Brit Bits

While there already had been interesting forays into Britain, the final two weeks of my recent trip were devoted to the land of the long grey cloud, at a time when the long grey cloud was hardly seen. This meant numerous trips, copious amounts of picture-taking and potentially long and winding blog entries... hopefully handily chunked up into tasty morsels.


British re-entry was something special, a sense of occasion and achievement arriving into Plymouth by sea, as many have done before, passing between Penlee Point and the Mewstone, meandering past the Cornish hills and the Eddystone, on into the Sound, Drakes Island and the Hoe. Less salubrious is Millbay Docks, but land it is, and it was good to be on firm Plymouthian ground again.



I was in Plymouth only briefly (returning later... see later!), but enough time to catch up with family and my lovely new niece Brooke and her ginger locks, bless! More of her later, as well as the latest news on the state of pasties, how to make use of clotted cream at every available opportunity and the sights, sounds and smells of the south west. Firstly though, a little special detour t’north.



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Home from home from home

The north. Home to barn cakes. And ferret caps. And northern monkey chavs on every street corner. But, amongst this thank goodness, Jenn, Ollie and their sweet Pepa Pig, Hayden. What do I remember about my few days here? Well, it was sunny and warm, my reputation as bringer of sunshine gradually building following rainy days earlier on in the trip. There was nice food, a lovely thanksgiving roast and la-di-da lunches with footballers wives in Lytham. There were fun and games, songs and dances. But more than anything I just remember feeling totally relaxed, sharing times with wonderful, close, special friends and feeling quite sad when I left, as there is nothing quite like it. A home from home from home.

A bonus of the weekend was coinciding with Canadian thanksgiving, which doesn’t mean sitting aboot holding hands and rejoicing in Michael Buble, but a good old fashioned roast bird dinner. Yum, those potatoes were awesome, great cheesecake and pumpkin pie. And a lovely warm, easygoing atmosphere.



Things were equally as lovely round at Lee and Michelle’s the next night, where Dawn had astounded us all with her cooking skills of placing multiple ready meals into the oven and timing them with further side dishes in the microwave. Following dinner there were fun and games to be had, mostly involving me embarrassing myself in some random Playstation game involving athleticism and bodily contortions. Some respect and dignity was regained later in the night with my win in the first game of the quiz.

The weather really was quite marvellous for October, and in such times, Lytham doesn’t look such a bad place to be in. Many other people seem to agree, as it attracts the well-heeled, the footballers wives and the Daily Mail brigade. Walking across the golf course is always a highlight, leading down to a little boating lake and the coastal estuary that comprises the ‘beach’. To be fair, it is sandy, but then it meets mud and marsh rather than waves, so not really tempting for a dip!



Better to relax with the old folks in the town centre, ‘doing’ brunch and enjoying a reasonably good eggs benedict and okay coffee. A lifestyle you could kind of get used to, though you have to remind yourself a) it isn’t usually this sunny and b) you wouldn’t be able to afford a leisurely brunch every day (though there is a goal in life to aim for!). Regardless of the food, it was, again, about the company and hanging out with loved ones, a final feast before saying cheerio for now and see you again later.



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Home from home

And after a few false starts, this was it, Plymouth, England and settling in the one spot for a good ten days, which is a rare luxury on these trips I make. Not that I necessarily stood still however, acquiring a good knowledge of the train and bus timetables over the course of the visit.

First there was Plymouth and the essential re-acquaintance walk, which briefly entails a bus into town, walk up Armada Way to the Hoe, and along the foreshore to the Barbican. Despite recession, spending cuts and impending doom, parts of town were busy though one or two more shops from my childhood had vanished. Up on the Hoe, the view was as special as ever, conveniently populated at frequent intervals by ice cream vans.



Probably for the first time on these Plymouth return walks, I didn’t get meself a pasty. I saved that for a proper job in Cornwall, it just seemed more culturally appropriate. Unlike the supposed flat white in a Mevagissey harbourside cafe earlier in the day, this was bloody ansom.

Mevagissey (or Megavissey as I so fondly remember it courtesy of a blooper from Veronique a few years back) is one of those typical South Cornwall fishing towns. This brings us narrow streets and hobbit sized cottages, crab pots and seagulls, summer grockles and mussels and cockles. A seaweed saltiness that is both pungent and alluring, overpowering the wafts of malt vinegar steaming up from the paper wrappers of fish and chips.





Sadly after a promising start the weather in Mega proved a bit gloomy and slightly chilly, though the (mostly) ups and downs of that sublime coast path helped to work up a sweat, as I made it over the hills and not so far away to Pentewan. In summer this is no doubt a thriving little tourist mecca, with its gentle curved beach and generously proportioned caravan park, but today it was dull, somewhat bleak even. A return bus to St Austell was almost welcome, and time for a snooze on the train back to Plymouth.

The cloud stuck around a bit the next day, so a useful opportunity for not doing much at all other than battle zombies with plants. With the city and coast ticked off, a little jaunt to the country completed the homecoming triumvirate later in the day, a walk through the lush woodlands and riverside amblings of Plymbridge, right on Plymouth’s doorstep but seeming a world away. Popular with dogs, including Holly, who I’m pretty sure enjoyed the fresh air as much as the rest of us. And exercise to justify perhaps half a sausage in the immense mixed grill I made us for dinner!





Ice cream on the Hoe, pasty in Cornwall, bacon and pork in Beacon Park. Home is where the heart damaging cholesterol fest is!

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Cor, some sand (sort of)

Sunshine and lollipops returned for the weekend, and what better way to spend it than to get out on the water a la Sydney, crossing from Circular Quay (er, the Barbican) to Manly (hmm, Cawsand). What a cracking day to spend with Mum and Bethany, pleasure cruising on the ferry across for lunch and walks and play on the shingle and sand.

The ferry ride back was a wee bit chillier, time to escape inside the ferry and discover a commemorative London – Canberra cruise lifesaving ring. Astounded in part to come across Canberra so randomly, but more taken aback by how a boat would get to landlocked Canberra. Okay, and why, considering the harbour of choice would surely more likely be Sydney.



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Devon Cream

If you have made it this far you are probably wondering where the hell is the gratuitous close up clotted cream picture? Sorry pervo, but there are no gratuitous shots available. This is not to say I didn’t eat any clotted cream. In fact, on the contrary... accompaniments used with cream included scones, ice cream, apple pie, treacle tart, chocolate cake, mince pies and Christmas pudding. Here we are at Badger’s Holt on Dartmoor for a classic Devonshire tea. The photo is very similar to one I took back in May at the same place with the same results. There is one very small difference. Yes, only four scones for three adults. Oh, and Brooke of course.



Devon knows how they make it so creamy. It’s called rain and warmth and rolling hills, combining in perfect harmony for cows to graze and provide the fruits of their labour. I wanted to get up close and personal with this environment and so a good starting point was the South Devon market town of Totnes, a place I had passed through many times but one in which I never paused. After a little nosey around town and the Norman castle up on the hill, I decided I could live here quite happily... half an hour from Plymouth, cute houses, a backdrop of exquisite green yielding great fresh local products in the cafes and shops. While it’s in the heart of the country, the coast is only 10 miles or so away, and from Dartmouth, the River Dart threads its way into the middle of the town.



The river can be followed down its length taking in the Devonscape all the way. This is the land that gives us cream and, in the short stretch that I trod upon, you can see how the cows here would be so happy and content.





Arriving back in Plymouth, Devon, the house was empty... no dogs, no nieces, no zombies. A rare moment to enjoy with a slice of warmed up home baked Totnes treacle tart liberally smothered with clotted cream. A substantial afternoon filler before dinner at Dave and Sue’s, a warm, endearing, spicy night over some Mexican and a bottle or two of Aussie red. As with pretty much everyone I saw, Dave and Sue were quick to pick up on my supposed Australian accent. I don’t think I do, neither do any Australians I know (they still think I speak like the London Underground man who tells you the next stop is Putney Bridge old chap. Mind the gap won’t you dear fellow). But I do my best to restrain it, apart from when there are ‘faaahking shaaaahks” to contend with.

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In pursuit of Pengenna

So far the pasty count stood at two, and while both were pleasant enough, they were not much more than satisfactory. The other thing so far lacking was a visit to the spectacular North Cornwall coast. Hamster peddling and brain cells going into overdrive, I thought, why not combine the two. Ten whole pounds for an unlimited all day train and bus ticket got me to almost the end of the country, and the golden sands and rugged coastline of St Ives. Oh, and Pengenna pasties.

Before the pasty there was pork pie! Nourishment and accompaniment on a stunning section of the superb South West Coast Path. My journey by train and bus ended in Zennor, reached from St Ives along a remarkable road through higher moorland with sweeping panoramas out to sea. Passing through the small village, it’s not long until the world opens up at Zennor Head, the rugged browns and greens and greys plunging into pristine Atlantic waters. Special.







The path here is, like the landscape, fairly rugged, the pattern of the coastline bringing plenty of weary ups to counteract the springy downs. On a few occasions, between the ups and downs, a stream would cascade down the gap underneath your feet, continuing on its inevitable plummet down into the ocean. One or two places were still boggy, and it was here that I found myself particularly intimate with a prickly gorse bush.

I walked around to Gurnard’s Head, a typically craggy headland jutting out into the blue seas which is ideal to pronounce in a Cornish twang. The one thing about today was that the sea was relatively calm... no huge crashing waves, howling winds, but then no rain, just beautiful blue skies and white cotton wool clouds.





Half an hour later, the bus took me back to St Ives, and a rather fine view of the harbour from the bus station. Sure beats most other bus stations around!



Now the hunt was well and truly on for pasty nirvana. I knew Pengenna was here, and had been there before, but couldn’t quite remember where it was. Somewhere near a church, up a hill. Oh, there’s a church, and there’s a hill. One traditional steak pasty please, thank you very much. They really are the best, the way Cornish pasties are meant to be... crunchy shortcrust pastry that has depth but is not too stodgy, deep, warm, satisfying filling, ending in a succulent, flavour filled crust. As much as they may try, the seagulls aint getting any of this baby!

Now mid afternoon, St Ives harbour was bathed in reasonably warming sunshine (I did spot some brave shorts wearers). Plenty of people milling around eating ice creams and fish and chips and, of course, pasties. Oldies sitting on benches, youngsters playing in the sand, oldies and youngsters and all in between strolling out to the lighthouse or up to the church on The Island which isn’t really an island.

The milling continued on round to Porthmeor Beach, one of the finer stretches of sand in England, verging on Australian with its surfers and cafes and, in October, relative sparsity of people. Here, my walking for the day was pretty much done, the final return to the station taking in an ice cream before boarding the St Ives branch line train to St Erth and back through this blessed county to Plymouth. Mission exceeded.



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Christmas Crackers

And so, unlike a series of X Factor, the days in Devon and Cornwall were drifting to an end, more advanced plants were beating more complex zombies and I was starting to only get slightly sick of unhealthy food. On a wonderfully sedate day with Mum in Fowey, self restraint was in force, merely a coffee by the waterside and a jacket potato, empathetic with Mum’s cholesterol test tomorrow. There was a takeaway fudge pasty, which is not as nasty as it sounds, merely fudge fashioned in the shape of a pasty, an ideal souvenir from Cornwall.

Fowey is yet another one of those South Cornwall gems, where the boats roll in and crab sandwiches are never far away. While Megavissey may have been gloomy, Fowey was positively tropical; still and calm and soul-warming as we walked out along the river past Readymoney Beach and out to the harbour entrance.





If, and it’s a big if, life was like this every day, I could probably cope with living here, not that I could afford it. The hilly streets would also be good for my health, but how much that could counteract the foodie temptations is questionable.



After Mum’s cholesterol test, things got back on track with a ginormous brunch at the Britannia, coming with the best new flat white of the trip. It was Christmas Day after all, so why not start the day with a traditional fry up, thankfully grilled more than fried, but more than ample to keep me sustained until dinner time. Christmas dinner came minus a turkey but offered a chicken complementing some beef, plus all the trimmings including the fart pellets that are brussel sprouts. The food was of course delicious, a chance for the family to gather and pull cheap crackers and wear flammable hats. No old movies, but a game of monopoly later in the night, which I won by endurance.





The next day it was farewell to Plymouth and Devon and the South West. Never easy, always sunny, a tortuous three hours on a train torn between my love of places, people and things 12,000 miles apart.

The last day in Britain was spent clinging on to Britishness in London with Melita and Geoff. It was another beautiful sunny day, a chill in the air, but bright and contented. A perfect day, as many others thought, for a walk and pub lunch. The walk took us to Kenwood House and from there through crisp woodland leaves and across meadows to Parliament Hill.



Then over to Hampstead for a delicious lunch in a rather good pub. No coincidence that much of the food was sourced from the westcountry, and they even managed to find room for some warmish beer from Rock, a close relation I’m sure of prized Doom Bar. Walking off lunch was easy in the various paths and tracks back across the heath, a famed spot for the rich and famous. In all my time living in London I hardly saw, or more likely recognised, anyone with one iota of celebrity. In ten minutes we passed Michael McIntyre taking his son for a posh skippy walk and Andy Serkis of Gollum and beyond fame. Thankfully no George Michael lurking in the bushes.



England, complete. Who knows what state it will be in next time I visit, hopefully not too different to this one, but goodness knows what those Tories and their yellow bum buddies will be up to next! Not that politicians really have much of an impact. It’s more down to the man on the street, the life and soul of places like Plymouth and Megavissey and Basingstoke and Blackpool. The cups of tea and cream cakes, the buy ones get two frees, the sneering sarcasm and obsession with X Factor. Nowhere is quite like it and, for me, nowhere else will ever be as deeply within me, wherever I may be. Thank you.

You're driving me in Spain

Once in a while, when I’m not tramping round random hills or taking pictures of a kangaroo for like the millionth time, an opportunity arises for a true adventure, a journey into the unknown, with risks and dangers, such as other people’s driving, funny language and the YMCA in petrol station forecourts. Proving travel is as much about the journey as it is the destination, somehow a 10 hour drive across Spain followed by a rocky 20 hours on a French boat from Spain to England across the Bay of Biscay formed a memorable and impressionable highlight.

There was some warm up for the journey, and when I say warm I mean warm... a joy to behold following rainy English send offs. Shorts and sand and seafood by the beach at La Mata. Enlivening enough to get me to put my trainers on and go for a run, anticipating the ridiculous amounts of saturated fat still to come.





On the Wednesday morning then it was adios Quesada for me and the folks, my one block of Reblochon, a crate of wine, some stinky fags and several fancy dress outfits and accessories. Comfort in the fact that if we got lost we could have some cheese and wine by the roadside and play dress ups. But we wouldn’t get lost with a trusty sat nav, right?

The journey up towards Madrid sailed by without much of incident or excitement, arid hinterland mountains giving way to even drier dusty plains, the occasional now wilted field of sunflowers popping up in between random towns with random castles on random lumps of rock. In parts the landscape was a bit like the inland of Australia, the bit where expanses of golden grass meet a few clumps of green bush before it turns into red sand. Unlike Australia though, wind turbines and solar panels were far more common and these, along with the magnum ice cream from the service station provided some respite from the boredom.





More common than wind turbines however were traffic cones and roadworks, entire sections of the road all the way up to the north being re-laid or widened or swept or just giving some Spanish people some employment. You would have thought though, with 20% unemployment, they could have used a real person instead of a mechanical dummy to wave the red warning flag.

Over four hours into the trip, things began to get interesting, approaching Madrid and with it, more roads, junctions and traffic. Just the time when you want the sat nav to do what it’s paid for and just the time for it to talk in the general vague air of a teenager and make up fictional roundabouts and roads. “Turn left if you like. I think. Then follow the thing round like the gay bull sign. Grunt, whatever. Add me on Twitter.” And so, on the equivalent of the M25, it was up to us to shout and panic and get lucky with turnings as we successfully bypassed the capital.

Through Madrid and a breather for lunch in a service station that seemed to enjoy blasting out camp disco favourites across its forecourt. Stale baguette with leftover bits of French cheese for me, the last of the delicious Comte. Meanwhile the whole car was beginning to smell like ripening Reblochon as we embarked on the second leg into the north. Immediately out of Madrid, high mountains and something greener perked up the camera shutter a bit, before more yellow plains and wind turbines and traffic cones all the way to Burgos. The afternoon coffee a blessing in its quality and exquisite timing.







Burgos was something of a milestone, clearly in northern Spain and surely Santander would be a jolly jaunt down the hill to the coast. Two hours later we made it, a two hours of dramatically changing landscapes as hills rose, yellow gave way to green, blue gave way to grey and Spain became all Alpine for a while. The rain in Spain does not fall mainly on the plain, more accurately the northern ranges and valleys.



At Santander we found a pleasant enough hotel for the night near the beach, a dinner of leftover sandwiches, cold pizza and chicken followed by a mini pub crawl in order to avoid watching and not understanding one iota of Spanish TV in the hotel room.

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Morning and hello Atlantic, with your proper waves and water giving weather fronts, inspiration enough to rise early before breakfast and run. Run downstairs and take my camera out with me for a gentle walk to capture the beauty and enchantment that is daybreak by the sea.





Already, in this dim light, I was liking Santander and I think primarily this was due to its Australianicity. Take out the older buildings and cluttered city and this could be any number of coastal towns along the NSW coast. Surf beaches with cafes and bathing pavilions curving around to a rising headland and its lighthouse, the waters sweeping in through the sandy banks and bays of the estuary, flowing below gentle ridges and peaks of the mountain range. Slightly surreal, it was like a little reminder of Australia within the hubbub and eclectic surrounds of Europe.

After breakfast, Mum and I explored a little more of this on foot, taking in the headland I spied earlier in the morning glow. We could have gone round in a little tourist train, but walked both ocean and estuary side on what was turning into a rather fine, warm day.







The town part of Santander itself was less inspiring, much less Australian, but pleasant enough nonetheless, with opportunities for gentle ambling and nice food. One of the good things was that the port, and docking point for the ferry, was right in the heart of town and you could park the car up and leave it to explore on foot. There’s only so much exploring you can do though, pacing a few streets before some yummy lunch. Worryingly for what lay ahead, we were summonsed inside due to windy gusts blasting the coffees and patrons alfresco.

Now for the most boring part of this adventure, but very apt for leaving Spain and reacclimatising to Britain: queuing. Sat in the car waiting and waiting for boarding of the Pont Aven to commence, there was little to do other than staring, fiddling, thumb twiddling and changing radio stations at every available opportunity.



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Welcome aboard me hearties, or actually bienvenue monsieur, we are heading from Spain to England but speaking French and not retiring at 62, even though we work less than everyone else due to endless striking anyway. Thankfully working today though, leaving late afternoon and a perfect time to sit back on deck with a beer and watch Spain disappear. It was brief, but the taste of northern Spain leaves me wanting more; less Britified than the south, green and bounteous and – yes – slightly Australian, slightly French, slightly Cornish. For others, Spain – and its blue skies – can’t come back soon enough.







Now, not being a cruising type, what do you do for 19 hours on a boat? Play pirates? Wear a bow tie and mingle with seamen for dinner? Stroll on deck in white slacks, beige polo and yellow jumper tied around my shoulders? Swinging in a hammock with a G&T sounds good to me. In reality, exploring the ferry took about 10 minutes. Being a French ship, there were some promising food options, but dinnertime coincided with some nice swell from the Bay of Biscay, and the wise choice was a bland baguette on deck. Mum was feeling the worse for wear, I found G&Ts helped and all we could do to keep dinner from returning was concentrate on the sun falling into the ocean. Beyond that, darkness and lurching through the night, the clunking noise of the ship eclipsed only by never-ending snoring and, in between, sweet dreams ahead of a placid sea and the city of Plymouth greeting me in honorary sunlight.