Blighty 2025 - Flying Home

Flight day dawned. All the bags had been repacked and reweighed, and all of them, thankfully, came in under the 23Kg limit. I eschewed breakfast on the grounds that I didn't need to spend another £20 on food when I'd done nothing but eat over the past month, and we moved seamlessly to getting the bags downstairs and loaded into the rental car again.

It's only a couple of minutes drive from the Hyatt Place to Terminal five, but I still manged to be in the wrong lane, and subsequently on the wrong road when trying to get back to the car hire drop off point. I managed to correct things without going too far out of our way, but still struggled with the complicated instructions on how to get to the drop-of point. Essentially it was a case of driving almost all the way around the T5 Sofitel Hotel before finding the entrance. They have a kind all 360 degree scanner you drive through when you leave, and again when you return. I guess it compares dents and scratches and the like without having someone come out and check. To the best of my knowledge, I hadn't added to the car's patina, so that was all good. Apart from dropping the key back in to the office, we didn't have to do anything other than unload the car - onto three trolleys - make our way back through the Sofitel and head into the departures hall of Terminal 5.

Dumping the bags was the first order of the day, so we did a self-service bag drop and boarding pass collection, which was all we needed to do having checked in online the night before. DW and I sat and relaxed before going through security, while Emma and Charlie went for a ride on the T5 Pod system for twenty minutes.

Going through security was relatively painless, for us at least. Emma had her bag opened and manually checked thanks to her carrying a big, resin, Lilliput Village church in her carry on baggage. Time had slipped away quickly, so we decided to head straight out to the gate, which was about as far away as you get from where we had arrived airside. You can walk it, and we have done that in the past, but this take we took the "transit", a little underground train that doesn't run often enough to make it a comfortable trip because it's always so crowded. Heathrow seems to specialize in not realising how many people move through their place; I remembered with horror the wholly inadequate lifts in Terminal 2, lifts that had no viable alternative, and were always bursting at the seams. The world's busiest airport really needs to do better, I think.

Our transport for the flight home waiting at the gate, and with the power of the Internet at hand, I interrogated it and found out that our aircraft was a 2025 Boeing 787 Dreamliner. It has come back to London from Barbados the previous day, and Toronto was its only flight this warm afternoon. How informative.

In our World Traveller Plus cabin, I was surprised to see the seat configuration was 2-3-2 and not 2-4-2 as it had been on the Airbus on the way over. Indeed, the seats were bigger, better padded and altogether an improvement over the outward leg. The Dreamliner also has fancy LED windows that lighten or darken at the push of button and, more pertinently for the crew, could be controlled as one from the flight deck, so no messing about with getting people to lift the window blinds for take off. 

We were sitting over the wing so were treated to a lot of wind and engine noise, and the sight of the Boeing's wing lifting and wobbling. It's a good job I understand the principals of flight or I might be a bit worried. The last time I flew on a 787, I remember it being quieter, but I'd trade the noise for the better seats any day. Flights are as flights are, pretty boring. The food was better this time, and I did enjoy a short while with Charlie on my lap watching Paw Patrol, which is so much better without the sound.

Then we were banking out over Lake Erie for a rare northward landing at Toronto Pearson Airport, getting a great view of the Islands and the CN Tower, which was all the better as it had been cloudy since we passed over Ireland. The airport wasn't much fun, though. Terminal 3 was packed, the customs kiosks were playing up and it took an age for two of our bags to show up in the arrivals hall, thanks to a technical fault in the conveyor system. The magic of Park and Ride was working well, though, as a Valet Parking bus was waiting at the curb, and as I'd already notified them through their phone app that we'd landed, the car was sat in the lot waiting for us. I do like Park and Fly, and it did take the edge off the fact that it had taken us two hours to clear the airport. 

Opening up the back of car to load our many bags, it was quite comforting to see that our Canadian (made in Ontario) Honda CRV had quite a bit more luggage space than our Skoda hire car, so the game of baggage Jenga wasn't quite so difficult. Mind you, two bags "self-unloaded" when we opened the tailgate at the On Route in Cambridge.

We arrived home tired, of course, and out of sorts given that it was 3am according to our body clocks. Still, we'd completed quite the epic journey. A month, give or take a day, and no major dramas (bar the Manchester accommodation), and we did most of the things we'd set out to do. Now, as we Brits are wont to say "we need a holiday to get over the holiday". Next week, people, next week.

Blighty 2025 - The Paddington Bear Experience

Trip number two to the Big Smoke, London, and a visit to the Paddington Bear Experience for young Charlie.

I'd managed to replicate the good deal on train fares from Didcot to London, so we made our way there in time to get a mid-morning train. Trying to negotiate the payment machine in the car park, I realised that I may not have paid for the full stay last week, so I'm wondering if there will be an excess charge waiting for me at the car hire place when we return the car. That and the speeding ticket I may have picked up. Tsk.

The morning trains into London are busy, so we elected to take the slow train that started from Didcot, having seen the hordes awaiting the fast train from somewhere further west. We were right, too, because as the fast train pulled out of the station, there were people standing in its aisles. It's an interesting sight for people who live in North America to see a fast and very frequent service to London always rammed full. Public transport in Ontario is sparse, expensive and, as a result, poorly used.

We arrived in London with plenty of time to spare, and made our way by Tube to Westminster to witness Big Ben sounding out the twelve "bongs" of noon. The trouble was, just like our visit in 2023, it was pouring with rain. We shuffled around a bit in the lobby of the Tube station, bought a quick Greggs lunch and ate it standing up outside the shop. At about 1140, we ventured out and the rain had mostly moved on, so we took up a position part way across Westminster Bridge and waited in the spitting rain and blustery wind, admiring the iconic scenery of Central London. London is constantly changing, so the skyline is quite different compared to when I moved to London in 1977. But, most of the older buildings have been cleaned up and are no longer soot-blackened. Indeed, Big Ben's home, the Elizabeth Tower, has been so well restored that it looks new.

Bongs duly delivered, we shuffled over to the old Greater London Council's offices on the South Bank, which is now a hotel and home to various tourist attractions, including the Paddington Bear Experience. On the way, we took a quick gander at the National Covid Memorial, something the conspiracy theorists and anti-vaccination people should do, it's sobering. That side of the river, opposite the Palace of Westminster, is often used as a film location, and if I can dig out my favourite photo of Ingrid Bergman and Alfred Hitchcock there, I'll add it to the blog.

I opted not to partake in the Paddington Bear bonanza, but grandson, grandma and mum were ushered in, some way in advance of the time on their tickets. I shuffled off in search of a seat, maybe in a bar or a coffee shop, but ultimately never found one. I don't like drinking in pubs on my own, nor sitting in coffee bars, and I wasn't in the least bit hungry, so I walked around Waterloo Station for a while, then made my way back to the pre-arranged meeting spot. Sadly I had underestimated the Paddington Experience time, and spent the next hour waiting alternately outside by the river, or inside the building when it rained, all without a seat.

While there, I spent my time admiring all the adult teachers and chaperones leading big lines of school children on their summer day out (what a job!), listening to the multitude of languages being spoken, and marvelling at just how noisy London is, even outside. Perhaps I should have turned my electric ears off?

When the Paddington thing was done, and a good time was had, I believe, Emma decided to take Charlie on the London Eye, the big wheel thing by the river. It was £42 for her and £38 for him, so a combined total of £80, which was far too rich for us grown ups, and frankly quite the rip-off for a 25 minute spin on a wheel. There were combination deals available that dropped the individual price if you visited other attractions, but the costs were alarming when you add them all up. It is expensive in London, I know that, but there's some serious gouging going on in the tourist hotspots. It was ever thus, I suppose, but it annoys me all more now I'm older.

We had an afternoon to use up, and the rain had abated, so we decided to head up to Chalk Farm and the filming location for the Brown's house in the first two Paddington Bear films. There's some serious money (and a lot of Range Rovers) in Primrose Hill, and it showed as we walked through leafy streets. I'm sure the owners of 30 Chalcot Crescent must get fed up with with people photographing their house, but we did it anyway.

From Chalcot Crescent we walked through to Primrose Hill Park, and that wonderful vantage point over London that features in so many films (although curiously not Padding Bear films). It's quite a steep walk up there, but the view was a great reward. For Charlie to see the London Eye and the Elizabeth Tower from up there made the excursion worthwhile.

Michael Cain at Primrose Hill in the film, The Fourth Protocol

An executive decision was made to schlepp over to Hackney to visit Sutton and Son's Fish and Chip shop, home of the extensive chip shop vegan menu. We were there in 2023, and really enjoyed the food, so felt it was worth the effort of getting there.

Transport for London (TfL) has an excellent phone app that will plan you a journey based on your location, but it has to be used with some discretion. The first couple of options it threw up would have taken us on exciting trips through London but without getting us very far, very quickly. Using my local knowledge, I filtered out the impractical options and went for a bus to Camden Road Station, and the Mildmay Line to Hackney Central. There were other options has I chosen to go to Hackney Downs station, or any other location nearby, but when you enter a specific location, the app has no discretion, although you have to use some.

The traffic was bad, but sat on the top deck of a bus it doesn't seem so awful. We missed a train at Camden Road, faffing around using the lift at the station, and the next train that came along, only ten minutes later, was rammed. But it was only a few stops, and we tumbled out of the train with lots of other people at Hackney Central. It's only a short walk around to Graham Road, and Sutton's. Well, the meal was fab, as it was before, and made a fitting final event of the day. 

Emma made the point that in Hackney, were surrounded not by tourists, but by local people, and it made her happy to think that. I'd add that the ethnic mix in Hackney is wonderful; everyone's a Londoner, but from a multitude of global backgrounds. It's excellent.

I had planned to go back to Town on the bus, but was outvoted by Charlie, We climbed onto another rammed Mildmay Line train to Highbury and Islington, then onto rammed Tube trains back to Paddington Station and our train back to Didcot. All the day's running around had been using our pre-paid Oyster Cards, just tapping into a station and back out at the other end, or tapping onto a bus. There are lots of other ways to pay your way, but Oyster is easiest and cheapest. This was our second time in London on this trip and I'd still only used about £15 of the £25 I'd pre-paid. We may need to top the cards up for our next visit, but given all the travelling we'd done, it's been great value.

Back at Padddington Station, we had to wait a short while as our cheap day tickets were not valid until after 7pm. The first fast train was up on the destination board, but no platform number was listed. The platform was only indicated with about nine minutes to go before the train was due to leave, which meant a massive crush of people suddenly headed to the entry gate at once. This is standard practice at London termini, and I'm not sure I understand why given that the train had been sat at the platform when we arrived at the station. Network Rail who operate the stations, and the train companies, have been roundly criticized for this practice, particularly at Euston where crushes of people have reached dangerous proportions. It doesn't seem like anything has been done to address the issue, though. I can't imagine having to suffer this day after day.

The fast train was fast and we were back at Didcot before 8pm, and home by 9pm. A very long day, for sure, but heck, that's what we're here for.

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.

Blighty 2025 - In another country

 

It was a late start for us today. Well, not for me, I was wide awake at 6:45 in the morning, but no one else surfaced before 11am. I was being very calm, though, and the plan for the day looked like it may have to be limited, but we could still do the main part.

We set a course for Raglan Castle, near Raglan, Monmouthshire. Those with a keen eye for geography will know that Monmouthshire is in Wales (just), and is another country.

Our Satnav set us on a cross-country route that avoided any centre of population, except Stow-on-the-Wold, and had us go north on the M5 for a bit, then south west for quite a while on the M50. The route was a little longer than the more direct A40, but the motorway sections made it quite a bit quicker. It was a good choice of route, too.

The run to Stow was certainly bucolic; mile after mile of narrow lanes, twists and turns, and a few small hills and dales. The countryside around these parts is wonderful, with mature woodland, hedgerows and small hillocky hills. If you know about this part of the world then you'll also know that it's famed for its wool, and even now the hillsides were dotted with sheep. Burford, Stowe, and the rest, may have lost their trade in wool, but it's still being produced in these parts, which was quite reassuring.

The only thing that didn't quite ring true was the overwhelming evidence of money. Farmers can be wealthy, for sure, but there were too many Aston Martins, Porsches, Mercedes Benz, Range/Land Rovers about to belong to the farmers. Then there were the big, expensive houses dotted around, none with sheep sheds or tactors. I recently heard the Cotswolds described as Britain's answer to the Hamptons in the USA, and I'd say that was becoming a fair statement. Stow-on-the-Wold was teeming with expensive cars and expensive looking people (it's the long weekend here). I guess they have to live somewhere.

The run over towards the M5, a few miles north of Cheltenham, was a little less like the Hamptons, but just as enjoyable as the run up to Stow.

I had never been on the M50 before today. It's a short, two-lane motorway running down to Ross-on-Wye, where it links up with the A40 heading west into South Wales. This being a long weekend, there was plenty of traffic, but we made good time and were rolling up the access road to Raglan Castle pretty much on schedule, despite the late start.

I won't go on about the castle too much, except to say that it was established in the 1200s to help with the defence of England (from the Welsh), and had been in constant use as a big home rather than a defensive stronghold, right up until its partial demolition by Oliver Cromwell's Parliamentarians after the end of the English Civil War in 1653. It now stands as a craftily restored ruin, and is as beautiful a ruined castle as you'll ever see.

Because it was the long weekend, there was lots of other "stuff" going on at the castle, including a Medieval Murder Mystery, with people dressed up in period costumes and demonstrating some period crafts. Personally I'm not much into this dressing up thing, but it certainly added a bit of colour.

We wandered around the castle, went up to the top of the Keep and enjoyed a splendid view, then ate our picnic lunch in the castle grounds, which was all most enjoyable, despite the blustery wind. I should also mention the Swallows whizzing about the ruins. I had never seen a proper British Barn Swallow before going to Raglan some years ago, and here were the Swallows, almost certainly related to the ones I'd seen before, rushing in and out of the ancient building. Excellent stuff.

Obviously we raided the gift shop before leaving, it would be impolite not to, and kept Cadw, the castle's stewards, going for a few more months. 

We had planned to maybe visit Goodrich Castle, a "proper" fortification built on a cliff above the River Wye, but were really short on time, so we headed south down through the steep-side valley cut by that same river, and made our way to Tintern Abbey. There are quite a few ruined abbeys in the Britain, set up by various orders of monks, then sacked by King Henry the Eighth as part of his break with the Holy Roman Church. Tintern is one, and goodness is it ever a beautiful place? On a bend in the river, the ruins stand tall against the steep valley sides and look just fabulous. We hadn't planned on going in, it was just closing up for the day anyway, but just to admire the place from the pub garden next door (with a pint of Welsh beer in hand, of course) was enough.

Then it was time to head home. We made our way back into England on the old Severn Bridge, with no toll going eastwards. The Bristol Channel is impressive, but it was seriously windy out in the middle. On the M4, outside Swindon, we stopped at a motorway service station and the girls topped up vegan pasty and sausage roll supplies from Greggs and the West Cornwall Pasty Company. Service stations are not the most exciting places on earth, but when the shops like Greggs are very much a novelty for the overseas visitor, they seem quite exotic. Not so much excitement for the petrol, of course, because it was a full twenty-five pence a litre more expensive than anywhere else - that hasn't changed since my days in England.

On the way home we stopped for a very bland take-out pizza at Dominoes in Carterton, well it is the long weekend, and rolled back into Shipton at around seven in the evening. A long day, for sure, but really very interesting, and successful given the late start. And it didn't rain!

Tomorrow, as they say, is another day.

Plymouth (The Original One) 2024 - On the Family Trail Again

Part two of the family trail involved some schlepping around Plymouth to discover places that DW's relatives had lived, with DW's dad both driving the car and giving some rather good commentary of people and places. That was followed, next day, by some schlepping around Devon's county town Exeter, to see where my relatives had lived, with me being the tour guide, but in the company of my my brother and his wife.

In Plymouth we made for Devonport, on the west side of the city, on the Devon bank of the River Tamar. If you know anything about Plymouth beyond the Mayflower, you'll know that Devonport is the Royal Navy's westernmost deep water port and dockyard, and even now it occupies a very large chunk of the city. It's the reason that Plymouth has outgrown Exeter with its requirement for labour and associated industries to supply the Naval Base. You'll not be surprised to hear that DW's relatives were both Navy and Dockyard people.

First we visited the house where DW's dad was born. In a city that was largely flattened in the Second World War, it's a total surprise that the house, and it's adjacent pub, are still standing. Indeed, it's one of the few pre-war buildings left in the area, surrounded as it is by so much post-war redevelopment. The street plans are largely the same, but the buildings most definitely are not. Past the dockyard we headed north to some late nineteenth century streets of workers houses in the district of Keyham, Before we got there, though, we negotiated a kink in the road that skirted a new part of the dockyard, which was quite significant in DW's history. What had been there were streets of Victorian workers' houses, including Moon Street, Mooncove Street and John Street, all of which featured in various census records attached to DW's family. Old maps clearly show the streets but, thanks to bombing and urban renewal, the dockyard absorbed the space, pulled down what remained, and built new Dockyard facilities. We couldn't even see what's there because it's all behind high walls and barbed wire now. 

Devonport Dockyard, Plymouth. The red box is where John Street and Moon street used to be, and the yellow box is the area where Victory and Fleet Streets still are

 

Up at Keyham, more Dockyard housing to be sure, was Victory Street, Fleet Street, Renown Street and sundry other Naval-themed road names, containing rows of those Victorian terraced cottages. We located one significant house, but enjoyed taking in the whole. Yes, many of the houses are now painted in bright colours, and there are parked cars, end to end, lining every street, but the essential structure was plain to see. While the houses were small, these were the Victorian's alternative to the back-to-back houses of the industrial cities of England, strung out on long streets, I think because space wasn't quite so hard to come by in Plymouth. Other big cities also has these streets with somewhat improved housing for the labouring classes, including London and Manchester.

Then it was back to Devonport and the street, if not the house, where DW was born. It's located only a few hundred yards from those streets that had been absorbed into the Dockyard that I mentioned earlier, and fronts onto the north side of Devonport Park. Old maps show the line of houses running right down to the river, but now they've all been swept away, by bombing and urban renewal.We visit this street, Milne Place, every time we come to Plymouth, as a kind of pilgrimage. We had a stroll around the park, not looking its best, it has to be said, because at this time of year the city's re-wilding program tends to look a bit shabby; it's great in the summer, though. While we were there, DW's dad told us some great tales of life during and after the war in that part of Plymouth.

Modern day High Street in Stonehouse, with part of the Naval Hospital on the right

 

The final stop on the tour was High Street in Stonehouse, just west of Devonport, where more addresses appeared on census forms. The houses that had once lined the street are all long gone, and the school that stands there, even though it dates back to 1897, was built after those houses had been pulled down. Just a few yards away, we did get a look at the old Royal Naval Hospital, now a fancy gated community of houses and apartments, where DW's grandfather had died. There is family history on every corner in this city.

At this juncture I will make a comment that relates to how cities ought to be run. In Plymouth, where the bombs and urban renewal rebuilt the old parts of the town, the city fathers erected many thousands of houses and flats, all owned and controlled by the City Council. So many people displaced then had a house with hot and cold water, heating and lighting, with a fair rent, and were not trapped into squalour by private landlords. Despite the best efforts of Margaret Thatcher in the seventies and eighties, many of these houses and flats remain under City control and provide affordable homes for the people of Plymouth. Certainly Plymouth is not perfect, but when you read and see the issues caused by a lack of affordable housing, in the UK and in Canada, Plymouth stands out as a beacon of sensible housing provision.

Some of Plymouth's Social Housing, this in High Street, Stonehouse

In Exeter it was all about my mother's family, although first we had to get there. We took a cab to the station, which put us well ahead of schedule, thank goodness, because the blight of privatized railways hit us again. Both the train from Plymouth to Exeter St, David's, and the train from St.Davids to Exeter Central, were cancelled. Back in the halcyon days of British Rail, it was rare to get trains cancelled like that. Sometimes on or two of the local, five-an-hour commuter trains would get dropped, but longer distance trains would pretty much always run. On our recent trips to the UK, though, we have been hit by longer-distance trains being cancelled, with alarming regularity. Interestingly, I have worked for one of Britain's private train operators so I know how they do things in their quest for ever greater profits, at the expense of the paying customer. They run with absolutely no slack in their systems. Drivers and other staff are poorly paid, so are hard to recruit and retain. If any don't show up for work there is simply no facility to insert alternative staff to run the services. The excuse for the cancellation of the train to Exeter varied, too, which means blame shifting was in operation, as in "it wasn't our fault, it was someone else". The Rail Regulator has proved ineffective at holding the train operating companies to account, so the run of cancelled trains continues. In a country where train travel is becoming more popular than ever as people get fed up of congested roads, this really isn't acceptable. Margaret Thatcher has a lot to answer for. The result of cancelled trains is overcrowding on the trains that do run. Our first available service service was a Cross-Country operated service from Penzance to Edinburgh in Scotland. As is usual with that company, the train was just four cars long, and was quite full when it arrived in Plymouth. Because of the cancelled train, more people than usual crammed onto the Cross-Country and we ended up having to stand by the bicycle storage area because all the seats were taken. Every Cross-Country train I've ever used has been only four or six cars long and has had people standing for long periods of time. That's great for the accountants, more paying customers per train, but not so good for the poor folks who end up in those packed trains. We gave up at Newton Abbot and hopped off to pick up a local stopping train that went to Exeter Central via Exeter St. David's. Slower for sure, but at least we had a seat. Anyway, I digress (a lot).

 

We met up with Bro and Mrs Bro and made our way through historic Exeter, past the wonderful Norman and Gothic cathedral (longest unbroken Gothic church roof in the world!), with me adding a ton of interesting (!) stories about all the places we passed We made our way to the White Hart Hotel in South Street for lunch and a beer or two, and caught up with current family issues. The White Hart is one of those places that was a fixture for me, somewhere I've passed a thousand time, although I couldn't remember ever having been inside. It's an old coaching inn and has a delightful little alleyway between the two Elizabethan buildings it occupies, and thinking back, my dad may have showed me into the alley at some point, because it did feel familiar. I definitely hadn't been in the pub, but then I left Exeter when I was fourteen, so that'd be the reason for that.

 

From the White Hart we set off to explore the square mile that's known as the West Quarter, the land between the Cathedral and the Quay on the River Exe.It's steeped in history, right from Roman times, and it's where a good proportion of my mum's family resided in the nineteenth century, and the first half of the twentieth century. Like the Barbican in Plymouth, this port area was crammed with poor families all trying to eke out a living between the port and the city, and occupations listed in the census forms include Fish Hawker, Hawking Labourer, Charwoman and Laundress. While the street pattern remains, at least in part, two major events changed the West Quarter irrevocably. The first was the bombing of the city in April and May 1942, when German bombers attacked Exeter for its cultural and historical significance rather than any strategic or military importance. The second was the act of civic vandalism in the early 1960s that drove a new road through the West Quarter, cutting streets in two and removing vast swathes of earlier housing. Worse was the removal of large chunks of the city's Roman wall. The only saving grace in any of it was the physical moving of a fifteen century merchant's house, to make way for the road. Urban renewal had actually started in the 1920s, when poor quality housing was replaced with more modern dwellings, but the building of the road, the Western Way, was a terrible time for that part of Exeter. That said, most of the churches survived, as did Stepcote Hill, a place where my ancestors are recorded as having lived, and that ensured that our exploration based on census records was easy to achieve. 

 

We made our way down to the river, past the old medieval Exe Bridge, now landlocked, and the tower of St. Edmund's Church. The river has been much altered over the centuries, from the Roman port right through to the Victorian era. Indeed, we stopped in a pub in an area known locally as Exe Island, yet it's not on an island. Well, it isn't now, but it was in the late 1800s. The pub was in an old Bonded Store, one of the many Victorian buildings that survive on the Quay. I did want to have a drink in a pub called the Bishop Blaize, in Ewing Square. Old maps show the pub being there in 1888, and I had relatives living in Ewing Street and Cricklepit Mill Lane, just yards away. Unfortunately the streets have gone, as have most of the buildings, and the pub was closed. Maybe another day.

Like so many cities and towns in England, there is history on every corner in Exeter, and even as we threaded our way back to the station were were walking past significant historical points, and of course my boyhood memories. DW and Mrs Bro did a sterling job of listening and pretending to be interested, which made my day. Bro was just ten years old when he left Exeter, but we managed to stir some of his memories as well.

The run back to Plymouth was without incident, and without cancelled trains. We opted for the stopping train to Newton Abbot again, although that beautiful run between Exeter and Newton Abbot, taking in the Rivers Exe and Teign, and the run along the narrow gap between high red cliffs and the English Channel, wasn't as good as it could have been because it was getting dark. If you like trains, though, Google "Dawlish Sea Wall Trains".

 

Those runs out have pretty much concluded our family explorations for this trip. It was great to tread where our ancestors had trod (is that a word?), and it's given us an added dimension to our family trees. I think I can say mission accomplished.

Last Run. Short Season. Thursday.

Thursday is packing up day, and we'd decided to get a way a little earlier than usual, so we were both up with the lark. Well, I was, not so much DW.

The weather was still good, and the gazebo had dried out, or at least on the outside. The roof inside was wet with condensation, so as we took it down for the second time this trip, we didn't fold it up tightly, just threw it loose into the back of the van.

The rest of the packing up went to plan, and I took special care to put things away properly, given that Towed Haul is headed for her winter sojourn next week. So much to plan were we that it was almost dead on noon when we rolled off the site and made our way to the dump station. It was there that things took a slightly sideways twist, although not in a bad way. I was about to get grumbly because the Park people had decided to change the fitting on the sewer station's water hose which meant that I couldn't connect it up to the black tank flushing system, when we were approached by some very nice people who had apparently been reading these blogs. They recognized the car, and the trailer, and engaged us in animated conversation, and asking us all about the tow vehicle and it viability. I was a bit surprised to meet someone who had read the blog, although these were not the first, but they weren't camping in the park, just visiting. It got me thinking that I should conclude this, the final trip of our thirteenth season, with some well chosen words about the combo they said would never work.

Before I go there, though, I'll just mention that the waste tanks were dumped successfully, I couldn't get the clear plastic hose extender off the hose and had to stow it in the rear bumper storage compartment until I got home. Our run back was without incident, there was virtually no wind (when you live in an area heavily populated by wind turbines, you notice when there's no wind), and the fuel mileage was down to 16.4 litres per 100 kilometres (the smaller the figure the better), so that was a win. We deviated from our regular route after we were stuck behind one of the double-trailer tomato trucks that ply our roads at this time of year (field tomatoes are big business here and French's Tomato Ketchup plant is just down the roan in Leamington), and drive very slowly. Our final backup onto the driveway was good and we were ready for Charlie's arrival home from school in good time. A very good day, I think.

As to the combo they said would never work, well it has worked for thirteen years with nary a hiccup along the way.

As you'll know, we tow our 28' Airstream (around 7,000 lbs loaded) with a 2011 Toyota Sienna Minivan. This tow vehicle offends the sensibilities of just about everyone who tows a travel trailer because, well, it's not a pickup truck. But, you may also know that North America's most respected towing authority, Andy Thomson, set the Sienna up and said it would work. He'd been in the business for 40 years at that point and had set up thousands on non-truck tow vehicles building his entire business on his reputation. He is Airstream's towing consultant after all.

So many people told me that the Sienna wasn't a proper tow vehicle and would either conk out on the road, or have us all killed in a fiery crash. Even friends looked at us pityingly and wished us good luck and hoped we didn't come to regret our choice, all said with drooping eyebrows and looks that said "you WILL regret your choice". But, we had gone to the best for our setup, and as I will elucidate, he was right on everything, everything he said. All of the naysayers, conversely, were entirely wrong.

A tow vehicle doesn't have to be heavier than the trailer, that's the first thing people get wrong. If tow vehicles did have to be heavier, what size would the tractor unit on an 18-wheeler towing a 53' trailer have to be? We were told that the "tail would wag the dog", but after all these years towing I have never felt the trailer pushing the Sienna around, nor have I ever experienced a "sway" event.

The next thing people get wrong is power. The Sienna will churn out around 270 brake horse power, but actually only ever uses about sixty or seventy when under way. At maximum load, I only ever saw 120bhp required (measured using a ScanGauge) once. The Sienna feels strong on the steepest grades. Not fast, for sure, but strong.

Then they told us the Sienna would never stop the Airstream, but that's wrong, too. The trailer has four braked wheels which will stop the trailer on their own. The Sienna's brakes, discs all round, are pretty good for a car, too. 

Front wheel drive can't be used to tow a trailer they said, and again they were wrong. Yes, when towing I can spin the front wheels, but I can do that when not towing as well. In fact I've only ever lost traction twice with the FWD when towing, and that was applying power on steep, gravelly roads in camp grounds. Indeed, where I've seen pickup trucks spinning their rear wheels to get a trailer moving on wet grass, I've never had any wheel slip at all, and have hauled our trailer out of muddy and wet grass on numerous occasions without ever spinning the front wheels.

Apparently you can't use a unibody constructed vehicle to tow a trailer. After thirteen years towing, I think the Sienna has shown that in reality, a unibody does work.

I've had people tell me it's illegal to tow with the Sienna (it's not), and that my liability is too great to be insured (no one has ever produced a documented case of such a thing happening, although the incidence of "I know a guy..." cases is high). I've even had people say to my face that it was impossible for the Sienna to tow the Airstream, despite the fact that it's sitting in a campground, so patently having been dragged there by the Sienna. 

Actually, it all gets a bit wearing and as people newer to towing than us join the online groups, I go through the same loops as I've described above, over and over again. Every one knows what's best for me, and I'm a poor sap who'd been conned by an unscrupulous salesman, this despite a total lack of experience towing using anything other than a truck.

The Sienna is really a very good tow platform with it's forward weight, independent, low-slung and wide stance coil spring suspension, and six-speed automatic gearbox and is a better design than any pickup up the road.

Of course, I didn't just buy the Sienna and a hitch, and drive off. The hitch receiver had been modified to limit the torque at the hitch head and transfer the weight more effectively to all the available axles. There's an electronic brake controller, a second transmission cooler, weight distribution and sway mitigation systems in place, all of which are essential to make everything work safely. There's the key statement, to make everything work safely, and it so patently does as thirteen years of hassle-free towing demonstrate. 

Apart from the additional transmission cooler, and brake controller, the Sienna is bog standard. It has 230,000 kilometres (143,000 miles) on it and still has the original transmission. I'm not sure how many changes of tires it's had, but it's on its second set of shocks, new ones fitted as routine maintenance rather than as a result of a failure. I've just had the rear section of the exhaust system replaced, and one suspension strut was renewed at around 75,000 miles. It's only on it's second fill of synthetic transmission oil.

That's a lot of information, and I wouldn't be surprised if you fell asleep reading it. The crux of it, though, is that despite all the bad stuff that's been said and written about our setup, it's still going strong and has been entirely safe and entirely reliable throughout. I would love to think that we've challenged people's ideas about towing with a non-truck, but sadly If I put up a photo of our combo, I'll be hit with "it'll never work" nonsense all over again.

Anyway, that's a wrap for season thirteen. Hibernation starts next week, and we're looking forward to season fourteen.

No wheel slip pulling off a waterlogged site.
The puddle is formed in dip made by trucks spinning their rear wheels.

Columbus or Bust - Sunday

 

Sunday was going home day, so not too much to report, other than the journey. We had anticipated heading out to Baltimore this day, but rejigged things and used our Saturday more productively, and now all we had to do was pack and drive.

The Airbnb was a really nice little place to stay, a two-bedroomed family home in a good neighbourhood, on a quiet street. I’d guess it was built just before, or just after ,1920 and in it’s Dutch Barn style was good and solid. Some of the doors and windows looked original, and quite a lot of the internal wood most certainly was original. Downstairs, some modern wood flooring had been put down on the original surface, but the stairs and the upstairs floors were all thin boards and as squeaky as you like.

In the kitchen and dining area it was fitted out as any family home would be, with everything you’d expect to find in a modern kitchen. The front room wasn’t dominated by a TV because the owners had installed a ceiling mounted projector and a self-deploying screen. Add the good stereo speaker system and Apple TV and it was a very good home entertainment system. Not that we needed the facility, but we used it out of curiosity.

I hadn’t really thought about it, but the front door opened straight into the living room, although outside the door was under a copious porch area. Fine in the summer, and the storm door showed that, but for the winter, maybe not. The front porch was set up nicely to sit, it was north facing so shady, and the rear of the house had a nice deck with patio furniture and a couple of shade sails, which you’d need as that was south facing.

The neighbourhood of Clintonville is today quite trendy, with a fair bit of gentrification, especially towards the river. North High Street was booming, and the presence of niche restaurants and Pride flags gives you an idea of the local ambience. Indeed, the bulk of the area looked to be untouched by modern life, apart from the cars lining the streets, which is nice to see in a country where tearing down the old is a national sport.

Prior to departure, we did a quick dash down to the vegan bakery again, just to top up supplies you understand. Sunday traffic was light, so it was an easy run down North High Street and back. As quite large cities go, I have to say that Columbus is a very nice place to be.

Ready for the off, we loaded the car and headed northwest, towards Findlay and the I75. Trusting to Google Maps again, the lady in the device took us up alongside the Olentangy River for quite a distance, which was a nice drive on a Sunday morning. I had to stop for fuel and was once again slightly perplexed as to what happened to the requirement to add your Zip code to the gas pump in order to verify your credit card. Obviously, we don’t have a Zip code, us being Canadian and all, but there was a neat little workaround you could use. It took me a second, this time around, to realise that I’d put a PIN number in and that was the required verification. When we were taking the trailer on long runs in the USA, they were still using the magnetic strip on the credit card, not the chip as they do now. Perplexedness solved.

Google had us heading up to Upper Sandusky this time, on a multi-lane highway, which is how I thought we’d arrive on Friday. I think because Google finds the quickest route based on live traffic conditions, it must have decided that the construction works at Stratford would have delayed us too much so sent us down the smaller country roads through Kenton. Either way, progress was pretty good.

We stopped again at Bowling Green, on the northbound side this time of course, not too far north of Findlay and not too far south of Toledo. It was still scarily hot, and you don’t understand that until you get out of the air-conditioned car. Our snack lunch was taken quickly!

Toledo was negotiated, then were back in bumpy Michigan and pressing onto Detroit. As we approached, the sun was glinting off the new bridge, and I have to say that it looks even more impressive than in the (many) videos on YouTube. The bridge deck is one span now, but it’s not likely to be open for another year yet, which is a year too long in my book, especially as we were about to negotiate the Ambassador Bridge.

The Ambassador Bridge is ninety years old and has developed into the busiest land crossing in the US and Canada. Unfortunately, it has suffered from a chronic lack of investment because it’s privately owned. Betraying my socialist leanings, I can’t help thinking that its lack of development, and even basic maintenance, has suffered in the name of profit. It also predates all the main highways, so at both ends, traffic is dumped straight into either Windsor or Detroit, and not on a nice, speedy highway. The new bridge isn’t privately owned (phew!), and doesn’t shy away from highways, with Ontario’s Highway 401 being extended right to the bridge on the Canadian side, and a new connection with Michigan’s I75 being constructed on the US side. The future looks bright, but for now we’re stuck with the old bridge. Remember I was talking about Chip and PIN credit cards? Well, the Ambassador Bridge still uses the magnetic strip technology, which is slow and awkward – see, no investment.

Twisting roads get you up on the bridge, and then drops you down onto Windsor’s Huron Church Road. But not before the Border Service people have had a squint at your passport. Normally, crossing back into Canada is quite easy, and there are rarely queues. Unfortunately, on this Sunday, there were lines a plenty, so it was on with the patient heads. Once at the kiosk, the young woman was polite, professional and friendly. I handed her the passports all open to the right page, then made sure all the car windows were open so that she could see inside, which are two simple things you can do to make transit much easier. She’d taken her time with a few of the cars ahead of us, but we breezed through and I’m fairly sure that my little tricks to ease the way went some way to helping.

Then it was Huron Church Road. Three lanes either side, with a built median and lots of Stop lights. It pays to not get stuck behind trucks because they tend to move off from the lights slowly, but this day the centre lane was full of trucks and the right lane was full of people dithering about whether they wanted Tim Hortons or McDonalds. Once they’re moving, those big rigs really move, and it’s a 60kph limit there. I’m doing early 80 and I’m being harassed by one truck behind me because he wants to go faster, so he dives into the right lane and starts a passing move on me. He gets about two thirds of the way past then realizes there’s a slow vehicle in his lane, so on goes his blinker and he starts to move into my lane. Ordinarily I can’t be bothered to fight these idiots and I just move out of their way. Today though, two things made me hold my ground. Firstly, diving to the right to pass is a moving violation, and that’s on top of the speeding. Secondly, I needed one of the two right lanes to make the turn to the 401 a few yards ahead, and I wasn’t going to be pushed out of lane to miss my turn because of a twat like that. So, I stayed where I was. His blinker kept going but he wasn’t going to side swipe me, and I wasn’t going to be intimidated. I won that one because he did back off. On the 401 itself, 100kph limit, he comes flying past me on my left (better), but he’s both speeding and occupying the left lane, which is also a moving violation for a truck of that size. Of course, out on the main part of the highway where the limit is higher, I breezed past him and went on my way. Indeed, I could have backed off at the point he was trying to force his way past and still have been ahead of him, but I’m damned if I’m going to let a jackass like that intimidate me. Of course, I would have yielded to avoid a collision, but while I felt confident that I was OK, then I was going to stick to my right of way. We did take a photo of his licence plate, but I doubt I will get around to reporting him. Had I had a dashcam then maybe I would have.

After that bit of excitement, it was a clear run home. Five hours in total (stops and border had added an hour) and a total distance over the weekend a few kilometres short of 900. I only started feeling a bit drowsy in the last ten kilometres, which was pretty good, too.

The football was an experience, even if the result wasn’t, and the visit to Basil was excellent. Columbus is a great city, and our house for the weekend was lovely. Now, if we could just get Michigan to fix its roads…

 

Columbus or Bust - Saturday

Saturday dawned, and with it the prospect of trying out yet another different type of shower system in the house. This one turned out not to require too much advanced knowledge, with two controls rather than one. Shower designers must fall over themselves to build ever more complex setups, usually in the guise of reducing the manufacturing cost, so every shower I have to interface with in hotels or Airbnb places is a bit of a challenge. But then that’s just me.

 

Our first port of call for the day was the “Happy Little Treats” bakery, purveyor of fine vegan things, which was about ten minutes away. Without going into too much detail, we emerged with a big box of baked goodies, and looked set for the day. 

 

Then we headed south to the rural idyll that is Baltimore, Ohio. There lie the earthly remains of a distant relative of mine, one William Franklin Mayne, and his wife Eliza Jane. He was the third born son of Henry Mayne, who left Leeds (my home town) in the UK in 1822, and set off for the New World. He started quite a dynasty on this side of the Atlantic, of which old WF was at the vanguard. The drive down was only about forty minutes, and while the land was a bit more undulating thereabouts, the fields were full of corn and beans, and the houses looked much the same as in southern Ontario. Nearer Baltimore, the houses were bigger and generally set in more land, which I supposed denoted the presence of money, although this was still all in the middle of miles and miles of fields. As we drove along the arrow straight roads lined with electricity poles, I couldn't help thinking of the scenes in the movie What’s Eating Gilbert Grape? when a caravan of Airstream trailers rolled down such a road. I guess the road could have been anywhere in the Midwest.

 

Baltimore was just a nice little town servicing the surrounding rural area. Old WF and his family had lived in the village, known as Basil originally, but had been absorbed by its bigger neighbour, Baltimore. Today, though, it was the Old Basil Cemetery we were visiting. I should point out here for the Brits reading this that Basil is pronounced “Bay-zil” on this side of the pond; I mention that just for authenticity of course. One of Basil’s claims was that it was a stopping point on the long-defunct Ohio and Erie Canal, which was the source of its early prosperity, but of course you all knew that already.

 

Old WF had been the village doctor in the second half of the Nineteenth century, and a property developer as well, given that he owned much of the land Basil (sorry, West Baltimore) now stands on. The word “owned” is a misnomer because the land would have been appropriated from the native people that had lived here for thousands of years before European contact. Indian removal had started after the Revolutionary War, about a hundred years before WF acquired the title, and was likely either Shawnee or Wyandot land. In any talk of North America, it’s important to acknowledge these facts.

 

When we arrived in West Market Street, there was a parade underway, so clearly someone had told them I was coming. It was a wee bit bizarre to be browsing the cemetery while there were people dressed up like ice cream cones, or riding multi-seated quad-cycles, just a few yards away. Anyway, we found WF’s grave fairly easily, revelled in the general aura of Mayneness, and took some photos.

On the way back to the car, we looked carefully at a house that I thought had been built by WF but re-reading the entry in the Baltimore Community Museum Facebook page, it was a newer house we were looking at, but on the site of WF’s original dwelling. Still, it was a significant space for me.

 

Then it was back to the big city of Columbus. We’d been there before a few years ago and had remarked how clean and tidy the downtown core was. While not actually downtown now, we did get a good view of it from the highway, perched as it is on a little rise, and very nice it looked too. 

 

Back at the house, we chilled a little (essential given how warm it was getting outside), and prepared for the main event of the weekend, the match between Chelsea Football Club of London, and Manchester City FC of, well, Manchester. Both English Premier League teams were in the USA on a pre-season tour, and they were booked to play each other at the Ohio State Stadium. That’s not a soccer stadium, but as it seats 102,000, it was better for the money men than using the much smaller Columbus Crew MLS soccer stadium. When I said it was getting warmer, it was also getting darker, which was of course a prelude to a huge rain storm. It was not looking good because the Ohio stadium doesn’t have any cover over its seats. Fortunately, the storm passed quickly, but then the heat started to build, so it looked like we’d likely drown, or boil while watching the game.

 

The wise decision was taken to utilize an Uber rideshare car to get us to the stadium, and young Hassan, our driver, sped us into the huge campus that is Ohio State University. We were still some way from the stadium as we passed parking lots with spaces at $20, which made the Uber decision make real sense. When we were dropped close to the stadium, a bar, The Varsity, was full of Chelsea supporters singing and shouting, and it was more than reminiscent of the Fulham Road on Saturday afternoon than a hot afternoon in Ohio. As we approached the ground, there were many thousands of Chelsea and City shirts in evidence, plus a whole raft of other football shirts, from El Salvador to Arsenal.

Completed in 1922, the stadium is a horseshoe shaped concrete edifice that these days can hold 102,000 paying customers. It’s normally the home of the Ohio State Buckeyes football team but is often used for University events as well. If nothing else, it’s impressive. The downside was that the playing area isn’t really built for soccer, so the pitch laid out was a little narrow, and probably short as well, but from our seats up in the nosebleed section, it was difficult to tell. I have mentioned already that there is no covering over any of the stadium, so if it was going to rain then we were going to get soaked. As it turned out, it stayed dry, but the ambient air temperature that afternoon was around 30C, and when the sun shone, it was seriously hot up there on the concrete cliff face.

 

The facilities in the stadium were OK, plenty of water to be bought, and beer, and hotdogs, at a price of course. The men’s toilets on C deck were pretty awful, but that was down to the users, not the providers. There was some merchandise being sold, but the people behind us took about thirty minutes and $200 to come back with not very much at all, so that was pretty much what we expected. 

 

The pre-game stuff was all US professional sports nonsense. Mascots, crowd-cam, stupid games and a “host” trying to get everyone warmed up. The sound system was pretty good, and the DJ providing the music wasn’t bad, but it just went on too long. The giant screen at one end of the stadium was a mass of flashing images and, this being the USA, non-stop commercials.

 

When the game started, at least the music was stopped, although the people behind us did ask, out loud, why that was. They thought the music might liven things up a bit. The game wasn’t great, pre-season friendlies never are, even though things had been built up like it was a cup final or something. The referee, surely FIFA accredited, was dreadful, dishing out a penalty when City’s captain fell over in the penalty area, then handing out yellow cards for even the mildest contact between players. That didn’t help. Nor did my team being beaten 4-2. I couldn’t quite deal with the music and flashing screens when goals were scored, a camera operator rushing onto the pitch to record the players’ celebrations was a bit mad, and every corner kick was greeted with a commercial “This corner kick is brought to you by Rinky-Dinky Airlines”. That’s just not done in European football. Still, it was only a practice match, so what did it matter?

 

The 72,000 paying customers in the ground seemed to enjoy the spectacle, and I’m glad we went, because it was quite the event. One day the Premier League should organize a competitive game in the US, without all the music and the lights, and held in a stadium with a roof on, at least over the spectators. Then you’d get the crowd noise and not be distracted by Rinky-Dink Airlines every few minutes.

 

Coming out of the stadium was OK, it’s a big place and didn’t feel too crushed as everyone made for the exits. I thought it looked and felt a bit like the old Wembley Stadium in London as we headed out down the stairs but given that the Ohio stadium was built at around the same time, it shouldn’t have been surprising. We needed to walk a bit to get away from ground and the main bulk of spectators, and even when we did and bagged another Uber car, the traffic was still horrible. Mind you, the driver was pretty good with the back streets and had us home in record time.

 

It was too late to go out for dinner at that point, not least because a lot of places close at 9pm (this isn’t Europe, for sure, where places don’t even open until 9pm), so it was pizza and beer at home, along with a cheesy but moral Tom Hanks movie on the big screen.

 

Goodness that was a busy day.