Blighty 2025 - Homeward Bound Part One

Leaving a holiday rental is always traumatic. Tidying up, packing, and trying not to forget anything, and all before 10am. We had too many bags, and a couple of them were overweight, so packing and repacking was the order of the day, then doing a kind of puzzle, working out the best way to get the bags into the car while leaving room for passengers. Oh Lordy, holidays!

When I lived in the UK, I never liked driving along the M6 between Birmingham and Manchester. It's always been busy, and always seemed to carry a seriously high density of lorries. In the intervening years, things have not improved, and this despite the previous three lanes each way being expanded to four by utilising what had been the hard shoulder. Well, it used to be three lanes of slow moving traffic, now it's four lanes of slow moving traffic, giving life to the maxim that traffic will always expand to fill the existing road space.

This Wednesday morning was no exception to the way it had always been, wall to wall lorries and speeds well below the posted limit. Essentially, the road runs at capacity most of the time and any little glitch just causes chaos. This morning's little bit of fun was a lorry with a big static caravan on it's bed. The caravan was quite wide, so there was escort vehicle behind it, and in my innocence I imagined that because it was a wide load, it might well stay in the driving lane, that is the left lane, while it made progress. Not so this wagon. It picked up speed quite quickly, and started to pass people on the left, those people who were unwise enough not to drive faster than the lorry with the caravan. You might say that people should always drive in the left lane, and I would agree, but sometimes when you're passing people who are in the left lane, your lane slows, and then you have crazy lorry drivers whizzing up on your left with a wide load and getting perilously close to you. That was bad enough, but then the wide load driver decides the left lane's too slow, and one by one he moves out to the third from the left, and only stays there because he's not allowed in the right lane. So, he's doing sixty-five miles and hour, with a wide load, and squeezing faster vehicles as they try to go past him, legitimately, in the right lane. It only takes one driver doing sixty-six, or a nervous person in the right lane, to slow up that right lane and cause the brake lights to go for miles back, in a chain reaction. Meanwhile, our wide load lorry driver is still thrashing down the road, quite oblivious to the mayhem behind him. Because such bone-headed driving can only be done by a man.

Indeed, all the way to Birmingham, lorries occupied all three left-side lanes, this forcing anyone who needed to pass to the one passing lane remaining, on the right. I think there is a genuine case for lorries to be limited to the two left lanes only, but they don't always adhere to the rule saying they can't use the right lane, so I don't know how far that would get us.

It was a blessed relief, then, to pull onto the M6 Toll, and suddenly see the lorries, and a good deal of the other traffic, simply evaporate. To use that road is £10 well spent in my view.

Once through the construction work on the M42 to the east of Birmingham, and then on to the M40, it all became much more civilised. Sure it was busy, but I was able to drive in the left lane for some of the time, thanks to fewer lorries, which was quite the novelty.

As we approached London, the lady in the navigation system dutifully guided us down through Hayes, rather than directly to the airport, and our hotel for the night. I had it in my head that petrol was expensive around the airport, so set our destination to a Tesco filling station. As it happened, we stumbled upon a Sainsbury's first, so filled up there. I'm not sure how the rented car's fuel gauge worked because after I'd filled up the night before, it showed a range of exactly 500 miles. When I stopped to fill up again, some 200 miles later, it was showing a range of 475 miles. To add to the confusion, the car would only take £36 worth of petrol. A quick calculation made that around 75 miles to the Imperial gallon. While I'm happy to agree that 55-60 miles to the gallon was achievable, I think 75 miles to the gallon was quite the stretch. Anyway, it was still a good return, whatever the actual figure. We'd driven just short of 3,000 miles since picking the car up, and this was only the fourth time I'd put any fuel in. Now why can't North American cars be so economical?

The next stop was the Hyatt Place Hotel, just on Heathrow's northern perimeter. We had booked a couple of rooms for the night so that we could chill out and prepare for an early-ish flight out the following day. Maybe it was an abundance of caution, but we didn't want to be caught in dreadful traffic coming down from Manchester on the same day as we had to get a flight; my stress would have known no bounds. We also elected to keep the car for an extra day so that we could load all our stuff in it and drive it over to T5 rather than trying to get it all on a bus or in a taxi, and that's where the Hyatt Place came up trumps with its sexy underground car park. While the £17 overnight charge may seem steep, compared with some of the fees we'd paid over the past month, it wasn't bad at all.

The rooms in the hotel were small, but probably no smaller than in most London hotels. They were clean and well appointed, and both had a view over the airport and its northern runway, which was nice (although I think we'd paid a premium for an airport facing room). The scary thing was that the room was so well soundproofed, you could see the aircraft taking off 200 metres away, but couldn't hear them! I think the road noise outside also helped because later in the evening when the traffic had calmed down, you could just hear a low rumble as the jets took off. It was like someone had turned the sound off. Needless to say, I slept well.

Wednesday, tomorrow, was to be flying day - hold on to your hats!

Blighty 2025 - Swindon OMG

 

A last minute change of plan, thanks to teeming rain, had us heading to Swindon's STEAM museum, and not Didcot's Railway Centre. Didcot requires a fair bit of outdoor walking, and I wasn't prepared to get soaked, and besides, I'd never been STEAM before. DW had decided to sit this one out and stay home to get the cases packed before our trek north.

It took me longer to get into downtown Swindon than I thought it would. The road meanders through Lechlade and Highworth, then through the outer suburbs of Swindon, and that all takes time. I followed the signs to the museum, and arrived there, but the car park looked to me like it wasn't for the general public, so I turned around (naturally there was someone right behind me on the otherwise deserted road), and made for the main car park that serves the Designer Outlet.

The background here is that the Designer Outlet occupies a part of the former Swindon Railway Works, as does the museum. I thought that perhaps lunch and wee bit of shopping might be required so parking in the big car park was the better option I thought.

It was pouring with rain as we walked to the Outlet to use the facilities, and still raining as I realised that we couldn't get through the Outlet to the museum but had to walk outside to get there. The admission price for STEAM was eye-watering, although the chap on the desk did some button pressing on his computer and came up with a slightly better price, and in we went, still a bit damp from the deluge outside.

STEAM was actually pretty good. It was quiet, being a weekday, and the exhibits told the story of the Works, a place that once employed 14,000 people. There were loads of interesting bits and pieces, from tools, to books, to machines, to photographs. The mannequins that had been used were scarily life-like, too, which was a tiny bit disconcerting. Charlie whizzed us through the preliminary exhibits, and onto the main show, the locomotives (all made in Swindon). In reality, he was completely absorbed by a child-sized semaphore signal setup, where when a lever was pulled, a pint-sized semaphore signal about ten feet away was raised or lowered. So taken with it was he that we had to physically drag him away.

Apart from the entry fee, it was a museum well worth visiting and it helped me to put the presence of the Designer Outlet next door into some context. I had always felt uneasy about this once great industrial centre being used to house fancy shops, but seeing the exhibits in the museum made me feel a little better that at least the buildings were being retained, if not the work and the jobs.

It turned out that shopping wasn't required, at least beyond the museum gift shop, and that the food court in the Outlet was rubbish, and I'm being polite. So, with Charlie shouting about getting a "Bambichino" from a branch of Costa Coffee, I made a huge error looking at Google Maps. I punched in Costa Coffee and was shown lots of branches in the area. I filtered out the ones in petrol stations and ended up finding one that was in a shopping centre. Or so I thought. 

I had a minor triumph leaving the car park, which given was followed, was rare highlight. I'd read the signs entering the place that your license plate was recorded on video, and that when leaving, you had to enter your registration number in the pay machine, pay and then when you roll up to the exit barrier, the cameras read your plate again, check you've paid, then let you out. The pay machines were being very slow, and people were hopping from machine to machine. I did get one to work, by being patient, paid and then went back to the car. At the exit barrier, though, people were having a real issued getting the barriers to raise. One man backed out to try another gate, and I rolled up to the now vacated barrier, and without a pause, it lifted and let us depart. I counted that as a big win.

Back to Costa Coffee. We put the address into the Nav system, and I drove through the horrible Swindon traffic, its roundabouts and its traffic lights, missing turns and getting in the wrong lane all the time, only to find that the "shopping centre" was in fact the Princess Margaret Hospital! What a plank I am.

Emma found another outlet, in the Brunel Centre back in the centre of town, and we drove through the horrible Swindon traffic again, back the way we had come. We did at least traverse the famous "Magic Roundabout", twice, so there was that.

The Brunel Centre was a shopping centre, but it was one of those 1970s concrete jungles, and it had seen far better days. The dreadful multi-story car park's entry machine failed to give me a ticket, which was required to get out of the place. I parked and went back to the entry and tried to get a ticket again, but the touch screen didn't want to respond. Emma went to the pay machine and pressed the help button, and after a few rings, a disembodied voice informed her that there was an "IT Problem" and charges were waived for the rest of the day. Phew!

We had a spin around Boots (the Chemist), then found the Costa outlet. Goodness knows how long we spent trying to get the baby a cup of frothy milk, but even for him, it didn't seen entirely worth the effort. Still, despite what Brits may say about the Costa chain, the coffee knocks spots off the coffee that most Canadian chains offer. I'd say to the Costa detractors, try Tim Horton's coffee, in Canada, and then see if you feel the same about Costa.

Costa Swindon, photo lifted from the Internet, but taken from the seat I was sitting in. Spooky.

The run home was slow through Swindon's horrible traffic, but much better once into the countryside. We weren't done with the numpties though. I had to swing into a petrol station, and while I saw there were a couple of cars waiting, I thought it would be worth the wait as it was the cheapest petrol I'd seen all day. I hadn't counted on the huge horse box blocking up the petrol pumps, though. It blocked the six central pumps entirely, but we sat waiting for its driver's return. We waited some more. Then we waited quite a bit more. Eventually a young woman in horse-riding attire appeared, clutching a load of fizzy pop and some biscuits, and even then didn't hurry herself to move the obstruction, even with the now lengthy line of cars behind her. I could comment about entitled people, but I think it's par for the course in The Cotswolds. The rest of the run home was uneventful. Thankfully.

Tomorrow is the run to Manchester, so it's packing up this evening, and like every other day so far, waking up at a ridiculously early hour in the morning.

Blighty 2025 - To Burford and Beyond

On our down day, we decided to visit Burford, the delightful Cotswold traffic jam that stands between us and going anywhere. Burford is, of course, where our abortive holiday home was supposed to be, so we had to go and look.

You don't expect fine weather on a trip to the UK, and it's been changeable since we arrived. This morning it was cool, too cool for June, as I found out walking to the little Post Office and general store that sits between Shipton and Milton. The store itself was ultra-tidy inside, and the proprietor was quick to apologise for the lack of stock, given the small size of the place. It was very well stocked, as it happened. Armed with coffee, biscuits, and a £4.20 weekend newspaper, I walked back and felt the cool air.

Just a social comment, the good people of Shipton do like to use their bus stop as a parking place. Walking down to the shop I saw someone park there. Walking back, there was someone else in the bay. Entitled, I think.

Another social comment is that the village speed limit of 20mph is roundly ignored by the Range Rover class, as people were absolutely flying through the village. Not good.

By the time we set off for Burford it was raining, but we pressed on anyway. The little town was packed, and the car park, free I should mention, was full to the brim. Of course we had to see the holiday home that never was, and the big "For Sale" sign nailed to the front wall told the full story. 

Burford is full of fancy shops. Art galleries, craft shops, tea rooms and cafes. The cars at the side of the road were all big and flashy, and the people milling around looked, for the most part, to be well heeled. An older couple gave the game away, with the man in his white trousers, pink jumper and tweed jacket, accompanied by his wife who was wearing a very expensive pair of designer glasses. That pretty much sums up Burford.

The place is full of pubs, but earlier investigations led me to think that none of them would work for me. Yes, I am the ultimate inverted snob, but all the pubs were serving up fancy fare, very expensive fare, and not one of them was offering a good old Cumberland Sausage and Mash dish, which is the mark of a good pub, isn't it? To add to my prejudice, Charlie was hankering for a plate of chips, but nowhere did anything like that, bar one pub, and I wasn't in the mood for sitting in a busy pub just to get chips. There are plenty of "Bacon Baps" to be had, but no chips.

We abandoned Burford, grateful that we weren't staying there. It appears that some things happen for a reason.

We nipped over to Carterton for chips from a proper chip shop. The shop of choice was just closing up for the afternoon, so we went to another. The family was not impressed, but I liked my salt and vinegar slathered chips.

Even though it was half an hour away, we drove over to Abingdon to the big Tesco, and to the Argos store to buy another suitcase. I have sounded like a stuck record warning Emma that she would have to get all her purchases home on the 'plane, but she hadn't listened and the new suitcase was the result. Fortunately we each have a two case allowance for our trip home, although quite where all these cases are going to go in the car is another matter.

Abingdon is familiar territory for me, and it hadn't changed much. The Argos was new, but in the same place as the old one, and the Tesco was just as big and busy as I remembered. We went in for a specific couple of items, and came out with bags filled, such is any shopping expedition these days.

Our evening was spent starting to reduce the food mountain that we'll never fully get through. I went to watch the TV and Charlie moved in on it, I went to read my newspaper, and that had disappeared, so it was back on the computer again. Oh, I love these down days.

Blighty 2025 - Friday Travels

This fine Friday, we set off for Lulworth Cove, and a family birthday celebration. 

The roads in England tend to fan out from London, and this trip was north to south, crossing the M4, A3, A303, A35, and many, many more, which makes driving distances quite awkward. Add to the mix the fact that it was fine weather and it being the last Friday of the half term holiday, we knew the traffic would be horrible, and we weren't wrong. Indeed, the first holdup came just south of Burford with people lining up to get into the Cotswold Wildlife Park, so we knew what was coming. 

We were travelling slightly off track to visit the visit the village of Holt, just outside Trowbridge, where Dear Wife's paternal grandmother is buried. The family tree people, Ancestry, threw up the precise location and as it was sort of on the way, we decided to pay a call. 

Holt is a lovely little Wiltshire village, and the graveyard we were seeking was one of three that surround the Anglican Parish Church of St Katherines. The grave was duly visited, and we decided to stop for our picnic lunch, and it was then that we met a vary nice lady who may have gone by the title "Church Warden", or she may not, but had the church open and invited us in. The good people of Holt had removed all the pews and replaced them with tables and chairs. There was a childrens playgroup area and three audio visual systems to make the place usuable in so many more ways that a simple Sunday service. I also noticed a lot of musical instruments up towards the altar, so it was also a refuge for musicians. I'm not a religious person, but I couldn't help thinking that these people were making so much more of their church, and that it would remain the centre of village life, and I like that.

The nice lady also invited up to sit in the church's outside area, under the Yew trees in the oldest part of the graveyard. Far from being buggy, it was a cool and pleasant, and make for a lovely picnic setting. But we had to get back on the road.

We wriggled and twisted, went up hill and downhill, and at one point I commented that it was a good job that Charlie didn't suffer with travel sickness, but almost immediately he said he was feeling unwell. He cuddled up with him mum, as best as he could while in his car seat, and I slowed a little and tried to take it easy, and he dozed off. When he woke, he said he felt much better. Upset avoided.

The traffic was heavy, but we nosed our way south, although not directly to Lulworth Cove. We were on a mission to visit the lighthouse at Portland Bill, although the slowness of the traffic, particularly through Weymouth, was cutting down our usable time. I don't recall ever having been to Portland, although while there I was getting the occasional flashbacks. Portland is a s block land that pokes out into the English Channel and forms the eastern edge of Lyme Bay. Out on the "Bill", what the place is known as, it's wild and wooly, and almost completely devoid of trees thanks to the almost constant winds. If you're worldly wise, you might have heard of Portland Stone, or Portland Cement, both products hailing from this little outcrop of rock.

We did arrive at the lighthouse in good time, and how magnificent it looked, all red and white stripes against the blue of the sea. Where the tides meet, immediately south of the Bill, the sea was all churned up and rough looking, an area that is known as the Portland Race and not much loved by mariners.

Three of us took the tour of the lighthouse, which involved climbing 155 steps to the top. It's a working lighthouse, but is now fully automated and runs just two LED lamps rum though doughnut-shaped lenses, rather than the massive rotating lenses that were a feature of lighthouses of the past. It still gives out the same "Character", four flashes every twenty seconds, but in a very modern manner. Of course the view from the top was fabulous, especially given the great weather.

We finally set course for Lulworth Cove, but didn't anticipate the traffic in Weymouth being at a complete standstill. Again, it was the Friday blues.

We pitched up in Lulworth about half-an-hour off schedule, which probably wasn't too bad given the roads and the time of day. I hadn't been to Lulworth in a fair few years, but it was just as pretty as I remembered it.

The family portion of the visit isn't for the blog, so I'll pick this up again after we've been to visit the Swanage Railway on Saturday.