Home of the Ashes

No matter where I end up, England is still home and nowhere else can I so scarily slip back into an episode of Eastenders with a cup of tea and a jam doughnut in hand. The last couple of weeks have found me criss-crossing this country, simultaneously catching up and saying goodbyes, and every now and then coming up with some deep and meaningful musing on England in 2009. Like there is nowhere else in the world with such a great array of cakes and desserts. And that chav kids are actually kind of amusing to observe. And why oh why do they persist in serving gigantic mugs of horrid coffee?! And despite being a crowded little isle, there are green fields and narrow country lanes round every corner, sights which cannot help but bring a satisfied little smile to one’s pasty white complexion with each glimpse through ten foot high hedgerows.

England was all sunshine and smiles as I arrived in from France and headed to the northwest – I’d say Blackpool, but for the most part I was in the far classier surroundings of Lytham St Annes, still though possessing enough northern monkeys to make it seem like Coronation Street. One such monkey being little Hayden, nearing one years old and being mostly an angel, sometimes a pain in the butt for her parents, Ollie and Jenn. So time watching Big Cook Little Cook was interspersed with walks across the golf course and along the Prom, trips to the windmill, and chilling out ready for bedtime watching In the Night Garden. Glimpses of sun were on and off but rain was never far away, plastic anoraks at the ready for picnics at Lytham Green. It didn’t really matter though, the best thing was just hanging out in comfort with three friends for a few days and I’m sure we will keep on doing this into our old age.

If I wanted a dose of glamour, then the train ride up to Blackpool was hardly going to deliver it! This place is Britain’s number one tourist attraction, surely boosted by the number of Mancs and Scousers parading in nurse’s uniforms and fighting in the streets to celebrate impending nuptials. Maybe it’s the draw of the thousands of pound and tat shops for some; for others the stomach churning rollercoasters, or the sedate amusements on Central pier. Maybe that’s it – it has something for everyone. Which for me, was trying to spend a pound’s worth of 2p’s in the amusements before my train departed, which was threatened by what seemed a flurry of winning when down to my last ten pence.

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It was back to southern comfort before too long, a more archetypal English landscape of rolling fields and thatch roofs, of church spires and meandering rivers, all of which are captured in the town of Salisbury. Here, the cathedral and its spire dominates, and middle England oozes through the lanes like too much cream pressed between a pair of scones.

Not that scones were on the cards, room being amply saved for a mega roast carvery with Dad and Sonia in the evening, sending me on my way to the very best part of this Ashes winning nation, home of proper scones and cream, Devon and Cornwall…

Good cream comes from good cows eating good grass which requires good rain which came in good bucket loads on my first day in Plymouth. So, I did some work for a change but had a very good feed in the evening at the Chinese Water Dragon restaurant – piles of far east goodies finished with trips to the chocolate fountain. It was pretty good, but had me pining a little for a good dose of Thai Cornar (before new owners took over).

Family visits, more and more time on the trampoline with Bethany, trips to Plymco and Tesco and the market followed, but it was really on a blustery but bright Friday that delivered la crème de la crème, le poisson de la poisson and le fudge de Granny Wobbly. This was my absolutely obligatory visit to North Cornwall, this time opting for Padstow, reached by train and bus both chugging their way through masses of great green land.

This is the land of chef Rick Stein who, though undoubtedly cashing in, has certainly enhanced the culinary standards of the south west and championed the amazing fresh produce it has to offer. I didn’t eat his fish and chips, but someone else’s, and they couldn’t be faulted as I sat legs dangling over the harbour wall. Being the fit and healthy type, it was time to walk it off and where else could I go but the South West Coast Path, taking in the expansive estuary of the Camel River and meeting the stunning north coast at Stepper Point. What else can I say, apart from hey everybody, it’s a montage…

The pictures above may give you some indication as to why I felt a bit flat when the bus took me away from Padstow. The fact that it is a scenic spot is only part of the story. It’s more than that: it is home, wherever I may be and whatever else I may call home. It’ll always be that way, even if I am sat in some other place for forty years in succession. Sure, I’m not on about Padstow itself or even Cornwall, but the whole area in which I grew up in the southwest of England, from the cobbled back alleys down Ford Hill to the rainy days on Dartmoor. For richer or poorer, better or worse, in sickness and in health – the bonds are strong.

And so, paradoxically gloomy as the sun sparkled on the green pastures and leafy woods heading into Wadebridge, a pick me up was needed and forthcoming, thanks to Granny Wobbly’s Fudge Pantry, worth the hour I had to kill in the town before hitching a ride on the next bus. A little sweetener to cap yet another predictably tremendous day down in Cornwall.

There are plenty of other sweet sweeteners and savoury saviours in these parts and it seems the last day and a half was jammed with yet more of them. One of the sweeter things was spending time with my sister, brother-in-law, niece, two cats, snails, several randoms, and (in spirit at least) a new puppy. Thank gawd they still live down in this part of the world, a place I can still call from Australia, home.

Les Gets physical

After several relatively static weeks in Spain and the UK it was time for a vacation within a holiday within a visit, fleeing on a Plymouth filled stomach to France and a tiny piece of Switzerland. For most of the week I was staying with extended family in the French Alps, including my nephew Guillaume, their parents and French relatives. Kind of like the Swiss Family Robinson but just across the border.

Before fully embracing the mountains I dabbled a little in French supermarkets and parks before walking down the road to Switzerland one afternoon to sample glorious summer through the country lanes, fading sunflowers, thriving vineyards and orchards and general all round serenity of the Swiss side of town.



In the distance, Mont Blanc and its surrounds was alluring, and with the chirp of a cuckoo clock, it was time to cut some chocolate with a Swiss Army knife in a neutral and sensible way and head into the hills.

We were staying in the Alpine town of Les Gets, in the Portes Du Soleil region, a lumpy bit of terrain rising south of Lake Geneva and culminating towards the south east in the white Toblerone triangle of Mont Blanc itself. The town was simple enough – not too busy or large but ample opportunities for eating, drinking, walking and watching giant mushrooms walk down the street. Our residence was central and convenient, ample and charming, the best view from the house evident when having a pee.





From Les Gets there are immediate opportunities to escape the hustle and bustle of town through a few chairlifts and cablecars, ascending to ear popping altitudes up in the hills – Mont Chery the highest at around 1800 metres. A lot of people use these to dress up like a ninja turtle and hurtle down steep tracks on two wheels, others jump off the mountains with a piece of flimsy material attached to their back. For the most part I used these to avoid arduous climbs, capture horizons and descend by foot.through forests and meadows, cowbells and manure smells.







It wasn’t all walking and gawking, and on the Tuesday both Al and I did a bit of driving at Les Gets Golf Course, powering drives (ahem, sometimes) down ravines and hoping the brakes wouldn’t fail in our little golf buggy. The golf was average, the views sublime as we chipped away at 18 undulating holes and enjoyed every one of the 19 holes we experienced (the 19th was hard to beat) on a warm, sometimes arduous day.





So far all this activity with little mention of food to keep the energy levels up. To say that cheese was a staple part of our diet would be an understatement, either on its own with a piece of bread or combined in one style or another with potatoes, cream, bacon and onion. There may or may not have been some salad on the side. One morning we popped off early to a little fromagerie where some French bloke blu-blu-blurred on about the cheese making process and we had a few frankly disappointing tastings. The cheesiest thing all morning was probably the picture of Allan, Vero and Guillaume outside.



Following cheese with water is a good thing and afterwards we headed off into the next valley along for a little walk (or, for some, carry in a backpack) to see some cascades, beautifully and naturally poised for people to hurtle down them on a piece of string.



Towards the end of the week the proper speaking, correct side of the road driving contingent was boosted by the arrival of Dad who, for me, provided a good excuse for further cablecar rides and walks around the mountain tops. The first day we took the lifts up to the top of Mont Chery for awesome clear views on every side, boosted by a mid walk ice cream at the idyllic watering hole of Mont Clary.





Embracing a good dose of entente-cordialle and a better dose of Gruyere all nine of us headed out for a late afternoon beside the waters of Lac Montriond. Here stood a juxtaposition of sun seeking playground and natural splendour, of hairy men and cycling hoons, of rubber rings and canoeing things. Things couldn’t get any more laissez-faire.

And before you knew it the final day was upon us, the cheese building from simple sandwiches to croutes to tartiflettes and raclettes and culminating in artery clogging fondue. The excellent multipass usage was meanwhile culminating in an extravaganza of cablecar and lift rides as the Stafford Boys (minus Monsieur Le Stumpy) edged closer to the less sensible and more jagged part of the Swiss border. C’est la vie.



The day of departure dawned as all days of departure should – chilly, cloudy, a spot or two of rain in the air. A sign that things are changing and time is up, perfect weather for lugging luggage and sitting in cars and planes and trains. A day when I woke up in the French Alps and put my head down in the north west of England, probably dreaming that somewhere, someplace, high on a hill, there is indeed a lonely goatherd. A bientot.

Coasting along

The Westcountry is dangerous to your health, or at least my version of the Westcountry is. I’m sure if I lived here permanently things would involve maybe less clotted cream and pastry and cake and pork products packed into such an undiluted period. I may even dabble in salad once in a while. Maybe. There is a solution to this though, at least psychologically if not physically. It’s called the South West Coast Path, which at least involves some exercise (if you can avoid the tea houses, ice cream vans and chip shops along the way). The coast path is its own little addiction, something I find I am drawn to if I find myself in any coastal town in Devon and Cornwall, something which drags you along to see what’s around the next corner ad infinitum. This is not a bad thing as it’s usually very good, sometimes sublime and with a sprinkle of sun, warmth and horse manure, jolly pleasant.

Shockingly we had some consistent nice summer weather over the past week (enough for shorts and sunscreen at times), so I have taken advantage of this and made a couple of visits to our coastline. The first trip was down to Falmouth, perched on a vast harbour on the south coast of Cornwall and home to many of the archetypal Cornish features… fishing boats, glistening beaches and coves and rolling green fields dotted with cream producing cows.

With its sizeable docks, Falmouth is in places quite industrial, sometimes unremarkable, but of course the proximity of the coast and the coast path means there’s plenty to keep a visiting exile happy. At the head of the harbour is Pendennis Head and its castle, no doubt strategically placed to shoot onions at marauding baguette hunters. From here, the path takes you past several beaches, each terribly unAustralian but not without their own particular British seaside charm, including the wonderfully named Gyllyngvase. Struggling to avoid the tempting eatery overlooking Swanpool Beach, the path then becomes more typically rural, through tree lined, mud laden tracks and over green pasture to Maenporth, where more food options signal the end of my little jaunt. Definitely better than staying at home and watching the first day of the fourth Ashes test.





Now, in the second part of our enthralling adventure along the Cornish coast, I bring you details of a trip a bit closer to home, embarking on the little red Cawsand ferry from Plymouth’s Barbican (and top marks Plymouth on the new wharf at the Barbican for all these cruises and ferries). Being so close I have visited here and nearby Mount Edgecombe Country Park several times, but it really is only half an hour from Plymouth and another world away.

This time around, I headed south from Cawsand and followed that old coast path through woodland in the overflowing green burst of summer and out to Penlee Point, at the entrance to Plymouth Sound. Another mile or two further along brings Rame Head, a more dramatic and unmistakably Cornish piece of rock, where half of Devon and Cornwall is on view.





After hanging around here for a little while, I went off road – or more accurately on road – following winding country lanes with ten foot high hedgerows back to Cawsand, and its adjoining neighbour Kingsand. A hotchpotch of narrow lanes and cottages eventually spat me out at the Devonport Inn, where you simply purchase a pint of warm beer and take it outside overlooking Kingsand Beach, soaking up the sights and sounds of a very pleasant summer’s day. Reward indeed for the ‘toil’ of the South West Coast Path.

Back to the Start

After seemingly endless hot nights, the constant purr of the overhead fan, the early morning quack quack quack of ducks floating in with the stifling breeze and that very first submersion in the soothing waters before breakfast, we were on the move to a cooler, damper place, where duvets are duvets and rain is a nuisance. It was a darkening, sodden Devon countryside as we landed in Exeter for a trawl along familiar sights – Trago, the Wrangaton turnoff, the Little Chef – building up to the bright lights of Plymouth – the Sainsbury sails, the ski slope, the signs for Home Park. It may be half as cold and, yes, a little damp, but the comfort is unparalleled.

There is a ritual to a homecoming, beyond the g’days and hugs and “give us any of your washing” instructions. This involves a trip to town, a Cornish pasty from Warrens and a walk up Armada Way to the Hoe and around the shoreline to the Barbican. The pasty was disappointing, but that’s okay, it gives me improvement to strive for. The walk was as it has always been, footsteps paced a thousand times before, minute changes in evidence here and there, but the same, fabulous view from the Hoe, the same ice cream vans struggling for trade on a blustery cool breeze, the cobbled streets and smell of sizzling onions on the Barbican. And as I become older, the memories seem to get more vivid, like a Noel Edmonds sweater… the warm days clambering about the foreshore, the rides on the Gus Honeybun train. The ice cream or fudge or pasty or fish and chips or Jasperizer or pint of cider or multi-stacked burger in that pub somewhere. The spring tide and people canoeing in the streets. The Lord Mayor’s parade and endless majorette bands. Playing computer games at Ian Lowman’s old house on the Hoe. Having a beer at the Notte Inn when the barmen were dressed in drag one night for some reason. Stepping in dog turd near the Court in the chunkiest shoes I ever owned…

OK, time to stop reminiscing I think! Back in the world of Digital Technicolour, life goes on in the city of Plymouth. Shops are closing down, people are drinking that awful coffee in those awful coffee chains, the sun is flitting between dark clouds, Tesco is selling clotted cream and scones and – suddenly – all is well with the present.

Fiestas and Siestas

Events and circumstances have made The Green Bogey Down Under all topsy turvy like, crossing continents for over 12,000 miles to arrive in the northern hemisphere, where it is summer (in mainland Europe at least), and England are romping away with the Ashes (why couldn’t that happen when there are lots of Australians around me?). The last week or so has seen me in the Costa Rickeeee and Bianca of Spain, as Spanish as a Pork Pie and Pint of Boddingtons, but warm, blessedly warm, something which unlike most of the Brits around here I am not going to whinge about.

Opportunities for sights and sounds have been limited mostly to the supermarket and evening walks around the flowery whiteness of the casa complexes of Cuidad Quesada. Like all the expats I managed to squeeze a round of golf in with the relo’s, trumping the closest challenger by one shot on Quesada’s famous putt putt links.

I’ve been here a week now and have yet to put my feet in the sea, the closest coming on my first couple of hours here down at Guardamar, which even though I compare unfavourably to Australia, didn’t look half bad. The pool has been more frequented, the lilo and I sneaking some quiet moments together before the brat pack arrive on their school summer holidays from England. Siestas have been common, culminating in two on the same day (it must’ve been a day when the golf was on TV). Surely of all the things given to us by the Spanish – Maracas, Sangria, Scorchio, the last big influenza pandemic – the siesta has to be up there as the best.

Half the reason the Spanish take a couple of hours for a nap in the arvo are the late nights, out partying, dancing to Las Ketchup Song and dressing up randomly for the weekly fiestas. We stumbled upon a fiesta in nearby Benijofar on Saturday night, which was as random as it gets, from pink frilly hats, supermen costumes, rubber rings and plastic turds surrounded by Spanish flies.

A more sedate location on Sunday morning was the town of Elche, home to a bewildering and fascinating park that comprises a large and supposedly ancient palm forest, planted by the Moors many moons ago. It was a rather lovely place, seemingly endless pathways wiggling around palms and cacti and bright flowers, a fountain here and a little café there. Navigating to the edge of the forest you then stumble upon the main town square, complete with all the usual trappings, i.e. catholic cathedral, crumbly Castillo, a few fountains and little cafes, and a monument or two.

So there’s a little sampler from Spain, a bit of a tapas plate, perhaps some patatas bravas. There might be some more to come, depends how hungry you are… possibly the fried baby octopus, or more likely round here, the steak and kidney pie with mash and mushy peas. Adios mate.