m+ out to sea (more often
30 – 100m) out and that the EC can dictate what is being
over-fished. Fishermen can't help catching a fish they aren't meant
to catch, and have to throw them (dead) back, and aren't allowed to
give them away or sell them for charity.. Ridiculous. </span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;"><span style="font-size: small;">We bought crab
for lunch and hake for supper at the <a href="http://ewlynfreshfish.co.uk/">Stevensons</a> shop on the quay
before our visit to<a href="http://www.stmichaelsmount.co.uk/"> St Michael's Mount</a>. It is a real gem of a place, </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Didot;">where a fairytale castle sitting on top of a vast chunk of granite in the bay. V</span><span style="font-family: Didot;">isitors can walk round the castle and the garden and see</span><span style="font-family: Didot;">
wonderful views back to Penzance, Newlyn and The Lizard.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYKZaTBWckQihKyNtBWeb9bKN06RLOtCDGGPco7QyZZeabpoyJaiwgHxwlMmLZAgd3AlTvgSz_whP7j6wnsv8U3a6ixEyYOpdRGNCwPjcMsA69dPAhG-_eAT651oBvFxBsbyowEJgTB0e4/s1600/P1030620.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYKZaTBWckQihKyNtBWeb9bKN06RLOtCDGGPco7QyZZeabpoyJaiwgHxwlMmLZAgd3AlTvgSz_whP7j6wnsv8U3a6ixEyYOpdRGNCwPjcMsA69dPAhG-_eAT651oBvFxBsbyowEJgTB0e4/s1600/P1030620.JPG" height="261" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I met Phineas on the King Harry Ferry</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">The
King Harry Ferry crosses the River Fal, avoiding driving miles up to
Truro and down the other side to St Mawes on the Roseland Peninsular.
St Mawes is a dreamy place, once a fishing port, with its castle
built in the time of Henry VIII to defend our coast from the French
and Spanish. We had tea watching the most lovely boat (I
have since heard her name is Agnes, and she's a 46ft Pilot Cutter)
sailing in the estuary, and an elderly man swimming strongly against
the tide.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicTR0Bt45rGqQsBd0G_osfO35NpXqjxV_yzaVuZuIfJw79exCbl8ROtYGIJ0jaAETuRsS5-2KnccAGpllxdesDYU0yN7zmhu9234cyHpt_52QZQcGdhalDR5eoMnVGVfthw9MZXMuZC7Rm/s1600/P1030627.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicTR0Bt45rGqQsBd0G_osfO35NpXqjxV_yzaVuZuIfJw79exCbl8ROtYGIJ0jaAETuRsS5-2KnccAGpllxdesDYU0yN7zmhu9234cyHpt_52QZQcGdhalDR5eoMnVGVfthw9MZXMuZC7Rm/s1600/P1030627.JPG" height="266" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tea at St Mawes</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Will's last night in Baa was at a campsite</span></span><span style="font-family: Didot;"> outside Mevagissey. I bet few of the other campers had such good hake with caper sauce! Will suggested an early morning swim and, having torn his boxers on the
door handled, reached the water a bit quicker than me! After our
excellent sauces there was just about enough of that Rhodda butter
left two pieces of toast.</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBIrsGUiQua53QIk9UBcSMvQlFoGyem3u5Ywgj7YYX4tNYazX82wmH_zPllZ3n5kiHQ6F8teW7zSbm4Z4q3XLY1i8wZplEUZssWafaufgFjbCVCrN_1xmOoK0yzOk8nspZCwPIrcHKzcB2/s1600/P1030638.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBIrsGUiQua53QIk9UBcSMvQlFoGyem3u5Ywgj7YYX4tNYazX82wmH_zPllZ3n5kiHQ6F8teW7zSbm4Z4q3XLY1i8wZplEUZssWafaufgFjbCVCrN_1xmOoK0yzOk8nspZCwPIrcHKzcB2/s1600/P1030638.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Agnes</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
</div>
Geraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1715727987060572790.post-35516293407309973622014-10-08T01:20:00.000-07:002014-10-08T01:20:42.795-07:00Tin mines<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">I stayed at a
campsite close to Botallack, west of Pendeen, and walked in the
morning to the Botallack Mines - or the Crown Mines as they are
sometimes called. These are the most iconic and much photographed
Cornish tin mines because they are beautifully poised on the side of
the cliff.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzhN3hyd0L39z5fAGb7AgixgehJLE-atWZDRg1NSIrctkE6y0k8seZ0QEvQ_JaVLusUQHnBtvfFHLZ-gil5WTot9g9LiOY7xlJAjmZPqAgU9IXUp_g1bUDkslUDz8FHcqIUGUxrGbXH79B/s1600/P1030572.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzhN3hyd0L39z5fAGb7AgixgehJLE-atWZDRg1NSIrctkE6y0k8seZ0QEvQ_JaVLusUQHnBtvfFHLZ-gil5WTot9g9LiOY7xlJAjmZPqAgU9IXUp_g1bUDkslUDz8FHcqIUGUxrGbXH79B/s1600/P1030572.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Botallack Mines</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Didot;"> </span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">It was a bright,
sunny day and I walked through small fields, <span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;"><span style="font-size: small;">all
irregular sizes and uneven ground, with coarse</span></span></span>
thistley grass, and with<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;"><span style="font-size: small;">
hefty stone walls wide enough to run along, their sides thick with
grass and brambles. The land feels lost in time, remote and poor,
even though the odd incomers have done up a few nice old farmhouses. </span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">I
walked on about a mile to the east to the Levant Mine, passing the
hollowed out brick carcasses of other ruined mines with their tall,
round chimneys. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">The
Levant Mine, opened in 1820, first mined copper, and then tin. It
closed in 1930 and is now owned by the National Trust.</span></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPOfi66Rq0uwDUZDBD3c0sBUQ1ewg7EwtNzHyv9MoxL1Lg0ETn7ks2dgAfqjT0AOx1jkK6RfAFiM7roCTuuAKXBK1dhRxVpdKnzHY-e9P3HAp3X9ZwhA-M8VwvmK27Xnolt_fAr_t1wZui/s1600/P1030577.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPOfi66Rq0uwDUZDBD3c0sBUQ1ewg7EwtNzHyv9MoxL1Lg0ETn7ks2dgAfqjT0AOx1jkK6RfAFiM7roCTuuAKXBK1dhRxVpdKnzHY-e9P3HAp3X9ZwhA-M8VwvmK27Xnolt_fAr_t1wZui/s1600/P1030577.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The stone steps are just visible on the left</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">The
entry to the mine, when it first opened, was via a cleft in the side
of the cliff. The men had to climb down steep, slippery stone steps
to get to the face of the mine,1500ft below. It took them an hour and
a half to get down there before they could start work, and they'd
probably walked 4m from St Just to get there. As the mine developed
the face went down to 1800ft, and two miles out to sea. I can't
imagine how hard it must have been, hacking into the rock; it's very
hot that far under the sea, and the air was very thin. At the end of
their shift they had to walk back up those steps, and home again. It
isn't surprising that their working lives on the face were short:
maybe from age 14 to 30 - but it probably didn't feel so short to
them. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">After
some years the mine owners decided that the walk down the steps
wasted too many man hours. Cages pulled up and down the very narrow
shaft by steam engines could only carry four men and they were slow.
So in the late 1800s the mine owners installed an engine which
carried men, two at a time, on narrow platforms. Ledges were set into
the side of the shaft at 12ft intervals, and as the engine lifted the
men they would step off one platform and on to a ledge; then on to
the next platform as it came up. Is that clear?! It meant that when a
shift changed men were coming out of the top of the shaft every seven
seconds.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Disaster
struck on 20 October 1919. Men coming out of the top of the shaft
noticed that no one was getting out behind them, so they ran back to
see what had happened. The engine had collapsed and fallen half way
down the shaft. More than 30 men died and many more were injured. It
was the worst Cornish mining disaster in history.</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHm_1U7IonQ60veYOpmCRVgljMXTAB8-4igfTgEyDFOzmAU81-GO8nibFfVPvAEQZk0DP31WyxfJ4QAXfGOkqsmE5NfWDY8rqyG90b_cosLBQ6J3eo0lQMP4ptLEAkS9He3G1hNRtio39Z/s1600/P1030564.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHm_1U7IonQ60veYOpmCRVgljMXTAB8-4igfTgEyDFOzmAU81-GO8nibFfVPvAEQZk0DP31WyxfJ4QAXfGOkqsmE5NfWDY8rqyG90b_cosLBQ6J3eo0lQMP4ptLEAkS9He3G1hNRtio39Z/s1600/P1030564.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;"> </span></span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">I
felt so moved by the whole area – the beauty of it, and the tough life of the people who lived there. I think it was seeing the old mines, once
such powerful, busy places employing hundreds of men, that made it so
evocative. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
</div>
Geraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1715727987060572790.post-11760148250007652482014-10-06T15:42:00.001-07:002014-10-07T04:35:13.324-07:00St Ives<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">St Ives Bay is a
vast sweep of sand with St Ives at the south end and, on the northern
tip the lighthouse at Godrevy Point is said to have been Virginia
Woolf's inspiration for her book To The Lighthouse.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7y7Ke53REvbSrOcWkr1C2kQfJemXlpDeet6G0sT1Y4-9NwfJwJOfbiEysY8MQwbKqXMznIOhDmtAiLrMc65or6nXaj3hyphenhyphen5bK8vYvRbqtzKNdOTLLZ9cjXpUm3fXZjwNeD2zH_tPpRvj3I/s1600/P1030549.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7y7Ke53REvbSrOcWkr1C2kQfJemXlpDeet6G0sT1Y4-9NwfJwJOfbiEysY8MQwbKqXMznIOhDmtAiLrMc65or6nXaj3hyphenhyphen5bK8vYvRbqtzKNdOTLLZ9cjXpUm3fXZjwNeD2zH_tPpRvj3I/s1600/P1030549.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Godrevy Point</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">Hayle sits on the
estuary of the Hayle River in the centre of the bay. In the early
part of the 19<sup>th</sup> century Hayle was at the heart of the
Cornish mining industry where rail and tramways converged from the
outlying mining areas. Two of the largest foundries were here and it
was the centre for steam engine engineering. But the tin mining
industry declined rapidly between the Wars and Hayle's fortunes spiralled downwards.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">But things are
looking up. I talked to the Harbour Master who told me ING Investment
bought the Hayle harbour in 2004. The North Quay has been developed
and is now used by 30 fishing boats and many leisure craft, though a
sandbar at the mouth of the navigable part of the river makes this a
tricky place to get in and out of. A protection zone has been
established around a patch of a rare weed called Petalwort at Middle
Weir, but a large superstore is being built on the South Quay. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">I left Baa at St
Erth and caught the train that goes around the bay to St Ives. You
don't want a car in St Ives and everything is in walking distance. I
walked around the narrow streets in the sunshine, along with hundreds
of tourists even though it was mid-September. I love the Barbara
Hepworth collection of sculptures in her garden in the centre of town
and walked from there through the crowds past pretty little lanees
and alleyways, the tea shops and pasty shops to the Tate.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhspJo-l8xzlhQfszghdwQPH7Df3eB0YUZS1xCkv6jIFG4I9w2c0A-_YWAKiLsP3R9ZVfVM9tcpJmm6oou_idNQBxkJtAFHaVyvN-7199zu3ioFoKUiRf-mcpFrlTHYgz7IzNOZ6pXPHpqv/s1600/P1030557.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhspJo-l8xzlhQfszghdwQPH7Df3eB0YUZS1xCkv6jIFG4I9w2c0A-_YWAKiLsP3R9ZVfVM9tcpJmm6oou_idNQBxkJtAFHaVyvN-7199zu3ioFoKUiRf-mcpFrlTHYgz7IzNOZ6pXPHpqv/s1600/P1030557.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barbara Hepworth's garden</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">The scenery on the
drive west from St Ives changes suddenly to moorland. On the advice
of the Harbour Master at Hayle I was heading for the Levant Mine near
Pendeen. The road passes <span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;"><span style="font-size: small;">brackeny
hills with grazing sheep, small farms with pretty stone farmhouses,
and the occasional B&B. The vast open expanses that lead to the
sea are peppered with the ruins of old tin-mines with their circular
chimneys. The beaches are still wonderful but this feels completely
different to the holiday and surfing destinations that I have been
through.</span></span></span></span></div>
</div>
Geraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1715727987060572790.post-76360772672644858672014-10-01T07:27:00.000-07:002014-10-01T07:27:33.923-07:00Tintagel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">I
left Baa in a carpark in the middle of Tintagel and set off to see
the sites. There is a charming Old Post Office dating back to late
1300s which is owned by the National Trust. It was a Medieval hall
house, and then a post office in Victorian times, with low ceilings
and narrow stairs, and furniture and chattels dating back to the
16thC. I'm glad I went early because when I walked past a couple of
hours later there were Japanese tourists queuing round the block. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">I
walked a little way out of the village to St Materiana, the parish
church of Tintagel, dating back to 1080, though there was something
even older there before. It's Grade I listed and utterly beautiful,
sitting close to the coast, and another short coastal walk from the
medieval Castle, said to be home to King Arthur. Merlin, his mentor,
is supposed to have lived in a cave on the beach below. It is a is a
real meeting of history and myth - the site of the castle goes back
to Roman times, and no one really knows the truth about King Arthur .. or if he was born
there. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOWeeKpuwo0U25vj2ZxOK7yFd5xoODFUyTVajZlsouo1hdOnCAImogclM2pNVTIppHtkrgsucAQo30zNgjf4CUZHDUhWEBhyphenhyphenO0dgOXnmLcApkr2P-H51HSYHrN48zfILR6Q2_bSrMVtTnl/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOWeeKpuwo0U25vj2ZxOK7yFd5xoODFUyTVajZlsouo1hdOnCAImogclM2pNVTIppHtkrgsucAQo30zNgjf4CUZHDUhWEBhyphenhyphenO0dgOXnmLcApkr2P-H51HSYHrN48zfILR6Q2_bSrMVtTnl/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tintagel Castle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It's a fascinating place, with different courtyards spreading
across part of the mainland, and all over a little island which is
reached by a bridge.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">When
I got back to the village I stopped to eat a pasty for lunch in the
sun with my newspaper. The most surreal thing happened... I was
reading an article by Janet Street-Porter as I was biting into my
pasty, (I quote..) “Last weekend in Cornwall, I stopped at a deli
in Tintagel to eat a pasty, and gawped at the procession of fatties,
waddling along the main street licking ice creams and gobbling
chips...” It was the start of a diatribe about obesity in this
country... and she had a point, most people who passed by were
overweight, and most of them were eating! I ordered an ice cream and
left...</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">After
all the crowds in Tintagel I couldn't bring myself to face more
people in Port Isaac. It's a no-car village and I would've like to
see where Doc Martin treats the sick, but I decided to move on.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Just
along the coast is the charming narrow bay of Port Quin, and I wish I
had been organised enough to walk there from Port Isaac... it's only
2 or 3 miles along the cliff path, but there's always the problem of
getting back to the van. I sat on the small narrow beach, the tide
was out and a couple of people were swimming, and talked to a nice
woman from Wadebridge who had moved down from Tunbridge Wells.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-H9KVE4a7vha3aFNHvfCxFNu_ip1gSQzsIbGom-0Y0nKoLWmSiCo0oGeyfIWilrATr-JA8mdLWr9mSa5RATFUCfpx9wKGuC7BTG_Qo2AyIKooN-vzF6WptedVRkyBYIVUlwScntvJBwUC/s1600/images-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-H9KVE4a7vha3aFNHvfCxFNu_ip1gSQzsIbGom-0Y0nKoLWmSiCo0oGeyfIWilrATr-JA8mdLWr9mSa5RATFUCfpx9wKGuC7BTG_Qo2AyIKooN-vzF6WptedVRkyBYIVUlwScntvJBwUC/s1600/images-2.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Port Quin</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Sadly
it was a closed day at Prideaux Place a beautiful 17thC house just
outside Padstow which I have put on my 'next time' list. It is where
a lot of Rosamunde Pilcher's stories have been filmed and, as she is
immensely popular in Germany, that's probably another reason why this
stretch of coast is so popular with Germans. There are any number of
wonderful places to eat in Padstow and it has great charm, sitting on
the side of the Camel estuary. It is also home to the National
Lobster Hatchery which was also shut when I got there – it was
after 6.30pm, that's why. I got poor Baa wedged in a parking space
and, after the unfortunate Bude incident, took ages to get her out.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
</div>
Geraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1715727987060572790.post-45715184200007275592014-09-30T07:44:00.001-07:002014-09-30T07:44:48.302-07:00Bude<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">The
Cornwall coast north of Padstow was all new to me and I liked Bude.
It feels a bit more of a place than some of the popular seaside
resorts, like people actually live there and go to work and aren't
just there on holiday.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXYBxAayzC0t58o5ndLc7BWZYtX-1EYdGf_gIM8VfruvvbVLFUmHTpOfOwMRlb8FgpP4yCgY8vTpSaS9o_Ui4J0c3TBxBa2yZecMxRJT4VaEq9jtN3oIzvnXwxPV7WyiYfbwfbzCjWWIxB/s1600/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXYBxAayzC0t58o5ndLc7BWZYtX-1EYdGf_gIM8VfruvvbVLFUmHTpOfOwMRlb8FgpP4yCgY8vTpSaS9o_Ui4J0c3TBxBa2yZecMxRJT4VaEq9jtN3oIzvnXwxPV7WyiYfbwfbzCjWWIxB/s1600/images-1.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bude</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">I
arrived in the evening and went to a campsite south of the town
overlooking Widemouth (Widm'th) Bay with laundry facilities. There
weren't many campers there, but a man with a motorbike and a tent sat
in a canvas chair looking out to sea as the sun was setting. The
next morning he was there again (had he been there all night?) but in
the time it took me to have my breakfast and gather my laundry, he
had upped and gone, with his tent on his back. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">The
reception smelled of cats, and the washing machines were pretty
decrepit (one was full of sand) but I got the washing done and
partially dry, before I hung it around the van (from the skylight bar
and the shelves at the sides) to air, before I set off to explore.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Bude
has three beaches, Widemouth, Summerleaze and Crooklets, and a good
heritage centre at The Castle which tells about Bude's maritime
history and the canal which was built in the early part of the 19thC
to transport the mineral rich sand from the coast around Bude to the
poor agricultural hinterland behind it. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">I
had read about a hotel near the canal called The Beach which has an
Ottolenghi-trained chef – and I love Ottolenghi food. This was to
be research for another time – this trip doesn't warrant me buying
myself expensive lunches – but the website almost put me off (the
term Boutique Hotel is enough to do it). </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">I
saw the hotel, sitting up high and looking out over Summerleaze
Beach, and headed for the nearby carpark – but I couldn't find a
space. It was as I turned to get out of the carpark, peering past all
the laundry, that I drove very slowly into a park car. Damn! There
wasn't a scratch on Baa, but there was a little one, and a dent, in
the side of the silver Mazda. I confess I did consider letting in the
the clutch and fleeing the crime scene, but only for a moment. I left
a note with my number and have been in touch ever since with Matt
from Sutton Coldfield about the cost of repairs.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Finally
I got to The Beach, and it is nice: modern and sunny, looking out
over Summerleaze Beach. I had a drink and tagged on to their wifi,
and would like to return as the menu looked excellent.</span></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheJkKHMyvi1bN6ue2-Hvx9gwiXshd7VRV4Oux1NVGnB3lBv_dnQS9jH6HeygjXmanvFg7fsepKESRmCmS-bmqLXRuVw71e1TOY_4YtEl_drovGkeE_319EKo_QUnv7ywmIYaNSr48Nled4/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheJkKHMyvi1bN6ue2-Hvx9gwiXshd7VRV4Oux1NVGnB3lBv_dnQS9jH6HeygjXmanvFg7fsepKESRmCmS-bmqLXRuVw71e1TOY_4YtEl_drovGkeE_319EKo_QUnv7ywmIYaNSr48Nled4/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boscastle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Boscastle
is the most enchanting village at the end of the Valency Valley with
a natural winding outlet to the sea and an Elizabethan harbour. The
white wonky cottages with their uneven roofs and slate porches line
the street, punctuated with quirky little shops and tearooms. This was the place that suffered the most fearful storm 10 years ago when a flood the equivalent of the Thames rushed through the village in the space of about six hours. It now looks the picture of tranquility. Thousands of tourists love it visit Boscastle and, even after
the end of the school holidays, the place was packed. I visited The
Museum of Witchcraft – a leader in its field, being so close to
Tintagel and all things magical – and I hated it. I don't know quite why it had such a negative effect on me, but I suspect that I must
have been a condemned witch in another life.</span></span></div>
</div>
Geraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1715727987060572790.post-61800343514236953852014-09-24T02:45:00.000-07:002014-09-30T02:40:54.650-07:00Clovelly and Hartland<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUCakR0jrXwvZjVgbO3OTtXLSOH9MDvVNwT60zwC9evUW3zq8C_Zm-cwTYhQwJGKKTPeuBK0nEg9KKUBw6XWoJMahOLmOe9XO2SygESUy6TJFYmYrkqPXW9fZoRaMB_A9NGiBFe_hu9udH/s1600/P1030440.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUCakR0jrXwvZjVgbO3OTtXLSOH9MDvVNwT60zwC9evUW3zq8C_Zm-cwTYhQwJGKKTPeuBK0nEg9KKUBw6XWoJMahOLmOe9XO2SygESUy6TJFYmYrkqPXW9fZoRaMB_A9NGiBFe_hu9udH/s1600/P1030440.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St Beuno's Church, Culbone</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Sam and
Harry from the AA came promptly at 8.30am, to drain Baa's fuel tank,
etc. They were as nice as Jason and, though it was an expensive
mistake, it wasn't fatal. “Oh we'll get this old thing right in no
time. It's the modern ones that are difficult...” ! Baa was no
trouble and in an hour we were heading back towards Porlock via the
toll road which avoids the hill. Wonderful as Jason had been
carrying us up Porlock Hill, I didn't want to call him out again.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">The
walk to Culbone Church, above Porlock Weir was more than we'd
bargained for – 2 hours instead of 40 minutes - but well worth the
climb. St Beuno's is the most enchanting church, inaccessible by
road, and said to be the smallest church in England. Its origins are
Anglo-Saxon and it retains adorable and tiny box pews.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGgw8lI4rGbvuWKoz9mKI0YF8tXUTa-PUN6XUqnt9LQY_yNUkALlFoA9pUsONwqnpsNBz5pkeQLJstL2xlmPFC_VYbHhLVXbpLXIi3mQWSj5Ua50QcodmqD4cvfA3XhZLt0mS_nfreEyv7/s1600/P1030443.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGgw8lI4rGbvuWKoz9mKI0YF8tXUTa-PUN6XUqnt9LQY_yNUkALlFoA9pUsONwqnpsNBz5pkeQLJstL2xlmPFC_VYbHhLVXbpLXIi3mQWSj5Ua50QcodmqD4cvfA3XhZLt0mS_nfreEyv7/s1600/P1030443.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ilfracombe Harbour</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">We
went via Ilfracombe and were so exhausted when we got to the
campsite in Woolacombe with its bars, nightclubs and karaoke that I
am afraid we didn't see any of it!</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Nick
and Alf left from Barnstaple the next day and I wasn't sure where I
was headed. I rang a campsite at Stoke, and asked if they had wifi.
No, she said, but they've got it in the pub down the road at Hartland
Quay. That was such a revelation! Hartland Quay is just that – a
quay (or what remains of it), with a hotel and a pub, and a carpark.
The pub was doing a roaring trade at 6.30 with walkers coming in from
the coastal path. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Opposite
the campsite, the parish church of Hartland, St Nectan's, is huge and
indicates just what a community there must have been here in the 17<sup>th</sup>
and 18<sup>th</sup> centuries. Hartland Quay was a very busy place, with ships carrying lime, coal and
slate coming in from the Bristol Channel and cargos of grain etc going out.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih03xsFLqBxCsO5OpC-M3rG2xZ70FRnHXdqhpu9VyuWjTtM3qSMFJs0JGUNstF63qpqOBl6c8YogEtlj_Ffa4F_spIh8uxlkp5DTwtC3-En8xMdHPVkh6-EmeBzSP-wCL8nEmprHn9jATA/s1600/P1030469.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih03xsFLqBxCsO5OpC-M3rG2xZ70FRnHXdqhpu9VyuWjTtM3qSMFJs0JGUNstF63qpqOBl6c8YogEtlj_Ffa4F_spIh8uxlkp5DTwtC3-En8xMdHPVkh6-EmeBzSP-wCL8nEmprHn9jATA/s1600/P1030469.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hartland</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Next
day I walked across from the campsite to join the coastal path (the
more challenging stretch is south towards Bude) and the views are
extraordinary up and down the coast with headlands sticking out like
a row of beasts with their heads in the cliff, wonderfully contorted
rock formations and sandy beaches appear when the tide is out. When I
was there the sun was shining and the sky was blue as I walked along, but
when Hartland Quay was a thriving port, many ships floundered on this dangerous coast. </span></span>
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguyxCHai4PDs2oAJtE1cGtbJx8PzgELWcZ0ve9zx88dvD9KqoQ9U6r34N0fKbaG0iCO6_mCkSNGlXnWBCPbx97RaBynVi9iGFCThVZiQcWq-gHaoMMnbDiUpUduVLZN8ZaOHFrtKTVZBuQ/s1600/P1030502.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguyxCHai4PDs2oAJtE1cGtbJx8PzgELWcZ0ve9zx88dvD9KqoQ9U6r34N0fKbaG0iCO6_mCkSNGlXnWBCPbx97RaBynVi9iGFCThVZiQcWq-gHaoMMnbDiUpUduVLZN8ZaOHFrtKTVZBuQ/s1600/P1030502.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The street in Clovelly</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixJrVypxOQWca9PaOpfJSkm2gT_wSNyMZk6SqvoFG08ucnjXVeIWMfMg2J6tZbL-wr8mNmSNRP9nWRYmvt-grRCu2KbeLBLUh3rLFCYj7iEjcOlmZOz8GUqeKps1NwW5e1Owg03VcX4F1H/s1600/P1030501.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixJrVypxOQWca9PaOpfJSkm2gT_wSNyMZk6SqvoFG08ucnjXVeIWMfMg2J6tZbL-wr8mNmSNRP9nWRYmvt-grRCu2KbeLBLUh3rLFCYj7iEjcOlmZOz8GUqeKps1NwW5e1Owg03VcX4F1H/s1600/P1030501.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Toby </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Clovelly
is an absolutely adorable no-car village with a steeply cobbled path
that leads down to the little harbour from a carpark at the top. It
was bustling with tourists, and many Germans, because the owners of
Clovelly have connections there. In days gone by all goods were
carried up and down to the village by donkeys and there are still
donkeys there now giving rides – unfortunately only to children. My
mistake was wearing my Vivobarefoot shoes. They are designed to
reawaken your feet and make every bone do its bit as you walk along -
by having soles as thin as blotting paper. Not good on cobbles and I
felt every one! </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Geraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1715727987060572790.post-58961546133537669732014-09-23T10:02:00.000-07:002014-09-25T02:13:06.587-07:00North Somerset<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Nick
and Alfie joined me at Weston-Super-Mare for three days. We didn't
stop long there – it is a popular seaside resort with a large pier,
recently restored after a massive fire in 2008.</span></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc7etkkFxVrbvUiVMS3Wm_s6WBWEZ_Lsb9JrA1GHANg-xPdCMGPQalD6R2BxiWrxYxWBJphCUNOXpOO8fIJQXZ6zkbY8NcM4gM4loSGWSj-lIZmbADrVE3Z4q6kLbrfATAsT9AC2LAzGQW/s1600/P1030403.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc7etkkFxVrbvUiVMS3Wm_s6WBWEZ_Lsb9JrA1GHANg-xPdCMGPQalD6R2BxiWrxYxWBJphCUNOXpOO8fIJQXZ6zkbY8NcM4gM4loSGWSj-lIZmbADrVE3Z4q6kLbrfATAsT9AC2LAzGQW/s1600/P1030403.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Julie on Burrow Mump</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">We
went to the Somerset Levels to where the worst of last winter's west
country flooding had been. At Burrowbridge we walked up Burrow Mump,
a small hill with the remains of a Saxon church on top which now
shelters sheep from the weather. Nine months ago the Mump stood like
an island, totally surrounded by water, but today it looks green and
peaceful. The only evidence of the floods was a team of workmen
dredging the River Parrett. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">An
american woman called Julie walked up the hill with us; she had a
backpack and had walked from Glastonbury. That's a good walk isn't
it? I said. She smiled, and shrugged. (I looked it up, it's 10m.)
Where did you start your walk? Gt Yarmouth! Crikey, how far can that
be? She shrugged again, (it's more than 200m) and said she didn't
count miles, but was heading for Land's End.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">We
bought Scrumpy from a lady called Jeanette at West Lynn. She offered
dry, and medium, and Nick said he liked dry cider. “It's pretty
dry!” she warned, and gave us samples of both to try. The dry felt
like it would rip the enamel off your teeth, so we went for the
medium - which was still pretty dry. Nick pronounced it excellent,
and I had mine 50:50 with apple juice!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSD9U08C9WCO7IixPSGgVcs_So4lPiGUTvqRFPtdpPey71xjNJqfeiTy63dAddDk2A4crslIgIcncAjKO3HELhbcxSFtTR2aLEwYtAwVC69ZitB2bJSxmerZ1Gj3bcRTxNbBcdyQjXKGCQ/s1600/P1030405.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSD9U08C9WCO7IixPSGgVcs_So4lPiGUTvqRFPtdpPey71xjNJqfeiTy63dAddDk2A4crslIgIcncAjKO3HELhbcxSFtTR2aLEwYtAwVC69ZitB2bJSxmerZ1Gj3bcRTxNbBcdyQjXKGCQ/s1600/P1030405.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alf having an ice-cream</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">We
visited Dunster Castle, run by the National Trust now but the family
home of the Luttrell family. It's Saxon, but greatly refurbished,
mostly in the 19thC, and definitely worth a visit. Alfie had his tea,
a walk in the park and an icecream – we were having a lovely day
out. Then to Minehead – Nick thought Butlins looked a bit like
Lord's Cricket Ground - and to refuel. I stopped to take a
photograph across the bay and we set off for a campsite near Lynton.
Baa spluttered a bit.. “You did put in diesel, didn't you?” No,
he had not!</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">I
stopped there and then in Park Road, opposite the optician and two
funeral parlours, and rang the AA. We sat for nearly 3 hours, getting
angry looks from passing motorists, and quizzical looks from
pedestrians - particularly when I started cooking lamb chops for
supper. The recovery truck arrived, on cue at 9.05pm. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Jason,
a huge man with metal hanging all round his ear like a gaoler's
keyring, was a real gem. He took such care hauling Baa onto his low
loader, knowing she has vulnerable pipes and taps underneath, and
Nick, Alf and I got into the cab. Jason's powerful Mercedes engine
had no trouble climbing Porlock Hill, as he regaled us with tales of
how many caravans he had rescued from each bend. “People set off up
here, not realising how steep and long it is, and then they slither
backwards, jack-knife, burn their clutches out..”<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlbqFgrdlvazAhFmuIzPUiont56MR6o84eEf9ZuPgrrK5euartIeKo0Y-2J-u43qtn6aVQLqLprkTW78i6Fn95czfMyOPFdC0xyP41JpHHJn0e589T5t7CGT-3H5BFOSFwHFFizmTNPakz/s1600/P1030422.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlbqFgrdlvazAhFmuIzPUiont56MR6o84eEf9ZuPgrrK5euartIeKo0Y-2J-u43qtn6aVQLqLprkTW78i6Fn95czfMyOPFdC0xyP41JpHHJn0e589T5t7CGT-3H5BFOSFwHFFizmTNPakz/s1600/P1030422.JPG" height="229" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bar getting on the recovery vehicle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">(Be
warned campers, Porlock Hill climbs 1,300ft in two miles.)</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">When
we got up to the top, the full moon shone over Exmoor and we could
see sheep and ponies grazing, and the play area where Jason and his
wife liked to bring the grand-children. Bar was safe (unscarred by
the overhanging trees) and all lit up behind us! We got to the
campsite at 11pm and Jason rolled Baa carefully onto her pitch to
await the AA the following day. Thank you Jason.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Geraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1715727987060572790.post-13531726281498770922014-09-22T09:17:00.001-07:002014-09-25T02:13:32.589-07:00Cardiff Bay<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">Cardiff has recently
been voted the best place for young people to live in Britain, and I know where
those you people will be heading. But I went first to Barry Island
just to get a flavour of Gavin & Stacey. Apparently Stacey's home
is on the market, but I didn't see it. The bay is wonderful and I
walked the path round the headland watching a class of surfers
charging into the sea. There is an amusement arcade on the front
“Nyssa’s Slots.. come and see what's occurring!” and things
went downhill from there.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_ntcN1_PkdoHjPmjF8gguOLXB4IEGpRuLXvbd6TbTFNizQ8KPEstzBrFcNT4DtveeAtmxOABmJ05wdkus_4GS6KDyZ2sv9dPMoa1upGW5ZVfeKhg4tOF5rJkg9RqcZfxq_vzMRWhWquJg/s1600/P1030307.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_ntcN1_PkdoHjPmjF8gguOLXB4IEGpRuLXvbd6TbTFNizQ8KPEstzBrFcNT4DtveeAtmxOABmJ05wdkus_4GS6KDyZ2sv9dPMoa1upGW5ZVfeKhg4tOF5rJkg9RqcZfxq_vzMRWhWquJg/s1600/P1030307.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Surfers off Barry Island!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">I stayed in Penarth,
a comfortable suburb of Cardiff. The large and expensive-looking
Victorian houses of Marine Parade show that Penarth has long been a
good address around here. But I am sure that it is to the massive new
marina and housing development that those young professionals choose
to live; it looked pretty classy. Beyond the development, at Penarth
Head it is possible to park and walk the 1.1k across the barrage to
the Queen Alexandra Dock on the north side.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">The barrage is like
a massive lock gate which keeps the level of Cardiff Bay constant.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8VUaVppeyYmb4-rn7NQoO5ALAg0Z5t8vxTr8MVbpmeNXcgxk6x0yo4PNQZ2ZTbvo0NRTbtT9L2SM7yvVlfW21_nUxX8oqm9o9e8ErW4HbV1i3KhQY5I2JCQOE5D9Gi6T7RX_AHBrFizXx/s1600/P1030318.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8VUaVppeyYmb4-rn7NQoO5ALAg0Z5t8vxTr8MVbpmeNXcgxk6x0yo4PNQZ2ZTbvo0NRTbtT9L2SM7yvVlfW21_nUxX8oqm9o9e8ErW4HbV1i3KhQY5I2JCQOE5D9Gi6T7RX_AHBrFizXx/s1600/P1030318.JPG" height="199" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Barrage at Cardiff Bay</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Costing in excess of £200m, it was completed in 1999, and is the
single most important factor in the regeneration of Cardiff. Before
the barrage the bay was smelly, and tidal, so that at low tide the
large mud flats were hideous, littered with rubbish and rusty
supermarket trolleys.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2oi17d-q6yjqYWJd5nItQWuiMQ9rcKkKboLn9COfS8-gfJj3G2vPAfUuhlIyVfza-1vcwMKV_zou_1_MwxrAbZNgVCdmlM1rMPWHmr4ZiYdq_QaO4k9V1mIqbf3gf8X_cO92eDdIFO05V/s1600/P1030317.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2oi17d-q6yjqYWJd5nItQWuiMQ9rcKkKboLn9COfS8-gfJj3G2vPAfUuhlIyVfza-1vcwMKV_zou_1_MwxrAbZNgVCdmlM1rMPWHmr4ZiYdq_QaO4k9V1mIqbf3gf8X_cO92eDdIFO05V/s1600/P1030317.JPG" height="203" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cardiff Bay</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">Today it is a
freshwater harbour, the water's edge lined with shops, restaurants,
smart offices and wine bars. I aimed for the warm copper shell of the
Millennium Building, Cardiff's arts centre, and parked behind The St
David's Hotel. I joined a harbour tour with a nice family who farm
near Liskeard and Chris, our skipper, explained how the barrage works
and how it keeps the salt water from the Bristol Channel out of the
harbour. He said the St David's Hotel was where the NATO delegates
stayed, and that the roof had been crawling with snipers – none
when I looked. He said that security had been so tight over the conference that all the manhole covers in Cardiff had
been lifted and sealed. The Bay certainly looks wonderful now and is
the focus of the city – I can understand why all those young things
want to live there. </span>
</div>
</div>
Geraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1715727987060572790.post-80737728698105452022014-09-22T09:08:00.000-07:002014-09-25T02:14:22.985-07:00The Gower Peninsular<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">The sun was shining
behind a heavy haze which covered the whole of the Gower Peninsular
when I was there.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">I headed for the
village of Mumbles where party people on a Saturday night used to
gather, and stagger, down the Mumbles Mile having a drink in all of
the (20+) bars and pubs between the White Rose Pub at one end and the
pier at the other. Now, I understand, somewhere called Wind ('Wined')
Street in Swansea city centre has taken over as the go-to destination
for Stags, Hens and drunken revellers, and relative peace has been
restored to Mumbles. I thought it was nice, and villagey, with its
huge beach looking out over Swansea Bay.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">I wiggled all around
the houses getting from Mumbles to Rhosilli which is the biggest
(three mile) surf beach. I stopped to see beautiful Oxwich Bay on the
southern side of The Gower, and kept going west. The peninsular has
many densely populated villages – all feeling quite comfortable and
prosperous - with great expanses of countryside between them. I
found a campsite at Pitton near Rhossili at about 6.30pm and
walked for half an hour, up Rhossili Hill, thinking I would see the
bay. But I didn't.. so I walked back to the campsite.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">Next day I set out
to walk for half an hour or so before breakfast. I headed for the
coast (south) and then east towards Rhossili. It was almost two hours
before I got to Worms Head, a rocky promontory with a rocky causeway
which is only exposed at low tide, on the south side of Rhossili
Bay. I had no money on me and was starving!</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVZz1mJ7YAyAg-lqMSNh5JE7xT96iq3UGx0A0IkwfqR8Gb4J0VWw7Vjk6nGBXLiTQp7FllQ8Do4pw38O4JrqpwTfJFsFKxi8QpqSKImUR2DrsThTqbfGa-HgTOVRgAhNTCrDhuIr5d7j9a/s1600/P1030339.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVZz1mJ7YAyAg-lqMSNh5JE7xT96iq3UGx0A0IkwfqR8Gb4J0VWw7Vjk6nGBXLiTQp7FllQ8Do4pw38O4JrqpwTfJFsFKxi8QpqSKImUR2DrsThTqbfGa-HgTOVRgAhNTCrDhuIr5d7j9a/s1600/P1030339.JPG" height="235" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rhossili Bay</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">It is difficult to
describe one vast and wonderful beach after another, when I have seen
so many fantastic stretches of coast... but Rhossili, facing due west
into the Bristol Channel, deserves all the adjectives that are thrown
at it. Surfers, I am sure would explain why they find it so good...
It took me half an hour to walk back by the road.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">Here is a little
Welsh joke... I got confused between Penarth and Penclawdd.. It isn't
a great joke (it's just that they sound similar in Welsh, dd being
th) but Penarth is an up-market suburb of Cardiff, while <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyp9_r3Ru0UOqPvw0vb202SmHutBXwhApGQZrILiOYDYwjwMn9i24Ecx3kJCvB6ga4w_k0Rkk_2x72tbEUJBHUCipPlswuEajJmJNmmpH_xUfERsWLigdvVi3Ev_P1I_N0Ucfl-zP9kGde/s1600/P1030348.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyp9_r3Ru0UOqPvw0vb202SmHutBXwhApGQZrILiOYDYwjwMn9i24Ecx3kJCvB6ga4w_k0Rkk_2x72tbEUJBHUCipPlswuEajJmJNmmpH_xUfERsWLigdvVi3Ev_P1I_N0Ucfl-zP9kGde/s1600/P1030348.JPG" height="219" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Very distant cockle-pickers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Penclawdd is
a place where hard-working cockle-pickers have scratched a living
from the beds far out to sea, getting up at all hours depending on
the tide.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">Just before I was
there the BBC re-ran part of a programme Derek Cooper made years ago
about the Penclawdd cockle-pickers, and he talked to a wonderful
Welsh lady and ate her cockle-pie and laverbread - and didn't enjoy
the latter much. I felt I must go. Originally horses were used to bring in the cockles
– they have to go miles out at low tide – and now they use
tractors. But sadly by the time I had found the track that leads out
to the cocklebeds the pickers were on their way back in.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Geraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1715727987060572790.post-79684285861494643352014-09-17T05:05:00.001-07:002014-09-17T05:05:22.960-07:00St David's<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVoHz3Db1ZTWcPRVvFjosUWjtAu1rIIFZ3cjBkpO-5PnebxKjaLZxJfuVhbcS2kRWmwGjKFYHAGvWVYs2Njat4wd0chLLNvpHspWHnmf52f7KjgBySa835BWyi4Wija2_g-XY-wd4laVyN/s1600/P1030253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVoHz3Db1ZTWcPRVvFjosUWjtAu1rIIFZ3cjBkpO-5PnebxKjaLZxJfuVhbcS2kRWmwGjKFYHAGvWVYs2Njat4wd0chLLNvpHspWHnmf52f7KjgBySa835BWyi4Wija2_g-XY-wd4laVyN/s1600/P1030253.JPG" height="227" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">Anna joined me to
visit St David's and we weren't quite so lucky with the weather. We
had rung in advance to book a boat trip to see dolphins, seals and
puffins on Ramsay Island (4.30pm) for an hour. This meant we could
just make it to choral evensong at the Cathedral at 6.00pm; perhaps
it was cutting it a bit fine. By the time we had made it to the quay
at St Justinians the weather had started to blow up. We were put in
three teams of eight, and issued with lifejackets, and still the
three boats we were meant to be boarding hadn't got back from the
previous trip. We looked like being late for church: never mind, if
we were a few minutes late, we'd sneak in the back. But by 5pm when
our boat was still not in and we were advised move to a safer part of
the quay for boarding... we began to feel less and less inclined to
go to Ramsay Island. Then the decision was made for us as the trip
was cancelled, so we hurried back to Baa and headed for St David's
Cathedral with time to spare. It is the most beautiful Mediaeval
cathedral tucked into a dip between the town and the coast. There was
a monastery on this site in 600ad founded by a monk called David who
spread christianity in the region and attracted pilgrims from all
over the world. Today the cathedral is largely Norman, quite small,
and simple inside, with leaning arches and a pronounced slope to the
floor in the nave. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">It was a good thing
that we weren't late, because evensong took place in the quire with
the visiting choir from Solihull slightly outnumbering the
congregation. They sounded wonderful, and was exciting to be near
enough to hear individual voices, see their concentration, and their
mismatched socks. The choirmaster had a fearsome way of eyeballing
the younger members whose concentration wavered. There were two boys
of about seven, one of whom had a very earnest mother who crouched
beside him and encouraged him with great fervour. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">We were booked into
a campsite at Newgale, south of St David's, which we never found, and
so ended up at another one which was on the side of a very windy
hill, with a distant loo block and a cold tap, no shower. We had a
good supper with the wind lashing around the hill and Anna, who is
used to more comfortable accommodation than Baa, let alone sleeping
at an angle, made no complaints!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB9OSytYpY7J_HWRMFYHM7CcHM79X9k17zExryrpXQifgfCzqFT7lQAVkxGihuAI8hHVt4k57VQAL737K2ezLI2O8pgFRIVV0xVxJDgh8aLAjwOZVv9NZxPyFSF0GShoevDtojObhyoAkm/s1600/P1030261.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB9OSytYpY7J_HWRMFYHM7CcHM79X9k17zExryrpXQifgfCzqFT7lQAVkxGihuAI8hHVt4k57VQAL737K2ezLI2O8pgFRIVV0xVxJDgh8aLAjwOZVv9NZxPyFSF0GShoevDtojObhyoAkm/s1600/P1030261.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Milford Haven appearing in the mist</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">The next day we went
to Dale, a tiny and sweet little village opposite Milford Haven. At
first the mist was so thick we couldn't see beyond the boats anchored
in the bay, but by the time we'd had a cup of coffee it had started
to lift and we could see the tankers and the gas terminals appearing
through the fog – they really looked rather lovely! And by the
afternoon the mist had gone and we walked along a section of the
Pembrokeshire Coastal Path at Freshwater West, before heading for lovely Tenby.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
</div>
Geraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1715727987060572790.post-3535381758395646162014-09-17T04:18:00.001-07:002014-09-17T04:19:22.965-07:00The north Pembrokeshire coast<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh76DZyDn5SBTk8ol5KlSk3_xocZyqrRHMjD-MQad2Q35di_a6SeRIEr8uQtsZGucp8UNmlyml0xfjInyCczy3ooBOtuwgz5vxjzM7PMS4BXOAxLpd-dSA3poURrP8Nk6Z3568dyRVTPxb/s1600/P1030361.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh76DZyDn5SBTk8ol5KlSk3_xocZyqrRHMjD-MQad2Q35di_a6SeRIEr8uQtsZGucp8UNmlyml0xfjInyCczy3ooBOtuwgz5vxjzM7PMS4BXOAxLpd-dSA3poURrP8Nk6Z3568dyRVTPxb/s1600/P1030361.JPG" height="236" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Newport</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">I spent two days
with my friend Trish near Fishguard at Newport - not to be confused
with the NATO Summit Newport on the M4. This one has a wonderful
beach, busy with fishing and sailing and the narrow channel up to the river
goes past Trish's house. It is easy to spend the day watching the
boats and the surfers, and the tide go in and out.. But after an
hour mackerel fishing Trish took me on a little tour. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">We first went to see
the Strumble Head Lighthouse on a little island just off the coast.
It was beautiful and calm with sheep grazing happily on the gentle
slopes that lead down to the sea. It's hard to remember on a day like
that what a notoriously dangerous bit of coast this is when the
weather turns bad.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh325GuiVroOOKPFBqNj9DW2shv4MwKXPNH2uvg_o76WuKLNNsJ8G2s7gOK-ZYkyCbcj5jAukM_IbRD_PSme2Xzq5tnm3X1C6KPdEboaJnfucRUo_OK1cFsIHMCjAcfTEzBLkcg7VOAqdS/s1600/P1030364.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh325GuiVroOOKPFBqNj9DW2shv4MwKXPNH2uvg_o76WuKLNNsJ8G2s7gOK-ZYkyCbcj5jAukM_IbRD_PSme2Xzq5tnm3X1C6KPdEboaJnfucRUo_OK1cFsIHMCjAcfTEzBLkcg7VOAqdS/s1600/P1030364.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Strumble Head Lighthouse</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">We went on to
</span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Llanwnda
and parked, to see where what is referred to as “the last invasion
of Britain” took place in 1797. 1,400 Frenchmen came ashore here at
Carregwasted Head (and that must have been quite a feat in itself) in
support of Irish Republicans. The landing in Wales and another near
Newcastle were diversionary tactics to the main attack which landed
in Ireland. The men who came to Wales were a rough lot, chiefly
convicts and “irregulars”, and the invasion soon turned into
chaos when they all got drunk and set fire to the church. It ended a
few days later on 23 February at The Battle of Fishguard, where the
British were victorious. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Up
the road from Newport Nevern is a pretty village with a Norman
church, St Brynach, with a “bleeding Yew” in the churchyard.
There's a Pilgrim's Cross nearby where people came to pray on their
way to St David's Cathedral 30 miles further west. Pilgrims came from
miles around in the Middle Ages, landing in boats around the coast,
and walking from all over Britain, to worship at St David's.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">Today The
Pembrokeshire Coastal Path makes life easy for walkers. It is 180
miles long and runs from St Dogmaels near Cardigan in the north to
Amroth, between Tenby and Swansea, in the south. I think next year I
would like to do part of the walk... perhaps not all of it. Its
creation has taken 17 years and, though it may sound a little
prescriptive, some of it is pretty arduous and the scenery is
fantastic. Certainly the little bits I have done have been wonderful,
and I don't think it would feel like a walk in the park.</span></div>
</div>
Geraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1715727987060572790.post-59164243664714810622014-09-12T06:21:00.000-07:002014-09-12T11:18:17.439-07:00The west Wales coast<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">Lots of houses in
Wales are painted pretty colours, perhaps to counteract grey rainy
skies (though I have sunshine in Wales for all but two days) and ward
off depression, or maybe just because it looks nice. From buzzing
Llandudno on the north coast with its pretty seafront, hotels and
boarding houses to Anglesey (I didn't notice so many pretty coloured
houses in Rhyl) and all the way down the coast, there are
pastel-pretty houses, in pinks, blues, and pistachio – and
occasionally a stand-out deep purple or burgundy one, or red hot
terracotta. It usually looks great – though I don't think eau de
nil works well against a Welsh sky.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgofg69zLIV054f6884GXr3T8FN3Xm55YyhPtG7PWYtcMkISolcctF1Vqo8S5E15H9d54z7uZMahyphenhyphenXKLKaFQQUGeLxzW1xQkwg7d0D4t7ljHJYX3W3mSdLozGcksepleF7XXiTT2AI3xKvN/s1600/P1030216.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgofg69zLIV054f6884GXr3T8FN3Xm55YyhPtG7PWYtcMkISolcctF1Vqo8S5E15H9d54z7uZMahyphenhyphenXKLKaFQQUGeLxzW1xQkwg7d0D4t7ljHJYX3W3mSdLozGcksepleF7XXiTT2AI3xKvN/s1600/P1030216.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from Harlech Castle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">Harlech wasn't so
noticeable for its painted walls, but for its Castle, built by Edward
I in 13thC, which sits on a low hill looking down on some very
ordinary houses around its feet. It looks the other way to Snowdonia
and across the sea over an incredible sandy beach – a beach which
continues pretty much all the way down to Barmouth 10 miles away. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">On
the way flat, reclaimed farmland stretches from the road to grassy
sanddunes and the sea, and in places the stubble fields appear to
drop straight into the sea. Silver-grey dry stone walls enclose small
paddocks for sheep and cattle, and on the land side, high, granitey
hills slope sharply down to the road.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Didot;">This stretch of coast felt totally foreign to me. I am not quite sure why (Portmeirion and Aberystwyth are only 60 miles apart) perhaps because it's on the far side of those stunning mountains. It isn't bleak, it just feels a long way from anywhere!</span><span style="font-family: Didot;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPX0HBWK-QIfTNwMoR4YSLgC4UCE7P2AySaJtIZcaPiQiylciv9PJ2V-Kskt0AB8U3vfpvtQ4K2g1rjTTw-Mo0AuKv3WCZBY7yWwFHqeXLTCH3lvMSp4BC_aK8Q8DRxJqaACUa8KzY5FpK/s1600/P1030219.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPX0HBWK-QIfTNwMoR4YSLgC4UCE7P2AySaJtIZcaPiQiylciv9PJ2V-Kskt0AB8U3vfpvtQ4K2g1rjTTw-Mo0AuKv3WCZBY7yWwFHqeXLTCH3lvMSp4BC_aK8Q8DRxJqaACUa8KzY5FpK/s1600/P1030219.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">... it also looks out this way!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Barmouth
looks a tiny place on my map, but it isn't. It's a town of some
stature, with tall Victorian guesthouses edging the road,
with steep steps up to the doors. There's a bridge on my map which
crosses the mouth of the river and I suspected it was a no-car
bridge. I was right. I had to drive up the north side of the Mawddach
estuary to Dolgellau and then, as it was getting late, I chose the
A487 down to Machynlieth. This covers the southernmost part of the
Snowdonia National Park and cuts through narrow passes that felt like
Scotland with sheep grazing on grassy slopes under purple/blue smokey
mountains above.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">I
stayed a night by the sea wall at Borth, looking along its long
seafront lined with houses painted in more punchy colours. The sky
was heavy and grey when I woke and walked down the beach towards the
town centre. Men were working on new coastal defences... colossal
chunks of rock (5+ tons a piece, they were marked) were being bedded
into the beach. The work they did here last year protected the south
end of Borth's seafront last winter, so they're continuing up the
beach.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYhrtcvTqGYu_UxqETfhAD4Hhuki6rTgNipETZkgs9fTc9uTxS1lcxN1FH8IcqN0TEwp7xkgoU14AkFJWcdc-0EG51D1_WgmytUOsyvK0js2azKqFEpqcL5fgBhTiRve6c9jMaaee3IxgS/s1600/P1030238.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYhrtcvTqGYu_UxqETfhAD4Hhuki6rTgNipETZkgs9fTc9uTxS1lcxN1FH8IcqN0TEwp7xkgoU14AkFJWcdc-0EG51D1_WgmytUOsyvK0js2azKqFEpqcL5fgBhTiRve6c9jMaaee3IxgS/s1600/P1030238.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rain imminent at Borth</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
rain </span></span><span style="font-family: Didot;">was bucketing down in
Aberystwyth. I drove to the waterfront to see the old university
building (sand/brown, no pastels here) and the curve of houses round
the bay in washed out pale watercolours. I had been told that
Constitution Hill had the best views, but it was just too wet, so I
drove up Bridge Street, wipers on fast. I stopped by a shop window
full of wonderful cheeses, and bought a bit of Welsh cheese, though
most were Spanish with excellent hams, etc. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">Aberaeron,
further south, wins the prize for the prettiest coloured houses!
They were on a hill overlooking the bay on the way south which Baa
struggled to climb, so I couldn't stop. Now I am told there is a
square there supposedly designed by John Nash – he did a lot of
work round here. I should have stopped!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Geraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1715727987060572790.post-60716305240648347332014-09-12T06:11:00.001-07:002014-09-12T06:11:19.074-07:00Anglesey<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghaINrfPVjRJcyRHqTc_yxTXbNhhFGW3eKaZL7Q3Un6IlfTgPRU6MPJ9hGP7JJY6IIEF2cPnmBiDet3C3xn-Lh-L-lR6DbYJ-2XxfUkjROVM-GZj2CDzKsP2yQAoC6H49niXASLCazkNca/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghaINrfPVjRJcyRHqTc_yxTXbNhhFGW3eKaZL7Q3Un6IlfTgPRU6MPJ9hGP7JJY6IIEF2cPnmBiDet3C3xn-Lh-L-lR6DbYJ-2XxfUkjROVM-GZj2CDzKsP2yQAoC6H49niXASLCazkNca/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Anne
and I crossed over to Anglesey and went to see Plas Newydd, formerly
a home of the Earls of Anglesey, and now run by the National Trust.
It looks south across the Menai Straits with stunning views of
Snowdonia beyond. The artist Rex Whistler spent a lot of time here
and his mural of a romantic Venetian-type scene which runs the length
of the dining room is in itself worth a trip to Anglesey.</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9zdahLFPdwMuKpcGdD0o65XRGYK74BM0HEaR5qBHqsJz4lQTvHthvP98X4t2Ad7NxCohbx-nVlw7iwCv3cX1F1aeeNkIlGGrjxH0MCdr_PLwws7Ix6N4f9M1qDevmMg1r3-cOxUKV6y_K/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9zdahLFPdwMuKpcGdD0o65XRGYK74BM0HEaR5qBHqsJz4lQTvHthvP98X4t2Ad7NxCohbx-nVlw7iwCv3cX1F1aeeNkIlGGrjxH0MCdr_PLwws7Ix6N4f9M1qDevmMg1r3-cOxUKV6y_K/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" /></a></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">In
the grounds there is a vast barrack of a building called HMS Conway
which, when it ceased being a naval training establishment, was used
by Cheshire Education Authority for a drama summer camp. Here Anne
spent a month, four summers running at the end of the 1970s,
encouraging truculent teenagers to explore their creativity. She was
responsible for getting the costumes made; the students blossomed,
and she absolutely loved it. We peered through the laurel and HMS
Conway looked handsome and deserted but just how she remembered it.
Memories came flooding back, and she nostalgically identified the
different departments, and her bedroom window!</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">I
have a watercolour of the Menai Straits with 'Beaumarais, 1854'
written on the back, and I wanted to find where it was painted. It
shows Snowdon in the distance and the Thomas Telford (1826) Menai
Suspension Bridge - a quiet and agricultural scene from the
Beaumarais shore. The town is still charming, with its narrow
streets, pretty coloured houses and quaint shops and cafes but the
quay looks very different - teeming with cars and tourists queuing
for boatrides. I couldn't imagine where the artist stood their
easel.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">In
the north-west of the island Trearddur Bay was also teeming with
holidaymakers – probably very different than when Anne's
grandparents had a holiday house there. But we found the house, and
her grandfather's grave. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Unlike
most seaside resorts, which grew up out of a shipping or fishing
port, Rhosneigr came to life because of tourism. It began around 1905
with Mr Palethorpes, a Yorkshire sausage baron, who built himself a
huge white 'castle' on the beach, and many other holiday homes have
been built since. We had tea with friends, Andrew and Joy, who have
a lovely one (not castellated though!) and walked on the beach as the
sun was going down.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Anne
left from Bangor the next day and I drove to see the famous model
village at Portmeirion, built by the architect Clough Williams-Ellis
from 1925 - 1976. It rises up a slope with a dramatic sandy
peninsular in front of it, and woodland behind and is a massive
tourist attraction.</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxJ36b9WTLJI5XuI4c5DtK8UZpKMMnJKrBqsjm8GJUaBtJ85be1nt-WOZqfIJmLYuM8STP5rhyJLdeN6TtfwxbW9lRIBGIiEaQleQR5ytFazH9fG5YWqy3KN8dL8N4DbQuqlHw-t6q8Lj6/s1600/P1030210.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxJ36b9WTLJI5XuI4c5DtK8UZpKMMnJKrBqsjm8GJUaBtJ85be1nt-WOZqfIJmLYuM8STP5rhyJLdeN6TtfwxbW9lRIBGIiEaQleQR5ytFazH9fG5YWqy3KN8dL8N4DbQuqlHw-t6q8Lj6/s1600/P1030210.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;"> </span></span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">The
best thing about Portmeirion for me was finding a flyer to
Clough-Ellis's own garden, 5 miles away. It is called Plas Brondanw
and the garden is stepped down in terraces from the house (which isn't
open to the public) with farmland falling away below and, to the
right, Snowdon rises up beyond gaps in the topiary (above). I thought it was
magical and as I walked back past the house a small black rabbit
scuttled out from under one hedge, looked at me for a moment, and
then ran under another!</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
</div>
Geraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1715727987060572790.post-87724705294356879622014-09-10T04:24:00.000-07:002014-09-10T04:24:11.585-07:00Happy Camper<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">Anne Sykes is a
friend from Hampshire who was brought up in Cheshire. She has happy
childhood memories of Anglesey and Abersoch and is passionate about
camping! She booked in early to join me for three days, and a little
trip down memory lane.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">Abersoch is
historically where the great and the good of Cheshire and Yorkshire
have come on holiday – there or Tenby. It's got wonderful beaches,
sailing, and golf courses but we had no time for such things.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq6SSK14dWgFiJc5_QqxZ_9tVx9GULkeJsFl4r8qTty0if58WqALwbppSkK1P7FGBUzZIGXcAp5N6wurvA4Egk5DaYNIAp4NpUx16DL87t25kfH9Fj30PRGxQT_PszMUEOBT0Co3b8UlVO/s1600/P1030135.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq6SSK14dWgFiJc5_QqxZ_9tVx9GULkeJsFl4r8qTty0if58WqALwbppSkK1P7FGBUzZIGXcAp5N6wurvA4Egk5DaYNIAp4NpUx16DL87t25kfH9Fj30PRGxQT_PszMUEOBT0Co3b8UlVO/s1600/P1030135.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roy & Judy's campsite</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">We camped at
Llanaelhaearn near Trefor on the north side of the Lynn Peninsular,
looking out to sea, with the end of the Snowdon range framing our
view to the east, and Yr Eifl and the Tre'r Ceiri Hillfort to the
west. The day after a bank holiday, we were the only guests.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">The
site, on a slope but with level pitches, is run by Roy and Judy who
came here from Virginia Water 14 years ago. So far there's just one
small shed, painted dark green, which opened up like a tardis; pink
and immaculately clean inside with a loo and basin, and an
information board detailing local attractions, etc. A shower next
door to the shed will be ready for next year. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">In
the morning I asked where I might buy calor gas and check my tyres
and Roy said Ifan Hughes, in the village, was the man to see. Ifan is
the local mechanic, the milkman, the undertaker and delivers the
papers. He also drives the village coach, and will pull stranded
campers out of the mud! </span></span>
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzCKSZKAFHFpx2E4kKoi_K9HVNpDDne153d8FmIJiS2buVoLNMglmz8gGjhUeLhbp30K4_QNmfyf7nNybNBGc3CJJbnE-agt07cNz3zN7_uF3ZBuROHuLjYEr-P8JhT_4mQ2oE5u9wLo1D/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzCKSZKAFHFpx2E4kKoi_K9HVNpDDne153d8FmIJiS2buVoLNMglmz8gGjhUeLhbp30K4_QNmfyf7nNybNBGc3CJJbnE-agt07cNz3zN7_uF3ZBuROHuLjYEr-P8JhT_4mQ2oE5u9wLo1D/s1600/photo.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ifan at work</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">The
forecourt of Ifan's garage (it's not a petrol garage, no calor
either) was choked with cars and coaches, vans and trucks – some
new arrivals were barely off the road, others looked more clapped-out
and there for the long haul. Ifan is a lovely bobble-hatted,
apple-cheeked man. I explained my problem (tyres) and he looked at me
quizzically; with his strong Welsh accent and me with my la-di-dah
English one I thought we might have a problem. But he smiled and got
an extension for his tyre gauge. I explained that the front drivers'
side valve was difficult – he deftly kicked the hub-cap off, and
kicked it back on again. Then he told us where to buy calor gas in
Caernarvon (we didn't understand, and got it somewhere else) and he
refused any payment.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
</div>
Geraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1715727987060572790.post-31581151752533198102014-09-09T10:49:00.000-07:002014-09-09T10:49:11.079-07:00Sunlight at the end of the Tunnel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">The drive from
Liverpool under the Mersey to The Wirral felt endless; the tunnel
seemed to go for miles, and has bends in it – I felt like a trapped
rabbit. Eventally I emerged, and found the road to the village of Port Sunlight. In
celebration of its 125 years, a few residents have guided tours
around the village, and I went on one.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDZqbcJ1aYST0d_3ujGZF0P4gKfVxoUsoyZlS4JsE6kxEwtPDv-7zAHSSOIKck6sMmBdpp3XGeD6JuyLnc0_xf9QBX8RUrGllbByL_iv06wB_kiYmN9-IymsHsZV2CQVztFJ0OWtdMuJle/s1600/P1030093.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDZqbcJ1aYST0d_3ujGZF0P4gKfVxoUsoyZlS4JsE6kxEwtPDv-7zAHSSOIKck6sMmBdpp3XGeD6JuyLnc0_xf9QBX8RUrGllbByL_iv06wB_kiYmN9-IymsHsZV2CQVztFJ0OWtdMuJle/s1600/P1030093.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My 'group' at Port Sunlight</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Lord
Lever was a man from Bolton who, at the end of the 19thC, started a
soap factory with his brother James. Their soap was made from
vegetable oil, rather than animal fat, so it lathered better, and
instead of buying a chunk from a block on the grocer's counter,
housewives bought their own individually wrapped bar - of Sunlight
Soap. Soon new premises were needed and Lord Lever bought a patch of
marshy land on the Wirral: it had an established railway line and
sea links across the Mersey, and the marsh meant it was cheap. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Lord
Lever was a great visionary and philanthropist and had become a very rich man. </span></span><span style="font-family: Didot;">And he had a passion for architecture. </span><span style="font-family: Didot;">At
a time when working class families were living
in crowded, unhygenic accommodation, he would have a stronger and
happier workforce if he built them pleasant, and comfortable houses. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Different
architects were employed to build streets of two- and three-bedroomed
houses, all with hot water, a bath, and an outside privvy. They are
different in design – Arts & Crafts, and a lot of Dutch
influence - and have extravagant design features, intricate
brickwork, etc. All of the houses had a small front garden, a back
yard and an allotment, and none were passed for building without Lord
Lever's close scrutiny. He didn't like ugly washing lines, bins etc
to be seen from the front, and all houses were kept immaculately
tidy. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">His
employees were not expected to work late, but to better themselves:
attend concerts, etc. This philanthropic 'care' for his workers might
sound controlling today. Sunlight women and men had separate
entrances to the factory, separate dining rooms, and the women, who
were largely employed in the packing department, had to leave if they
got married. But they had jobs, and lovely homes – Port Sunlight had 10
households per acre when across in Liverpool there were 40 houses per
acre – and probably no hot water. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Today
the houses are still lived in by Sunlight (now Unilever) employees,
or their descendents; now they have been modernised and have upstairs
bathrooms as standard. They look just the same from the front but out
the back the allotments have gone and smart cars are parked where the
privvies used to be. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">The
crowning glory of the village is the Lady Lever Art Gallery which
Lord Lever built to house his personal art collection and opened in
1922 as a monument to his wife, Elizabeth. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">I
left The Wirral, my head full of philanthropy, betterment and
inspiration, and headed for the north Wales coast where I planned to
camp on a grassy knoll somewhere around Prestatyn or Rhyl. Ha! I came
down to earth with a bump. There is no space between the trailer
parks along that coast. It was seething with people I didn't want to
see, and general ugliness, and I ended up at a campsite near
Llandulas, in the late arrivals naughty corner, with the the North
Wales Expressway (the A5) drumming overhead. </span></span>
</div>
</div>
Geraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1715727987060572790.post-52097555947807183242014-09-05T04:15:00.000-07:002014-09-05T04:15:16.822-07:00Liverpool<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">The campsite I
stayed in for the stormy night was close to Ainsdale, near Southport,
and in the morning the warden told me there was a good train service
into Liverpool from the village. I parked in a residential street and
(£3.80 return for Seniors) set off for the city, half an hour away.
I walked around the city centre and then down to the dock area where
much of Liverpool's regeneration has taken place. The Eye – similar
to London, but smaller – gave a good view of the city. At the
Tate I saw an exhibition of the Dutch artist, Piet Mondrian. It was
mainly neo-plasticism – his blue, red and yellow shapes, strong
straight black lines – which is how he got from abstract (an
abstract version of a known form) to total abstraction - from the
purest state of the human mind. I loved them, and was glad I took the
headset!</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisYSsTUJgPlKY0uZF1RRRcaAyhprpB5URxqxQsm9xyBxFQDLBCQkRF73TXYfz6fxj_vV46PRtNGYvPH5aGtl3uk3elaEFc6PWnmadx-OBbP2IRPOGQew9_l6jWAMUWA1d_gHW1T0uYUWYX/s1600/P1030041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisYSsTUJgPlKY0uZF1RRRcaAyhprpB5URxqxQsm9xyBxFQDLBCQkRF73TXYfz6fxj_vV46PRtNGYvPH5aGtl3uk3elaEFc6PWnmadx-OBbP2IRPOGQew9_l6jWAMUWA1d_gHW1T0uYUWYX/s1600/P1030041.JPG" height="225" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">The docks are
regular brick wharflike buildings, listed and wonderfully restored, and made into flats above the shops. The Liver Building (Royal
Liver Assurance) was the tallest building in Europe when it was
built in 1911, with its three iconic 'Liver' birds on the top.
They're 18' high and are mythical birds. A local sculptor/artist was
commissioned to make them and was told they should look like eagles.
He'd never seen an eagle but had seen plenty of cormorants around the
dock so he made huge cormorants, and then someone told him eagles
didn't have webbed feet, so he took the legs off and added clawed
feet.. .!!? Or that's what I was told by Chris, the wonderful Scouse
guide on the Hop on Hop Off tour bus I joined by the Albert Dock.
Those buses are so good and I only wish I had recorded what he said
because he was so warm and funny and interesting.. He was very proud
of his city and made it clear just how important Liverpool had been
in the 19thC, with the White Star Line and Cunard, the dock crammed
with people heading for America etc. It was, and still is, a buzzy place, and the most multi-cultural
community. (Scouse comes from the Scandinavians... they brought with
them a poor man's pie or stew with lots of vegetables and a bit of
meat or fish. Delicious! Chris still has it once a week.)</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">The Anglican
cathedral is wonderful and vast (the biggest in the UK) and was
completed in 1978. At the other end of the road the Catholic
Cathedral which was originally to have been designed by Edwin Lutyens
(actually, back in time, there were other ideas too). </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7BpHxJ4LRlTb38u6Eb0WUFdDA6q9rVxeKI2rRt3-gLBRjYE_iJc2pKbDm8pdUGHDpQa834eGOAYaBxU59XlQmoN9kfdKlXsa1GzCIhTH0q4THU7cEa_XI6D7FpCaPjiSHDDDwkelh9LON/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7BpHxJ4LRlTb38u6Eb0WUFdDA6q9rVxeKI2rRt3-gLBRjYE_iJc2pKbDm8pdUGHDpQa834eGOAYaBxU59XlQmoN9kfdKlXsa1GzCIhTH0q4THU7cEa_XI6D7FpCaPjiSHDDDwkelh9LON/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Didot;">Lutyens' crypt
was built but the project then stopped because of the war in 1941.
What is there now was designed by Sir Frederick Gibberd and completed
in 1967. It is rather wonderful (very un-Lutyens) with fantastic
stained glass windows in the tower and the 'crown of thorns' coming
out of the top. It's known locally as Paddy's Wigwam!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4gB7TIWZJ9-hQaJkX5x0ZB4pWE3dukcTp-4-BIvQyI_6wuCM1VD6oAsKxdYlz2m8YMA5sG67OHrRCTvsv6ZOcU1IxjvPoHDSA5K_VenJFqlpnYgPOu_WRF1ta4g9gaw4-z7ivBh83mMKj/s1600/P1030080.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4gB7TIWZJ9-hQaJkX5x0ZB4pWE3dukcTp-4-BIvQyI_6wuCM1VD6oAsKxdYlz2m8YMA5sG67OHrRCTvsv6ZOcU1IxjvPoHDSA5K_VenJFqlpnYgPOu_WRF1ta4g9gaw4-z7ivBh83mMKj/s1600/P1030080.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">On the way back to
Ainsdale I got off the train a few stops early (Hall Road, Northern
Line) to walk down to Crosby Beach to see the Antony Gormley statues,
Another Place. They are amazing! The tide was almost out and the
statues, 100 identical cast iron figures weighing 650 kilos each, are
staring calmly out to sea, (“human life tested against planetary
time” Gormley said) -taking all that comes at them. They are spread
out over 2 miles of the shore and that day the most battering wind
was blowing off the sea. They have such an ordinariness about them
and yet they are utterly extraordinary. </span>
</div>
</div>
Geraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1715727987060572790.post-73405293266791459332014-09-02T05:17:00.003-07:002014-09-03T05:31:46.673-07:00Blackpool<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTUhKICKEXhk7cR5HRPAg5UDhEuZM6iRu93O-Nuk7kbRF8mHcX_RcxbtQGGxVSOg4KsK4Q3VkexcR1ohkzW49tuaynizYtEg6zJh6K2SLm3cz7YQ8IX4Gm0oLqp6d84jl8K_hmHTlUp1EM/s1600/P1030020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTUhKICKEXhk7cR5HRPAg5UDhEuZM6iRu93O-Nuk7kbRF8mHcX_RcxbtQGGxVSOg4KsK4Q3VkexcR1ohkzW49tuaynizYtEg6zJh6K2SLm3cz7YQ8IX4Gm0oLqp6d84jl8K_hmHTlUp1EM/s1600/P1030020.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">I arrived in
Blackpool in pouring rain and nose to tail traffic, lights and
banners overhead, and the pavements crowded with holidaymakers. There
was a Red Arrows (the real Red Arrows? I think so) display over the
beach so everyone was looking skywards. I could see the Tower up
ahead and a ferris wheel beyond and when I was alongside the Tower I
turned towards a sign to a carpark. Excellent. But it had a height
restriction (Baa is 10ft tall) so I went to another, and that also
had a height restriction - but it had an alternative entrance. It
was crammed with cars and I must have spent 15 minutes trying to
manoeuvre myself into an awkward parking space. Hot, but not
bothered, I set off in </span><span style="font-family: Didot;">the rain for the
Tower, past colourful stalls and shops, arcades and fortunetellers.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">I
booked to go to the Eye – the highest part of the Tower, not like
the London Eye. I regret not seeing the Ballroom but it was an
expensive 'step back in time' and I could also have gone to the
Circus, Jungle Jim's Playground and the Dungeons. But the 'all
attractions' ticket would have cost me about £50 - no, less for
concessions – and I didn't want to go <u>that</u> much.</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRBN-TGTVrzizfqgibAeA-9E-OsgdD0N1jyRZlTjzdCPOa1qZOD92opbn3KigYMZnJfO_We5ZV6FTUt2yhTEGn3FntQb1p2R7V-djW9zRE8Kf7oiAFS1MO-UVh9Gy_P6rqImk5WilQ0fN7/s1600/P1030021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRBN-TGTVrzizfqgibAeA-9E-OsgdD0N1jyRZlTjzdCPOa1qZOD92opbn3KigYMZnJfO_We5ZV6FTUt2yhTEGn3FntQb1p2R7V-djW9zRE8Kf7oiAFS1MO-UVh9Gy_P6rqImk5WilQ0fN7/s1600/P1030021.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Once
through the turnstile, an arm stopped me walking in front of a
laughing Indian family having their photograph taken. Me next,
(“Would you like your photo taken?” “What does it cost?”
“Nothing, it's just a bit of fun” “All right then”.) </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Didot;"><span style="font-size: small;">Look
aaah! as though you're falling off the Tower!” I looked aaah!</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Didot;"><span style="font-size: small;">Excellent!
Really, really good” (I was a natural!) “Now look thumbs up,
excited!” I looked very excited.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Didot;"><span style="font-size: small;">Excellent!”</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Off
we all went to the little theatre with special glasses for a short,
4-D warm-up fairytale film about a little boy flying round Blackpool
(and, special effects, we got sprayed with water, but I was pretty
damp anyway) and then up to the Eye. We squashed into the
lift, me next to a girl who can't have been more than 15, with a
ladder of cuts up the outside of her arm, the most recent one livid
and painful-looking. She was with four or five others and they all
looked pretty miserable.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-5SzEE8m6Nt1LZS82ZOP6glbuEjQokqxR4HmwP7bzIde6QN8SWr0nDPS3r5uPL3qzTCOhYuGOlq5DUP5NjIWQHJFBBx1I9XaARWhaqDCJ3mL4Qo7MYBrxtOc3Nds5x4rPu7XUPy4LEKF8/s1600/P1030023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-5SzEE8m6Nt1LZS82ZOP6glbuEjQokqxR4HmwP7bzIde6QN8SWr0nDPS3r5uPL3qzTCOhYuGOlq5DUP5NjIWQHJFBBx1I9XaARWhaqDCJ3mL4Qo7MYBrxtOc3Nds5x4rPu7XUPy4LEKF8/s1600/P1030023.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking through the glass floor</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;"></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Despite
the overcast day (the rain had momentarily stopped) we could see up
the beach and down the beach and all around Blackpool, and I could
see Baa 500ft below in the corner of the carpark. When I left the
Tower I took my ticket to get my photos – Durrr! Silly me. It
didn't cost anything to have the pictures taken, but £20 if you
wanted prints. They were very good, but not <u>that</u>
good!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI5U-wan_9JQiqDQvj1xjGhxGwzPt-HHzvJWYs3wALMovToVrusJ_5Cr-PfLqryriehVIRgxAfaMUFiWgzPDsuJS4RR-9Dts_6dHsmVZYgxZM17hShlM8imSM73_E1TR23-AXaVxlOeA3e/s1600/P1030028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI5U-wan_9JQiqDQvj1xjGhxGwzPt-HHzvJWYs3wALMovToVrusJ_5Cr-PfLqryriehVIRgxAfaMUFiWgzPDsuJS4RR-9Dts_6dHsmVZYgxZM17hShlM8imSM73_E1TR23-AXaVxlOeA3e/s1600/P1030028.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baa, right in the middle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">I
went back to the carpark at about 5pm, the pavements crowded with
people eating burgers, chips and fudge - we all waded through a sea
of wet cans, plastic bottles and polystyrene food containers. I had a
cup of tea before I could face getting out of my parking space (much
easier getting out!) and setting off for Southport, just above Liverpool. I found a good
campsite called Willowbank and felt quite sheltered in there on one
of the stormiest nights they had had all summer.</span></span></div>
</div>
Geraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1715727987060572790.post-68133510441344577952014-09-02T03:47:00.001-07:002014-09-02T03:47:51.226-07:00Morecambe and Fleetwood<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">Alongside the sandy
beach there's a mile of fun to drive through at Morecambe; amusement
arcades, burger bars, and people sitting outside boarding houses
drinking tea. I couldn't find anywhere to park and pulled over for a
moment in a service road (admittedly on a double yellow line) and a
traffic warden came running towards me like a charging bull.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo-BDl8Pk4YQ8_XnEzfjp5OyvnrTeH7F_SEXlWV4AAxzKKHlm1t5Gn0jmEz3DFs-pab0weHxQyHkSLOjFHdRsVu3cR-YBcyJa3tMdV2DV9et1FWS_5kC4BPV2IZ-6Dj1swTWafk5GBHUNl/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo-BDl8Pk4YQ8_XnEzfjp5OyvnrTeH7F_SEXlWV4AAxzKKHlm1t5Gn0jmEz3DFs-pab0weHxQyHkSLOjFHdRsVu3cR-YBcyJa3tMdV2DV9et1FWS_5kC4BPV2IZ-6Dj1swTWafk5GBHUNl/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">Half way along the
pleasure mile Eric Morecambe's skipping statue looked dwarfed by the
holidaymakers around him eating their icecreams and I felt a tinge of
disappointment. So I didn't stop long, and now I wish I had because
there is a wonderful art deco hotel, The Midland, close to Eric and I
missed it!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">A little further
south is the village of Heysham where I walked round a small National
Trust headland to see <span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;"><span style="font-size: small;">St
Peter's Church and St Patrick's Chapel, both established in the 8</span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><sup><span style="font-family: Didot;"><span style="font-size: small;">th</span></span></sup></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;"><span style="font-size: small;">
century. They sit on a beautiful promontory with Morecambe to the
north and looking across, I think, to Grange. There are a set of
graves cut into the sandstone which are thought to date from the
10thC with slots where the wooden crosses would have been, and they
would have had lids. Water lay in the bottom of one or two graves,
and a tourist lay in the biggest one, trying it for size! The chapel
next door is even older, around 750AD. Walking round to the south
Heysham Power Station comes as a stark contrast to the ancient hewn
graves, and it is not so beautiful, or so golden, close up!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKGtj-4WXsFmAQYbp0GEQEhZ_U9vht1ghOkegkIH7s2MXBTo8Wv_p_ipvlvZ-T_oNyUEz4vMpUsDpj2j_NiH-G9dwTSIZDb9eZ1EeSZgyQU-6_6zO39lQx7kX5f3bb5jQ8svr1PoqNXNSc/s1600/P1030001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKGtj-4WXsFmAQYbp0GEQEhZ_U9vht1ghOkegkIH7s2MXBTo8Wv_p_ipvlvZ-T_oNyUEz4vMpUsDpj2j_NiH-G9dwTSIZDb9eZ1EeSZgyQU-6_6zO39lQx7kX5f3bb5jQ8svr1PoqNXNSc/s1600/P1030001.JPG" height="233" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A tomb with a view</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">The
weather took a turn for the worse as I drove on to Fleetwood. I
didn't mean to stop long, but I wanted to at least see the harbour
where its huge fishing fleet had once made this such an important
Lancashire town. Today, the fishing industry in Fleetwood has almost
disappeared.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">The
docks looked deserted (but it was quite late) as I drove round and
got shouted at by a few gulls. But lots of new houses are being built
near the harbour, so maybe things are looking up. Small factories,
one after the other, line the route to the docks and I was glad to
see where Fisherman's Friend throat lozenges (developed by a local
pharmacist in 1865) are made. But there's little other evidence of
fishing. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">I
passed the large North Euston Hotel, elegantly curved and sitting on
a prime site overlooking the water – though it doesn't bear close
scutiny – and decided to stop for the night on the promenade. I
felt quite safe, under a street light, but it was pretty miserable,
and one of the few occasions when I have asked myself what on earth I
was doing! Alone on a Saturday night in the rain, cooking something
with rice, outside an amusement arcade in Fleetwood. The glamour!</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">The
next morning mizzly rain was falling when I lifted the blinds, and
then Ange rang which was cheering. A man on a bike drew up outside
on the wide pavement and looked in. He stayed there for at least 40
mins in the rain, wriggling unnervingly on his saddle with his hands
in his pockets.. Ange and I talked for ages, and eventually he went.</span></span></div>
</div>
Geraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1715727987060572790.post-37257206039825878862014-09-02T02:28:00.000-07:002014-09-02T02:28:09.742-07:00Morecambe Bay<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">There's a long thin
island called Walney, which is connected to the west side of Barrow
in Furness by a bridge. I didn't spend long in Barrow; I am sure it
has its charms, but all I saw was American-style malls ('Brewer's
Fayre' and fast food joints) and the massive BAE Systems building
where submarines are made, and which dominates the town's coastline.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">I headed for Walney
to have a good walk on the nature reserve, and stopped on the way to
have a sandwich in a pub. The pub was nothing special (I had to fix the loo cistern) though nice enough. I read
the newspaper and ate the most delicious ham sandwich made with dark
rye bread, while on the next table an Italian drank red wine while reading a book called 'Learn Norwegian'..</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">The tide was out
when I reached the Walney reserve, which wasn't ideal for
bird-watching, but I met a few Twitchers and saw different gulls,
some terns, a skua and one seal. Looking across Morecambe Bay to the
east a modern, square building shone like gold in the afternoon
light, and away to the south of it I could just make out Blackpool
Tower in the mist. When I got back to the nature reserve hut I asked
someone what the big square building was, but he didn't know.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEM4VpDsWqWFnUs8oIxpYZGKPJdyDPKm4WKVVCrAdC8fj8GeqoWxhY_YC5uvIowxVnTk8cddMHPif58UVuSX2XKOW72RCSIJxVprTTSz44NFKtAGpr8d3DZfKtY4vvats-rxOc4khONZjn/s1600/P1020987.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEM4VpDsWqWFnUs8oIxpYZGKPJdyDPKm4WKVVCrAdC8fj8GeqoWxhY_YC5uvIowxVnTk8cddMHPif58UVuSX2XKOW72RCSIJxVprTTSz44NFKtAGpr8d3DZfKtY4vvats-rxOc4khONZjn/s1600/P1020987.JPG" height="261" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You have to imagine how gold it looked</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">Morecambe Bay is the
most fantastic expanse of water – or sand, depending when you go.
Once it could only be crossed by foot or by ferry because of the
mountains of the Lake District on the north shore, but in 1857 the
Furness Railway was built along that north side with viaducts
crossing the estuaries. The uninitiated should not set off across the bay (there is a <span id="goog_1624435251"></span><a href="http://www.yourguide2thelakedistrict.co.uk/morecambe-bay-walks-c1042.html">Guided Walk</a><span id="goog_1624435252"></span> for those who want to do it) as it is 120 square miles of unpredictable
and dangerous quicksands and fast-moving tides. Ten years ago 23
Chinese cockle-pickers tragically died there, cut off by the tide.
The area is teeming with wildlife and out to the west of the bay is
one of Britain's largest natural gas fields. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">I drove back to
Barrow, round the BAE Systems building and up the coast road towards
Ulverston and stopped at Bardsea to look again across the bay. I
asked a man selling ice creams in a lay-by what the lovely golden
building was across the bay – he said it's Heysham Nuclear
Power Station!</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1715727987060572790" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjscm4fyf0KemhA46dvGQPdOYshBk2teaBFXPjImC2w9C4RGeEe3gAcbPMAp0zypaIGHjFya4LLPbJPA1q83mfgtXKJgknngejM9VNLNkgkQShwyMRoGpokojU2YaCGE09i4nOxpKOl5JOG/s1600/3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjscm4fyf0KemhA46dvGQPdOYshBk2teaBFXPjImC2w9C4RGeEe3gAcbPMAp0zypaIGHjFya4LLPbJPA1q83mfgtXKJgknngejM9VNLNkgkQShwyMRoGpokojU2YaCGE09i4nOxpKOl5JOG/s1600/3.JPG" height="208" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cartmel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;"></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Didot;"> </span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Cartmel
is a small village, tucked away off the road which leads from the M6
to Barrow, but its buzzing when you get there, particularly in
summer. It's famous for three things: its Priory, National Hunt
racing, and Sticky Toffee Pudding. The 12thC Priory church of St
Mary and St Michael founded by Augustine monks attracts 60,000
visitors and pilgrims each year. Do they each buy a sticky toffee
pudding? I recommend them, but you can find them all over the country
now.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">Grange over Sands is
a lovely little town looking out over Morecambe Bay from the north side. Its quaint shops
and pretty stone houses, many boarding houses and wholesale
quantities of begonias planted along walls, in hanging baskets and
windowboxes, might make it sound a bit smug, but it isn't.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Geraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1715727987060572790.post-65477529722922137502014-09-02T01:12:00.001-07:002014-09-02T01:15:40.246-07:00Whitehaven<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHRQhJ2rQ15ZCEh7FO61EtOrpjvS3Z5JyllZQWzjSEU6Rf5cTv-B8XX7jCdVSy6UL27GedyZuR_yXinftssOPkBMq70FNnRCSEoMQlXXEg_ZJu5bO4IiluZJqybzl6_1NlT_0l0M5hjn5q/s1600/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHRQhJ2rQ15ZCEh7FO61EtOrpjvS3Z5JyllZQWzjSEU6Rf5cTv-B8XX7jCdVSy6UL27GedyZuR_yXinftssOPkBMq70FNnRCSEoMQlXXEg_ZJu5bO4IiluZJqybzl6_1NlT_0l0M5hjn5q/s1600/images-1.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Whitehaven Marina</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">Whitehaven was a
boomtown in the late 18</span><sup><span style="font-family: Didot;">th</span></sup><span style="font-family: Didot;">
and the 19</span><sup><span style="font-family: Didot;">th</span></sup><span style="font-family: Didot;">
centuries, chiefly on the back of coalmining, shipbuilding and iron
ore, and the clonisation of the Americas. The slave trade brought
rum, tobacco, molasses and coffee, to Whitehaven and great riches to
the town's merchants. The handsome houses which rise up behind the
town, looking across the harbour, are testimony to their success. But
it wasn't to last...</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">The Industrial
Revolution drew businesses away to the larger northern cities and by
the second half of the 19<sup>th </sup>century, Whitehaven's fortunes
really started to decline. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">More recently
Sellafield, just down the road, was a big employer, but not any
longer.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">Today the town's
having a renaissance. Millions of pounds have been poured in –
there is a fantastic museum called <a href="http://thebeacon-whitehaven.co.uk/">The Beacon </a>which shows all about
the changing fortunes of the town from Roman times to Sellafield, and
The Rum Story tells the story of the smuggling that came with the
importing of rum, etc.There is a thriving marina, and a smart
development of flats and small businesses has been built on the
quayside. The town centre still looks a bit shabby but large
businesses are opening up there – including the Inland Revenue.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">Egremont
Castle, south of Whitehaven, dates back to the 12thC (and probably to
Roman times) but today the town's story is based around the iron ore
industry. Large deposits of hematite iron ore were found in West
Cumbria, and in the early 18</span></span><span style="color: black;"><sup><span style="font-size: small;">th</span></sup></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">
C the region prospered from exporting the iron ore. In the latter
part of the century Victorian industrialists began smelting the iron
ore, but when the railway arrived they began importing more rather
than they had been exporting.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb45a0gWmgLVnLIvU7cz_zISE6TENrwv6NrWbpNz63naaCD7qngoDJ99uaT08L4epw9KdyNNwqvFMsSa7C5aexpGNWgi1zBxr5tLy2DHMPLXOr9J1uZvu4CSanehl8nRTyftsktijPFqCD/s1600/P1020969.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb45a0gWmgLVnLIvU7cz_zISE6TENrwv6NrWbpNz63naaCD7qngoDJ99uaT08L4epw9KdyNNwqvFMsSa7C5aexpGNWgi1zBxr5tLy2DHMPLXOr9J1uZvu4CSanehl8nRTyftsktijPFqCD/s1600/P1020969.JPG" height="280" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Florence Mine, Egremont</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Didot;">Today
the <a href="http://www.florencemine.com/">Florence mine,</a> just outside Egremont, is the only open iron ore
mine left – and it produces paint pigments, not iron ore. I met an
artist called Kevin Weaver there at his show of vivid, dotted,
Impressionist canvases of Cumbria. One was a wonderful picture of
Wastwater, the deepest and perhaps the most dramatic lake in the Lake
District, with Scafell Pike behind. He said I must go and camp there,
and so I did. There is a campsite at the head of the lake and I drove
up the west side (you can't drive round the lake, the east side is
sheer hill and scree) but when I got there the campsite was tucked
away under trees and not looking over <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLzwg_5otVOshuxnQU7jM9AuAZdyHboAFMMGZYTpsH_FA0JJ182nH0eZmalXURsSXfpThMEXkyA-MQLaBFUSh4yzpWT2HilzzLWr0Bm8Cmx9YZB656xi3F_1nPMOCuPqwPrN_rR-0STk2T/s1600/P1020980.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLzwg_5otVOshuxnQU7jM9AuAZdyHboAFMMGZYTpsH_FA0JJ182nH0eZmalXURsSXfpThMEXkyA-MQLaBFUSh4yzpWT2HilzzLWr0Bm8Cmx9YZB656xi3F_1nPMOCuPqwPrN_rR-0STk2T/s1600/P1020980.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My campsite at Wastwater</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Wastwater. So I retraced my
steps and eventually found a level patch of grass which didn't have a
'No overnight camping' sign, and stopped. A few more visitors came
to watch the sun setting and then left and I was alone with Baa and a
lot of Herdwicks, pretty sheep with sweet faces, dark bodies and
white heads and legs. I awoke to rain, the sheep still grazing
outside. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Next
stop was Waberthwaite, a village on the A595, where a shop called
<a href="http://www.woodallscharcuterie.com/heritage">Woodalls</a> had been recommended to me as purveyors of the best
home-cured meat and sausages. The lady there said they bring in the
black pudding, but everything else is theirs. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Geraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1715727987060572790.post-33560129118371181482014-08-23T11:52:00.001-07:002014-08-23T11:52:56.498-07:00Into Cumbria<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">South
into England to Carlisle, I turned hard right along the south side
of the Solway Firth. There are wonderful views back across to
Scotland as I drove west to Burgh (Bruff) by Sands where a monument
to King Edward I stands by the side of the Solway. Edward died here
in 1307 during his last attempt to conquer the Scots. What a spot!
</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlsI_leG2qAFJfsCDF6JE6xPwsxV7vHSFtQyGvSTdjERjqwI5PykwgvjGFJPlLSniXM7ccBGKRhAge9HMD4wBse32L7b_rouckzmpU1ARWCfF-EjGwmvpt4b1Xh_ANh-wq-mFy39_TO4H0/s1600/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlsI_leG2qAFJfsCDF6JE6xPwsxV7vHSFtQyGvSTdjERjqwI5PykwgvjGFJPlLSniXM7ccBGKRhAge9HMD4wBse32L7b_rouckzmpU1ARWCfF-EjGwmvpt4b1Xh_ANh-wq-mFy39_TO4H0/s1600/images-1.jpeg" /></a></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">The monument is right out in an open plain, looking north across the
water to Criffel, one of the highest hills in southern Scotland, with
Skiddaw rising high out of the Cumbrian hills to the south. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Port
Carlisle was just a little fishing village until a group of
businessmen decided to build a canal linking it to Carlisle in 1823.
The place hummed for a while as coal and wheat and the wherewithal
for all those biscuits (United Biscuits and Carrs all came from
Carlisle) moved along the canal, but it became unviable and the canal
was replaced with a railway. I was hoping to see what remains of the
canal, but couldn't find anything. </span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">It
is very quiet in Port Carlisle now, and next door in
Bowness-on-Solway, and I wondered what the people who live there
do...? Mostly retired I imagine and it isn't far to go to work in
Carlisle, but there was a </span></span><span style="font-family: Didot;">bees-buzzing, </span><span style="font-family: Didot;">sunny, sleepy, slowness to that
remote north-west corner of England.</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpjGjA8hT1322DRFClcCMkLWTobMhhgsO6wZiftO2EO9hzPdK0ObaASo-fOS9nnzGijkQDeU7eACK4O2dlvcWc2ia3gqExaXjnMvodCjFXfnC7wPcPOGUJ_-mMHDn4QK7kHdKI5vTuznVl/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpjGjA8hT1322DRFClcCMkLWTobMhhgsO6wZiftO2EO9hzPdK0ObaASo-fOS9nnzGijkQDeU7eACK4O2dlvcWc2ia3gqExaXjnMvodCjFXfnC7wPcPOGUJ_-mMHDn4QK7kHdKI5vTuznVl/s1600/images.jpeg" height="204" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Silloth promenade</td></tr>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">Not
so sleepy round the corner in Silloth, once a humming Victorian
seaside resort, and it's still a popular family holiday destination.
The promenade runs along the Solway – with that same wonderful view
across to Scotland – and there's the biggest village Green I have
ever seen. A recently restored Victorian pagoda stands next to a
small amusement arcade and dodgems for toddlers; families were having
picnics on the Green, walking their dogs and flying kites. There's
not a lot happening in the town – a Spar and a Co-op, charity shops
and several funeral parlours – but I found a chemist and bought
antihistimine as I have been attacked by mosquitos again.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwkelrzl2F1Djc6VmpDGDCoBSzoFtPecT-nJWXI6q8FfCXu8SV6TyhdJoDYcjA1CXPjVruhhy_-p45dEzEs4rlEw-EaR7D9P16DHiczKPcwea7KOkgJKp3g9HtxkZ7QX2J8DQm1vvPZalt/s1600/images-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwkelrzl2F1Djc6VmpDGDCoBSzoFtPecT-nJWXI6q8FfCXu8SV6TyhdJoDYcjA1CXPjVruhhy_-p45dEzEs4rlEw-EaR7D9P16DHiczKPcwea7KOkgJKp3g9HtxkZ7QX2J8DQm1vvPZalt/s1600/images-2.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maryport harbour</td></tr>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Didot;">The
whole of this north-west coast is very Roman; and Maryport, 15 miles
south of Silloth, was an important Roman port. There was a Roman fort
here and many of the Roman remains are in the (very good) town Museum.
But the town today has echoes of the successful town it was in
the 19thC, when fishing and coal brought prosperity and a very
handsome, large harbour with smart merchants' houses on the hill
behind. I had been told that the Captain Nelson pub, down by the
harbour, was the place to eat “if the grandmother is cooking”. I
don't know if she was or not because I didn't want to eat and headed
south for Whitehaven.</span></span></div>
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Geraldine Keithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09691308256644234472noreply@blogger.com0