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 - Wizarding in Watford

Today was the long-planned trip to Warner Brothers Harry Potter Studio Tour in Watford. Oh, alright, Leavesden, but it's still Watford.

Tickets cost a small fortune, and the reduction in price for Charlie was miserly, but this place is something akin to the Theme Parks in Florida, so will be charging Florida prices. Still, you only go once, don't you? Sorry, I forgot, you only go twice. Charlie, of course, was on a high as he was about to visit his beloved Hogwarts Express.

It's a shade over seventy miles from Shipton to Leavesden, an hour and a half according to Google, but what does Google know? I had prevaricated about cutting across country to reach the A41 and drop in from the north west, avoiding the dreaded M25, because it was going to be Friday afternoon. But that was nearer two hours, and there looked to be roadworks around Thame and Aylesbury so I thought sod it, lets go A40, M40, M25. It's only a few miles on the awful Orbital. That, gentle reader, was my big mistake.

We set off just before 2pm, with tickets for the tour timed for 4:30. The A40 to Oxford was busy but moving, then around North Oxford it was busy and not moving. Roundabouts, traffic lights and Friday afternoon traffic do not combine well. We crawled, stopped and started around the north of that great city and it seemed to take an age to reach the motorway, although I wasn't watching the time.

The M40 was busy, but moving at a good clip, as were we, until I saw a sign saying delays on the M25, and they said delays of 45 minutes to an hour. DW did a quick check on her phone to see where the delay was and sure enough, an "incident" between the M40 and the Watford turn had the entire section stopped. Why had I not gone with my first instinct and used the A41?

Thinking quickly, I thought I might try approaching from the south, using my old commuting route to Northwood, through Ruislip and Moor Park. But, as I knew would happen, every road within a few miles of the M25 was gummed up something rotten, with schools kicking out, the Friday getaway and the mess on the motorway all combining. We moved very slowly towards Moor Park, then to Rickmansworth, but then I let the Satnav take over, and all of a sudden we were on the road to the M25 again, albeit just one junction from the Watford turn. I did try to work out a cross-country route while stuck in solid line of traffic north of Rickmansworth, but when I went to make the turn, a vehicle recovery truck turned in first and blocked the entire road as it was too wide to get past all the cars coming out of that road. Once again I thought sod it, and carried on to the M25, given that the previously solid line of stopped traffic was now moving. Once on the M25, busy though it was, we were moving, and in a few minutes we were diving off onto the... wait for it... A41, to get into Leavesden. We were well past our allotted ticket time, but the good people at the tour didn't seem to mind. We collected our Golden Snitch for the priority parking that we'd paid for, and rolled into Car Park 1 ready for some wizarding magic.

Almost three hours to do seventy miles. Where's that damned broomstick when you need it?

The tour was very good, of course. Quite a bit more swept up than our last visit, which was probably more than ten years ago. We had a few dancing girls and boys, and some audio-visual special effects to negotiate, but it all added to the experience. When we reached the Hogwarts Express, the loco and a couple of carriages from the films, Charlie was in ecstasy, and had to be dragged away. Twice!

We had a fast food meal, which for the others was vegan, and actually quite good according to them. My eyes watered at the bill, over £40 for burger and chips, hot dog and chips, loaded fries and a drink, but heck, they have us captive. 

Of course these places gouge you in the gift shops, which is why I came out empty handed. Emma splashed the cash, but then she and Charlie were immersed in the whole thing. Me, I resent handing over £20 for a not great quality tee-shirt with the Warner Brothers logo on it when I can get get two comparable quality tee-shirts, without the advertising, in Sainsbury's for £8. But then I'm just a miserable old git.

We spent a good three hours on the tour, and could have spent longer, but tired legs and a tired child caught up with us. Despite my grumbles, I did enjoy it and I'm always amazed at the efforts film makers go to to produce a feature film. Mind you, while millions may have been spent in production, many millions more have been, and are being, earned.

While mingling with so many people on the tour, I was struck by what I consider to be the bad behaviour of some of the other "guests". On the tour there were a lot of people who were not averse stepping part-way into a queue, which is something simply not done in the UK. Then there were the people who walked through a queue rather than walk around it, often nudging others out of the way to do so. The worst for me, though, were the adults who moved around oblivious of the children there. Knocking into them, barging past to stand in front of them, and generally behaving like they weren't there. I don't know about you, but if there are kids around then you take care to make sure that you don't knock into them, and you allow them to see what's going on, and not be so darned selfish. It reminded me of my trip to Disney-hell in Florida many years ago when adults were queue-jumping to get ahead of kids waiting patiently. Goodness I sound old.

The run home was clear, and took an hour and a half, including a stop for petrol, so Google was right all along. Once again I retired early, which was more of a necessity given my advancing years and the pace of this holiday.

Saturday is a "down day", no plans to do anything, just catching up on some rest. Thank goodness.

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 - Family and Herefordshire

Today's jaunt was a trip into the wilds of Herefordshire, specifically to Leominster (pronounced "Lemster"), Kimbolton and Bromyard, to get some family vibes for Dear Wife, for that is where her family hails from.

It's an interesting story, too, from agricultural workers in Herefordshire, to tradespeople in Birmingham, to Royal Navy in Plymouth. It's a path trodden by many others, but so much more pertinent when it's your own family.

We had to make a stop en route first, and that was at a Gregg's Bakery in North Worcester. I chose North Worcester because it was sort of on the way, it was a full shop and not a cabinet in a petrol station, and there was free parking right in front. It was well worth the trip, too, because they had everything we wanted, despite the place being very busy with workers from the nearby Business Park. 

Once back on the road we made our way through the lush Worcestershire and Herefordshire countryside to Leominster. I'd looked at the area extensively using Google Maps, but that is only two dimensional and doesn't even hint at the relief of the land. Goodness that land has some relief. It's not tall mountains, although those were visible to the south (The Brecon Beacons in Wales), but it was gorgeous little hills and dales, carved in the soft red soil by water from the Welsh hills.

Leominster is a small market town north of Hereford, and it's seen better days. In the little town centre there were a lot of vacant shops, and there was an air of decay about the place. That said, the many half-timbered buildings were still standing tall, even if they looked a little past their best. I should make the point here that the short-term car park only cost £2.40 for two hours, and it wasn't a mobile app only pay system, either, as the machine had a bank card reader. South Devon councils please take note.

We searched out the addresses of a few of DW's ancestors, thought about the people, and thought about the buildings and what's left them given that the records we've been looking at go back 200 years. Etnam Street looked to have been a grand thoroughfare once, and as it led to the station, it probably was. School Lane was one of the narrow streets leading to Corn Square, as was Corn Street, and all those places were homes and businesses for DW's family in the nineteenth century. It's quite cool to think that you're walking the same streets as your ancestors.

After a bite to eat and a drink at the Flying Dutchman Cafe, we made our way out to the village of Kimbolton, about two miles north of Leominster. We debated about the pronunciation of Kimbolton; was it Kim-Bolton, like the one in Cambridgeshire, or Kimble-ton? We may never know. 

In Kimbolton, St James' Church stands on a hill above the village, and very nice it looked, too. The road to get there was a Devon-style lane, but it was good to know that DW's ancestors had made their way up that hill to the church to get married. The church is made of local stone, and has a square tower topped with a wooden spire. It looks very old, and indeed parts of it are, but the church was extensively remodelled in 1875, and the interior shows it. The large graveyard that surrounds the the church is filled with sandstone headstones, pretty much all of which have been worn smooth over time and give no clue as to who is buried there. There were plenty of modern graves there, as well, and there was one grave dug and ready for use (covered, of course); it's unusual to see old graveyards still very much in use.

We stood inside the church for a while and tried to imagine the wedding of Dear Wife's ancestors that had taken place there so long ago. The family, established themselves in Leominster, but parts of it moved west to the little town of Bromyard, twelve miles to the west of Leominster, and from there moved onto Aston, which is now part of the wider Birmingham conurbation. This was a path followed by so many people, moving from the land to the factories of the growing industrial cities. Life in Britain's industrial centres was terrible in the nineteenth century, but it may have been worse in the country, if work was scarce. 

From Kimbolton, we drove to Bromyard, which is a lovely little market town nestled in the red hills of Herefordshire. Dear Wife's family are recorded as being resident there in the late 1800s, and we drove past houses that were listed in the Census records. We also drove past places where houses were no more, which is a common theme in both our family trees' research. There is a house in Bromyard that bears DW's surname, but we haven't tied it to any of her immediate relatives yet.

Finally we set a course for home, and motored across the River Severn in Worcester, and across the Cotswolds back to Shipton. I have been moaning constantly about the number of Range Rovers and Land Rovers on the roads in the Cotswolds. My general assumption is that they're driven by wealthy "Townies", who think they need a big, rugged car to negotiate the country roads of the Cotswolds. The reality is, of course, that the roads of the Cotswolds are no different to the roads anywhere else, except for being a bit narrower at times, when a big Range or Land Rover is a positive disadvantage. The Range and Land Rovers are, in reality, status symbols. They are so common in these parts, and are usually driven my numpties. I found this out when not one, but two, Range Rovers pulled out of side roads on the run home, forcing me to jam on the brakes. My driver training  at least allows me to anticipate these things better than many, but it's still an irritation when people drive like that, and it's dangerous, too. As I said, numpties.

Our next expedition will be on public transport, so maybe some time away from the Range Rovers will be beneficial.

Blighty 2025 - All aboard the Skylark!

Today was Dear Wife's birthday and she elected to hire a small "Day Boat" on the southern section of the Stratford Canal in Warwickshire. What a capital idea, we all thought.

Weather is important on a canal boat, not least because someone has to stand out in the open and steer the thing, so it wasn't looking good as we headed north to Chipping Norton, and beyond, in rain and blustery winds. But, as we booked months ago, we couldn't really do much about it.

English "A" roads are rarely dull for the North American driver. There is always plenty to look at, including the twists, turns, ups, and downs that you encounter, and the sheer amount of other vehicles using them. It's all good as they wend their way through the countryside and through pretty little villages, but it can get frustrating when you get caught behind someone who doesn't like to get above 40mph. We did this wet morning, and given the lack of straightness in these roads, unless you're willing to take risks, you get stuck. I do understand why people drive slowly, especially in the bad weather, but as I said, when there are miles to be eaten up, it can get frustrating.

For all that, we arrived at the boatyard in Wootton Wawen only ten minutes behind schedule. Anglo-Welsh Cruisers has been around for years and hire out some very nice boats that you can stay on for weeks at a time. The English and Welsh canal system is extensive and you can, given time, explore some amazing scenery in the heart of the country. Because the canal system is well in excess of 200 years old in most places, these canals do not take big craft. On this canal, the maximum width of a boat is seven feet, and the maximum length is seventy feet, so that locks could be kept small for cost and water usage reasons. They're long and narrow, which is why they're called Narrow Boats (as opposed to barges). Our narrow boat for the day was only thirty feet long, and wasn't equipped with beds and the like. It did have a toilet, a sink and a stove, but it was designed for just day use, and that was what we were doing. Our boat was called Charlie.

Driving a canal boat has its challenges, but it's not too difficult. A nice young man called Luke gave us the lowdown on how things worked, including locks, and prised it out from a plethora of other boats in the basin, He then let me steer it up the canal for a few hundred yards, just to get the feel of it, before we turned around in a "Winding Hole", a specially cut, wide section in the canal to allow boats to turn, then back to the yard to drop him off, and away we chugged, very slowly, towards our destination, Wilmslow, about two hours cruising time to the south. 

I've driven narrow boats before, so it was more a case of remembering how to do things than learning new. You stand on the stern and operate a tiller, which means you push the tiller to the left and the bow goes right, and vice-versa. It's actually quite intuitive, and when you realise that the boat pivots in the middle, it's really quite easy. What's not quite so intuitive is the time that it takes for the bow to respond to tiller movement, it's quite a heavy beast, and the fact that you have to counter any any inputs with a counter-input. That means that if you straighten the tiller after a turn, the boat will keep turning for some time, so you have to counter that by pushing the tiller the opposite way. Still, it didn't take long to get back into the swing of it. 

There's a speed limit of 4mph on English and Welsh canals, to prevent the banks being washed away. Even when I'd cranked the throttle up a bit, we were still going more slowly than people walking on the bank, which is how it should be. That is the way to enjoy the scenery. If you can't hack that leisurely pace then canals are not for you.

The first few yards of the canal were on an aqueduct over a road. Just eight feet wide, it was odd to be on water above the cars below. Then the canal opened up and we were into the lush Warwickshire countryside, in among the sheep and the wildlife. Sadly, it was pouring with rain.

Dear Wife stood out with me on the stern, holding an umbrella we'd borrowed, and we got wet together. The life-jacketed Charlie was whizzing about all over the place, and it was quite the trauma trying to stop him from going overboard. It's not that he'd drown, although the propeller of the boat isn't something you want to come into contact with; the canal is usually only about four feet deep, but we didn't want a soggy child to deal with. 

As the rain died down, Dear Wife took the tiller, but didn't find the steering at all intuitive, so it was back to me. Where there are bridges over the canal, the channel is narrowed down to 7'6", so in a 7' wide boat, that gives you 3" either side, so inevitably you do come into contact with the brick pillars at some point. The trick is to take it slowly and avoid a direct hit. Standing at the tiller, the front of the boat wasn't visible, so it was a case of lining up the cleat in the centre of the boat's roof with the centre of the bridge. It worked reasonably well.

Our first obstacle was a lock, with a drop of about eight feet. The lock was full and the top gate open as we approached, which was handy as I could drive straight in (the lock chamber is 75' long and 7'6" wide). My crew got off to operate the lock (shut the gate, operate the gate paddle on the lower gate, then open the gate when the water level was the same as the lower canal and close it behind the boat as I drove out). Getting the crew to do all the hard work is the Skipper's privilege.

Before long, we were on to the Edstone Aqueduct, a 475' long cast iron trough that carries the canal over a road, a river and railway line, albeit that the aqueduct was there before the railway. It's the longest cast iron canal trough in England, so that's a fun fact to store away. My crew had been a bit nervous about crossing the valley in a boat, but actually they all enjoyed the experience.

After the aqueduct, we had a long chug down to Wilmslow and lunch. My First Mate, Emma, took the tiller and drove for much of the time, which was nice. Charlie was the chief distraction, but we neither crashed into the bank, or lost the little shaver overboard. We saw many sheep, ducks and Moorhens, and just the one Coote. We also saw an enormous Heron sat on the towpath, and he/she obligingly took to the air as we approached. It was also curious on this trip that we hadn't encountered any other craft on water, at least not moving craft, but more about that later.

At Wilmslow, our destination, I went past the winding hole, which turned out to be an error on my part. We tied up against the towpath and broke out the extensive lunch that Dear Wife had prepared the day before. The weather had perked up and it was quite nice just sat there on the water munching our way through a very large lunch. I was mulling over how to turn the boat around and thought I might do it right there, but then I made my second mistake by consulting Google Maps about how far down the canal the next turning point might be. Thinking it'd be a simple matter, we set off southwards again, but came up short when we found that not only was there a flight of locks between us and the winding hole, but the top lock was closed for a gate replacement. Bugger, I thought, and it dawned on me then why we'd not seen any other boats. I don't remember anyone at the boatyard mentioning that the lock was closed, and the people on their moored boat failed to mention it as we drove by. Ho hum.

Given the flight of locks, I'd have had to turned the boat around above the lock anyway as we'd not have enough time to go down five locks and come back up them again as the boat was due back at four pm. So with Emma at the helm, I secured the bow rope to a bollard on the bank and she used the propeller to swing the boat around. The canal was just wide enough to allow us to do that, thank goodness. Then with me fretting about getting the boat back on time, we struck north again.

Emma did manage to ground the boat on the shallow side of the canal after Charlie had attempted to navigate, but some deft use of the pole that was provided for that very job, I pushed her off the mud and we were off again. A thankfully largely uneventful run back to Wotton Wawen was made with ten minutes to spare, although we did slow down a bit after negotiating the lock again. We did have a bit of bother with the bottom gate on the lock, though, as it kept swing open after we'd driven the boat into the chamber. You can't open the top paddles unless the bottom gate is at least partially closed (the inflow water into the lock will close it if it's part closed already), so I jumped off the boat and held the gate closed as Emma lifted one of the top paddles. Meanwhile, the deck hand, Dear Wife, took the engine controls and switched the propeller forward and astern as needed, in order to keep the boat central in the lock chamber as the water rushed in from the top culvert. When we'd opened the top gate and nosed the boat out of the lock, Emma closed the gate after us and while I held the boat up against the now closed top gate, she stepped aboard. A real team effort I felt.

If you're after an introduction to a canal holiday, the Day Boat is good fun, and cost us a round £100, which was bad for a day's entertainment for up to six people. It wasn't the best appointed vessel on the canal, but it did the job, and we all had a fabulous time in the Warwickshire countryside. If I had any complaint at all it was the noise of the engine, and the smell of the diesel fumes, but these are trifling matters in the grand scheme of things.

After the boating expedition, we drove into Stratford-upon-Avon for some supper and a mooch around Shakespeare's birthplace. It was a nice walking around as most of the tourists had gone home for the night, and despite it being quite cool, it was good to spend some time there. I doubt Charlie will remember the trip, but we have the photos.

As a kind of postscript is that I was so tired after the day standing up that I went to bed before 10pm, which is almost unheard of.

Blighty 2025 - More railways, and a near death experience.

I woke very early, and decided to take a walk to a local beauty spot called Durdle Door. It's a fantastic rock formation in the sea and can be viewed atop some commanding cliffs. The only thing was that it was seriously foggy at 0630hrs.

Still, I donned my running shoes and headed up Hambury Tout Steps to Durdle Door, marked as being one mile distant. I'd decided against a jacket or fleece, despite the chill of the fog, and very soon realised what a good idea that had been. The path up the cliff was very, very, steep. It is at least paved nowadays, but I was puffing and wheezing in a way I hadn't puffed and wheezed for many, many years. I took it easy but still had to stop frequently to catch my breath, and I seriously contemplated giving up, fearful of dropping down dead or something. 

I just read that on that path up the hill, you gain 345ft in height, over 0.4 miles (2112ft) in distance, which is a steep climb for anyone. Being so incredibly out of condition, I really felt the burn.

But the birdsong, and my stubbornness, kept me going, and eventually I reached the high point, albeit that it was shrouded in even thicker fog. As I got nearer my goal, I could hear the sea far below, even if I couldn't see it. There was quite a steep drop from the path's high point down to the Durdle Door viewing area, and I really felt it in my knees as I descended; goodness, this getting old is no joke.

There were already quite a few people at the viewing area, but I got the impression that some had overnighted in their cars in the car park at the top of the hill, because no one drives out here at seven in the morning. The Door was looking magnificent in the fog, and my view of it wasn't too badly obscured, especially as the fog at sea level wasn't so bad. Then it was time to walk back.

The stretch back up to the level of the cliff path was tough, especially as it was on loose stones and was criss-crossed by ditches cut by rainwater, but it was mercifully short. As I struggled up there, I paused frequently to check my birdsong app on my phone. The Skylarks, Corn Buntings, Goldfinches, Dunnocks and Jackdaws were out in force. Indeed, the Skylarks were amazingly busy, and I'm not sure I'd ever heard or seen one before, so that was a memorable moment or two.

The walk back down Hambury Tout Steps into Lulworth Cove was tough on my knees and my back, and it took me back to my youth, backpacking in the German Sauerland, where downhill sections while carrying packs were horrible on the knees. I met a man who was coming up the hill who was carrying an enormous rucksack on his back. He looked considerably older than me, but was gamely making his way up. I paused to say hello and as we parted he wished me a lovely day of rest, which I think implied that he had a day of walking ahead of him. Poor chap.

After a much needed shower, I gathered the family and we set off for Norden Station, at one end of the Swanage Railway, now a heritage railway. The original line ran from Swanage to Wareham where it connected with the main line between Weymouth and Southampton. British Rail closed the line in 1972, presumably because of falling traffic numbers, and I have the unique, if oblique, distinction of knowing that my older brother had travelled on the last BR train between Swanage and Wareham.

The movement to restart the railway after its closure began in 1978, but it wasn't until 2017 that the entire line between Swanage and Wareham was open for use by trains. Linking with the line at Wareham was problematical because British Rail was not keen to have the Swanage private trains running on their tracks approaching Wareham, or going into their station. So, Norden was designated the "end of the line" and double track was re-laid so that locomotives could be swapped from one end of the train to another. The people running the railway did strike a deal with Network Rail to operate a service in Wareham in 2017, and it ran for two seasons. However, the Government wasn't prepared to cough up the subsidy that a regular daily commuter line would attract, so the Swanage Railway people ceased the operation, and now all trains terminate at Norden.

Norden is actually a tiny little station, but the Isle of Purbeck Council has seen fit to install a good-sized car park adjacent to the station, and even though it was £4.20 to park for the day, it was nice to be able to leave out car there while we rode the rails. Our run into Swanage was in some lovely old Southern Region rolling stock, and was behind a big and noisy Class 20 diesel loco. There are two trains operating throughout the day, one diesel and one steam, and we'd missed the Battle of Britain Class steam Loco "Manston". However, we saw it as the trains passed at Harman's Cross. Charlie was as happy as Larry, of course, and absolutely loved travelling in the old train.

The first stop down from Norden is Corfe Castle. The village, impossibly pretty in Purbeck stone, is huddled under the huge Motte of the 11th Century Norman castle. Cromwell and his Parliamentarians partially demolished it after the Civil War, but what remains is the most romantic set of castle ruins that you can imagine. From any angle, it's just magnificent. While we didn't really have time to get out and explore, just viewing from the train as it slid gently past was just wonderful.

We trundled down to Swanage into the lovely little terminus station there, and took a gentle walk down to the sea front. Swanage has a broad crescent of a sandy beach, and given that the weather was warm and glorious on this late May day, the place was thronged with families enjoying both promenade and the beach. Emma bought (more) postcards, and we had a bag of chips (fries, for the non-Brits) while sitting looking out into the bay. You could even see the high white cliffs of the Isle of Wight on the horizon. 

Back at Swanage station, Emma dropped lots of money on souvenirs again, and we waited for the Class 20 diesel to hove into view. The last coach on the train was the "Devon Belle" observation car, an old carriage with big windows to the side, and more importantly, on the end. We stumped up a bit more cash to sit in there as the train headed back to Norden, and watched the rails recede into the distance as we quietly boiled in the magnified sunshine.

We had planned to stop at Corfe Castle on the way back, but circumstances dictated that we had to head back to Lulworth in fairly short order, so it was straight back to the car, and on to Lulworth Cove.

I have to say that the Swanage railway is a delight. It's not as swept up and professional as the GWSR at Broadway, but it has a lovely, country feel to it with its tiny stations and Southern Region quirks like concrete lamp posts and station sign holders. I hope it prospers in the years to come.

Sunday was slated as going home day, although as the accommodation at Lulworth had been paid for until Monday, it didn't have to be. We'll see what happens.

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 - Down day my arse!

Today was supposed to be a down day, that is just leave the car alone a vegetate at the cottage. No such luck.

I needed a shirt for the upcoming weekend celebrations, so we jumped in the Carrot and made our way over to Marks and Spencer's in Witney, the first of five, nay six, stops on a shopping expedition. It's a small branch of M&S in Witney for sure, but the only dress shirts they had for men were either short-sleeved or black. Two small shelves, and that was it. There was a quarter of the upstairs sales floor dedicated to women's unmentionables, but shirts? Forget it. That knocked me back because I've always thought of M&S as infallible. 

We traipsed over to Next, where at least there was about one fifth of the upper sales floor's rear wall dedicated to men's dress shirts. That most were slim fit was not good (their customer base is a lot younger than me), but I did get a blueish, not particularly patterned, shirt in the right size and regular fit, so all was not lost.

Then it was off to Superdrug, followed by Waitrose, then Holland & Barratt. Goodies dumped in the car, we then motored over to Sainsbury's for groceries.

Waiting for Dear Wife to conclude her transactions in H&B, I was struck that there were a lot of people "out shopping". That is they were walking between stores and visiting a few of each to pick up a few things. People in Chatham don't really "shop" like that. They drive to the store they want, buy stuff, then drive to the next store. There are of course the "Malls", although our nearest is an hour away, There people move about in an air-conditioned retail palace, but our local malls are just clothes shops and cell-phone outlets. When I say clothes, I don't mean ordinary stuff, I mean expensive, branded items that only young people are daft enough to spend their money on. We don't go to the Mall very often.

That said, British shops are perpetually busy. Their floor areas are small, their shelves high and they're almost always busy. It's not that people spend more money shopping in the UK, but retail business in Canada survives on a much lower footfall than in the UK. Big stores in the UK will close if they don't get the footfall they're expecting, and they'd laugh at the footfall figures in Canada. That's culture I suppose.

Once we were done shopping, we went home, had some lunch, then climbed in the car again and headed over to Toddington, just a few miles north of Cheltenham. Toddington is the base for the GWSR (see yesterday's post), and has good little gift shop, something we missed out on yesterday. We also thought that there might be a model train shop, but the the sign Emma saw the day before clearly referred to a one-off sales event that had long gone by today. We watched two steam hauled trains pass through the station, spent a ton of money in the gift shop, then got back into the car to go to a model shop in Cheltenham. A very helpful (?) lady on the station platform suggested this, so naturally we had to go.

Fortunately Cheltenham wasn't far away, and the store was quickly located. I bought two used HO/OO gauge steam locos, but Charlie came away with a five-car, GWR Paddington Bear liveried, Hitachi bi-mode train in "N" gauge. I won't tell you how much that cost because it'll make your hair curl, but thank you great-grandparents.

Then it was a surprisingly swift run back along the A40 to Witney, and a sit down fish and chip meal at Smarts'. I had proper fish, but the others had variations on the theme, all plant-based. It wasn't too costly for the four of us, either, not compared with something like pizzas. Then it was home again.

That was the down day, and I'm knackered. We've been prepping for the weekend away this evening, and I even ironed the shirt I bought in Next. How's that for domestic?

The laptop's not travelling with me this weekend (a long story about a sticky lid/screen hinge), so the blog is going to have the weekend off. Enjoy!