Blighty 2025 - The Longest Day

I'm not sure of the actual time we set off for York, but if it wasn't 9am, it wasn't much past. A timed entry ticket to the National Railway Museum (NRM) meant that we had to build in a lot of wiggle room in the scheduled 90 minute drive along the M62. It's Monday, not in the school holidays, so I'm sure that the good people at the NRM wouldn't hold us to the time, but as we had a long day ahead of us, we thought it wise to get going promptly. 

There's a network of motorways around Manchester, and another around Leeds, linked by the east-west M62 across the Pennines. They're all running at capacity during the day, so any change in the flow causes mayhem, and while we were only delayed by about 20 minutes on this run, it just went to show the importance of wiggle room when working to time limits. Road works at various points along the way had us crawling, and stopped, in places. I genuinely don't know how people with schedules manage, especially in the Liverpool-Manchester-Leeds corridor.

Once past Leeds it was reasonably plain sailing, but in York itself, we were caught in three or four sets of temporary traffic lights, although we had at least been warned about them by the NRM who sent quite a detailed e-mail about getting there. Ultimately, though, we arrived on time and the wiggle room allowance had done its job.

The National Railway Museum is exactly as it says, the UK's main railway museum. As such, it has the same status as some of the key museums in London and is part-funded by the Government so that entry to the place is free for anyone, which is just excellent. The timed tickets are, of course, just to regulate the flow of visitors, and as it can get seriously busy during school holidays, there's method in their madness.

I won't write out too much about the museum, but if you get a chance, consult their website here.

One of the main reasons to visit was to see the fabled "Mallard", the LNER Steam Locomotive that still holds the world speed record for a steam powered railway engine, at 126 miles per hour. The loco is a streamlined Gresley A4, and is the object of adoration by railway buffs the world over.  Her steaming days are over, but there she was in the main hall, standing tall in her blue livery, and getting Charlie very excited. Of course there is so much more at the museum than the Mallard, and we spent a good few hours trundling around and taking things in. If you're ever in the UK, and York specifically, the NRM should be on your To Do List.

Of course the NRM does want your money. There are paid special exhibitions, extensive gift shops, quite pricey eating places and naturally, the constant clamour for donations. That said, you'd have to have a heart of stone not to contribute something when you visit, even if it's only buying a cup of tea.

From the NRM, we set our course east, not west, and made our way through the East Yorkshire Wolds towards Flamborough Head. Flamborough is a headland on Yorkshire's North Sea coast, a little way north of the Humber. We were going in the hope of seeing some of those cute little seabirds, the Puffins, who come to Flamborough's cliffs and waters in the summer. There are many seabirds that congregate there, and hoards of Grey Seals, and of course there's the famous Flamborough Head Lighthouse, which was what was really exercising Charlie.

It's a lovely drive from York, and the road goes through Stamford Bridge (The Battle of... for the history types), and the delightfully named Wetwang. We did take a short detour into the resort town of Bridlington, but I will gloss over that and go straight to Flamborough.

The weather was gorgeous. It was windy of course, but warm and dry, and made for a great walk down to the cliff edge to look for Puffins. Sadly, I have to report, that no Puffins were seen. We did see thousands of other birds, and hundreds of Grey Seals, out lounging on the low-tide exposed rocks. It's a spectacular place anyway, Puffins or not, and the views up and down the Yorkshire coast were stunning in the sunshine. DW spoke to a woman who was sporting a camera with a long lens, as many people were on the clifftop, and she suggested that we get ourselves along to Bempton Cliffs, about five miles north, where the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB) has set up a visitor centre and a couple of viewing platforms on the clifftop, where Puffins may, or may not, be seen. A plan was made, but not before what turned out to be a fruitless search for a very late lunch for Emma and Charlie.

It's an interesting fact that a lot of fish and chip shops in Yorkshire still cook their chips in beef dripping, which is fine for clogging your arteries, but a non-starter for vegans. The cafe at Flamborough was one of the guilty places, as was the place on the outskirts of Bridlington that had been recommended, and that was after trying to find a pub that served food on a Monday afternoon in rural East Yorkshire. Having failed to find an appropriate lunch, we made for Bempton Cliffs anyway. The visitor centre there was closed, it was gone 5pm by then, and although the car park was supposed to be closed, it was full of cars, so in we went. There's a whole lot more to Bempton Cliffs than just the viewing platforms, most of which we didn't have time to discover. The RSPB are doing a great job in creating a bird-friendly environment on their land, including the provision of what seemed like millions of bugs swarming up from the wild grass there. 

The views across the cliffs there were amazing, and the viewing platforms allowed a really close up view of the thousands of seabirds nesting on the cliffs. The sights, sounds, and smells, were most impressive. Alas there were no Puffins, at least none that we could see. Nearly every person there who was out enjoying the warm evening had a camera with a long lens on it; I felt naked without one. DW engaged another twitcher about the Puffins, and she said that sightings of the colourful bird were rarer these days, quite probably due to global warming pushing their main food source, small eels, away from the Yorkshire coast. Skomer Island is Puffin paradise (I think I already knew that), but as Skomer is in West Wales, over 300 miles away, that was not a viable option for this trip.

The final part of the long day was a drive back into York for a bite to eat at the Fat Hippo restaurant in York. It was a push to get there in a reasonable time, but the evenings are long right now, the solstice is but a few days away, so we drove in lovely sunshine back the way we came, and pitched up in central York in good time to make the table booking that DW had set up online. Google pointed us to something called Q-Park Shambles, a parking garage not too far from where we needed to be, so we made our way there. It turned to be a really smart multi-storey car park in a new block just inside the City walls. There was a huge steel gate across the entrance, but it folded back obediently as we approached and I drove in to collect a ticket (yes, the machine was working). The garage itself was light years from the dingy mess that was the parking garage at Manchester's Arndale Centre. The ceiling wasn't too low, it was white-painted and well lit, and the spaces allowed room to actually get out of your car. There was a pee-free lift to the ground floor and a lobby that was only accessible to people holding a ticket. DW said it was going to cost us an arm and a leg, but I said I didn't care because it was the best multi-story I'd ever come across in the UK.

We walked through York's mediaeval streets to the restaurant, taking in the famous Shambles, and Whip-Ma-Whop-Ma Gate, on the way, and settled in for a reasonable meal that the vegans among us could partake of. I'm not sure that the Fat Hippo will be on our list of re-visits, but it did get us into York. I suggested that after the meal, we walk over to the Minster, given the gorgeous warm evening, and that's what we did. I was actually reliving a visit I'd made with my family in 1968, when we were heading to North Yorkshire to see my dad's brother. We'd pulled into York for my dad to call ahead, and driven pretty much up to the front door of the Minster, on a very similar evening, albeit almost sixty years earlier.

York Minster is a mostly mediaeval cathedral that is absolutely enormous. It has an immense feeling of bulk, especially when you stand at the twin-towered front of it, and it dominates the city from wherever you are. York has a long a varied history, going back to the Romans, but this mediaeval centrepiece underpins the entire place. It was just wonderful to sit there and admire the building. We were actually were waiting for the big bell to sound the 9pm hour, but it stops ringing at 8pm, so that was a bust.

Then it was back to the Q-Park, through the ticket only admission, up in the pee-free lift, pay (cheaper than the Arndale!), and out though the barrier and the fancy folding gates, and we were out onto the road again and heading for Manchester as the light faded. The traffic as far as Leeds was really quiet, but the M1 was closed for repair work at Rothwell, so we had to take a short diversion route, although it didn't delay us much. The M62 was peppered with more roadworks, and far too busy for 10:30 at night in my opinion, which of course accounts for nothing. As we crested Windy Hill, the highest point of the motorway, indeed the highest point of any motorway in England at a little over 1,200 feet, the sky was still quite light, even at that late hour, and served to remind us just how far north we are compared with our home in Ontario.

We rolled back into Salford at a little gone 11pm after a round trip of at least 250 miles. We'd gone about as far east as you can go in these here parts, and visited one of the best museums, in one of the best cities, in England. It was quite the day, and our last big excursion of this trip. Tomorrow is is a special birthday for the youngest of our party, so it'll be a quiet day. I hope!

Blighty 2025 - To the end of the line

As the womenfolk were off to the Coronation Street Experience, I took young Charlie for his first ever ride on a tram. It was the first time I'd been on a British tram, or at least a full sized one operating on full city service. Dusseldorf in Germany had been my only other experience, so I was looking forward to this.

I did some research into the lines, where they went and how they work. The tram network in Manchester is quite recent, or at least this iteration of it is. Looking at a map of Manchester from 1914, there was a significantly larger network back then, but of course there were few, if any, cars on the road in those days.

I don't know if Metrolinx still run the trams, but they've been absorbed into the Bee Network, Manchester's answer to London's Transport for London (TfL), and an integrated public transport system is being born. Buses, overground trains, and the trams, all come under the umbrella of the Bee Network, which means prices are cheap and unified. It looks like it's all coming together, although inevitably buses and trams don't go from where we're staying to where we want to be, so any journey involves changes en-route. That's life, I suppose.

We dropped the womenfolk at the ITV Studios, parked the car in the Imperial War Museum's car park, and walked over to Museum Station, on the Red Line. We just missed a tram, but it looked very crowded as it passed us, so I was happy to wait ten minutes to get a later service that wasn't as busy. I hadn't known it, but there was the annual SoccerAid footie match happening later in the evening at Manchester United's Old Trafford Stadium just a few hundred yards away, so there were lots of people around, and one of the reasons the tram was full.

The following tram wasn't as crowded, as I thought it might not be, so we boarded and let the tram rattle and roll us to the Trafford Centre, the end of the line, and also a humongous shopping centre. I had intended to browse the air condition luxury of the place, but it was packed, and I mean packed. The Mall Manager in Chatham would be weeping at the sight of the tens of thousands of happy shoppers milling around the place; the mega-mall still rules in these here parts. We stood it for a while, had some Greggs goodies and a drink, then beat a hasty retreat to the tram station for a run back to Museum.

Charlie loved the ride, although he seemed very concerned that we get off again at Museum, especially after I suggested staying on board for a longer ride. Of course, as soon as we'd alighted, he wanted to go back on. Given the time, the growing crowds for the football match, and the fact that our womenfolk would be coming out of their tour fairly soon, we opted to explore Salford's Media City area instead, and the old Ship Canal dock area, now home to the BBC and ITV (hence Media City). Charlie's been watching the BBC's kids' output, CeeBeeBees, on TV, so was half expecting to meet Mr Tumble I think. (For a treat, Google Mr Tumble).

We ended up back at the Coronation Street studios and, as the ladies were running a bit late, went into wait in the little cafe and gift shop there. The tour had included meeting one of the "Street" actors, and I received an excited message that it had been pretty much the one actor they both wanted to meet. Both Mummy and Grandma were so starstruck when they finally emerged.

Gifts purchased, we wandered over to The Quays Centre, and supper at the Bella Italia restaurant. It was very busy, that football match again, but we'd booked ahead and were able to settle into some nice Italian style food as the restaurant began to get quieter as the football fans drifted away. The drive home was short, too, just a couple of minutes, and I didn't even balk at the £8 for parking - I must be getting soft in my old age.

It had been a fairly short day for us, at least by recent standards, but even so, I retired early as tomorrow is going to be a long one I think. 

Blighty 2025 - More Steam

After a fractious day driving up the M42, M6 and M5 (Toll), we checked into our apartment in Manchester, and perhaps wished we hadn't. I'll do a piece about the accommodation here later, so we'll gloss over that issue now and write about a lovely day out on the East Lancashire Steam Railway (ELR).

As a birthday treat for Charlie, his mum booked tickets for a day out on the ELR. It's based in Bury, just north of Manchester, and is accessible by Bee Network tram from the city. I looked at the feasibility of using the public transport, but with a change of tram needed, and tram line delays in the centre due to construction, we were looking at at least an hour, when a car ride was going to take twenty-five minutes. Sorry Bee Network, for four of us, the car is the winner.

I also opted to start the day from the railway's eastern terminus, Heywood, rather than Bury. Given the free and reasonably large car park, and it's relative proximity to the motorway, it seemed the better option. For once, I chose well.

The car park was not busy, nor was the platform as we waited on the train from Bury. Our plan was to board at Heywood, run the entire length of the line to Rawtenstall, then head back, but to stop in Bury for something to eat. While waiting for the train, I availed myself of the Whistlestop Cafe on the station's platform and had me a delightful bacon butty, a rare treat that was most welcome.

The train duly arrived, a line of fairly ancient Mark 1 coaches hauled by a very ancient, 130 years ancient, 0-6-0 steam locomotive formerly of the Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway. The sight, sound and smell of a steam loco is something special, and no more than at Heywood on this fine Saturday morning. I say fine, but it was raining just a tiny bit.

The loco was detached from one end the train, run around to the front and attached there, before hauling us off down the long hill into Bury Bolton Hill Station. Once the folks at Bury had boarded, the train set off north towards Rawtenstall, through the Irwell Valley and the bucolic northern English landscape.

The staff on the train were lovely, and made quite a fuss of Charlie. The ticket inspector let Charlie clip his own ticket, which he enjoyed immensely. Charlie also talked incessantly at a fellow traveller sat opposite, and the train's crew when they appeared, while DW and Emma enjoyed wine and crisps from the Buffet Car. I'm not sure how the others felt about Charlie's chatter, but he enjoyed it.

The run back to Bury was the same, with Charlie still holding court, but then that's what holidays are all about, isn't it?

In Bury we visited the Transport Museum across the road from the station. It's free if you have an ELR ticket, but even if we hadn't, their card reader was broken that day, so it was free for anyone. It's only small, but packed with all manner of transport goodies, including trains and buses, trucks and cranes. There was a modern, single-decker bus cab there that was for kids to get in and pretend to drive, and yes, it took a while to drag Charlie away.

We had a target eatery in Bury, but when we found it, it was rammed full and with no prospect of a free table any time soon. It was raining, so a search for another wasn't really working and we defaulted to a sit-down fish and chip place. Not the first choice for the ladies, but Charlie and I enjoyed it.

We had a bit of a wait for the train back to Heywood, the last one of the day. None of the little souvenir vendors attached to the ELR would take a bank card, and we had no cash, so few souvenirs were purchased. None at all, in fact. Bury is an interesting town, and there does seem to be a bit of pushback here against the cashless society. The station vendors didn't want cards, and neither did the chip shop, although they at least took ours rather than having us run out to get cash. Indeed, the ATMs in town were in use as we walked by, which was interesting because I haven't used one the whole time we've been here. Most places we've been have been card only, so Bury seems to be an outpost for cash.

People in Lancashire seem inordinately friendly, and will engage you in conversation at any time. The accents are brilliant, of course, but "Y'all right, love?" is a very common refrain everywhere you go. It stands in sharp contrast to the lengths people and businesses appear to want to go to protect themselves here. Perhaps the perception of problems is worse than the reality.

The run back into Salford was untroubled, and we even stopped at Birch Westbound Services on the M62 for a P&T stop, just because we could.

The morrow brings us the highlight of our Northern Tour, the trip to the Coronation Street studios down on Salford Quays. Charlie and Me won't be participating as we're going for a tram ride, thank goodness.

Blighty 2025 - Go North Young Man

Given an appointment with the set of TV's Coronation Street, we had decided to spend our last week in England in that Northern powerhouse, Manchester. Car loaded to the gunwales, we set our course for the motorway.

Which was a good idea except that we were stuck behind someone in a little Ford KA car, driving at between 35 and 40 miles per hour, nearly all the way to Warwick. It didn't really matter in that we had plenty of time, but it goes to show that people who don't appreciate that they're not the only ones on the road can be a real pain. Driving like that promotes frustration in others and then they start to do risky things, which is never good. Sure, drive within your own capabilities, but when you have twenty cars backed up behind you, pull off the darned road into one of the many lay byes, at least occasionally. A good read of the Highway Code would help.

The M42 northbound was at a crawl thanks to construction work, but we branched off onto the M6 Toll Road, a congestion free piece of pleasure that skirts northern Birmingham and avoids the M5/M6 Intersection at Walsall. It's congestion free because it costs car drivers a little over £10 to traverse it's length, and lorry drivers considerably more. As an irregular user of that road, I was happy to part with the cash, although if you need to drive it regularly, at your own expense, then I guess it's not so wonderful.

We stopped at the only service centre along the Toll Road, at Norton Canes. I wondered how the owners of such a place would manage with the reduced number of road users, but I found the answer to that question as we left the motorway and discovered that the centre served both north and southbound traffic. It was packed out, too, at noon on a Friday. Tsk. These service centres are not great, although the chance to get out and stretch our legs, and perform other natural tasks, is always welcome. I do struggle with the 30p a litre surcharge on the petrol at these places, though, and wonder who is mug enough to pay it. I bought petrol in Lechlade at £1.29 a litre, at Norton Canes services it was £1.59. That's more than gouging, that's robbery.

Paying the toll on the M6 Toll Road was easy, and something Doug Ford could look at for his highway robbery scheme, the 407 Toll in Ontario. On the M6 Toll, your licence plate is read by a camera as you enter, and again when you leave. The computer does a real-time calculation and presents you with a bill at the Toll Gate, which you can settle immediately with a contactless bank card or phone app. No paper bills, no video fee and no transponders like the 407. Regular users can open a Breeze account and pay online, and at a slight discount, too; again, no paper. Dougie, this is what you need to do.

Back into the real world, and a toll-free motorway, I noted that the M6 has lost its hard shoulder and has four lanes for driving traffic as opposed to three and the shoulder. Refuges are provided every mile or so of course, should you break down. That ought have eased the flow, but instead of three lanes of crawling traffic, it's now four lanes of crawling traffic, thus proving the point that no matter how big you build a road, the traffic will always expand to fill it. Taxes on petrol don't deter people, either, so maybe more roads should charge in order to reduce congestion? A simple but sadly impractical solution, because all the folks avoiding the tolls would just gum up all the free "A" roads. 

Coming into Manchester, the series of urban motorways in the area brought us almost to the door of our accommodation in Salford, although not before having to turn right across what was a seemingly endless stream of cars on a three lanes carriageway. Our apartment has, er, issues, but I'll deal with those in a separate post. Suffice it to say here that the Burger King we snacked at had only kiosk ordering, card payments, and screens like a bank on the counter. Nice.

Once settled into our home for the next couple of days, we searched out a vegan restaurant in Central Manchester, got back in the car and braved the tortuous roads and traffic of this great city. I don't think I appreciated just how central this place was, but it was a chore driving in the narrow streets, and we only really stumbled upon the multi-story car park of Manchester's fabled Arndale Centre by accident. The Arndale is giant shopping mall, but not an out-of-town one, this one is squarely down town, which I guess keeps the core vibrant. The car park was hideous, as they nearly all are here. Seriously low-ceilinged, dark, and with tiny spaces. There was a man from the car wash area relieving himself against a wall, which pretty much sums up the ambience of the place, and it was nearly £10 to park for a few hours. These are the things I do not like about England.

The restaurant was good, though, and the guy serving had time for a chat. He was local and said that he liked Manchester over London because although crazy, it was a level of crazy he could cope with, which was a trenchant observation. We sat and watched the Friday night revellers appear in the streets, young women wearing outfits that covered only the essentials, and men being loud, presumably to impress the scantily clad young women. Don't get me wrong, I'm not being censorious, I'm happy that the young folk feel free to express themselves, but goodness I wouldn't want to be young again these days.

Manchester is a vibrant and burgeoning city, without doubt. It's on the up. But away from the centre, places look battle-scarred and there is a perception that the place is under siege, at least if you look at the graffiti, the urban razor wire and the phalanx of security guards in Tesco. I hope, I really do hope, that the perception is worse that the reality.

Saturday is to be given over to a trip to the East Lancashire Railway, a heritage steam railway based in Bury, just a few miles north of Salford. I'm looking forward to that after the mean streets of Manchester.

Blighty 2025 - Swindon OMG

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blighty 2025 - Britain's Ocean City

We made the second of two trips to Plymouth yesterday, on family business.

It's 180 miles from Shipton-under-Wychwood to our location in north Plymouth. The city is labelled "Britain's Ocean City", positioned as it is on the Western Approaches to the English Channel, with its historic, deep-water harbour. Google said three hours, and if you discount the stops we made (Sedgemoor Services being almost exactly half way), then that was pretty accurate. On both trips, the traffic was heavy, but moving, which was a relief given our limited time.

This trip, outside of family business, Emma and I took Charlie to Plymouth Hoe to visit Smeaton's Tower, the fourth Eddystone Lighthouse, dismantled from its sea-bound perch on the Eddystone Rocks, thirteen miles south, and rebuilt on The Hoe. It's Plymouth's own iconic monument, and one that I know well from my childhood, so it was quite a pleasure to take my step-daughter and grandson there, even if the original one penny admission charge had increased somewhat.

The Hoe commands a brilliant view of Plymouth Sound, the Breakwater, and the English Channel beyond. It helped that the weather was good, and all the nautical activity out in the Sound all added to the ambience. There were lots of young people strewn about on the grass (this is a burgeoning University town) enjoying the sunshine, and of course tourist types like us.

Rather than type out stuff about Smeaton's Tower, if you have time you can read about it here.

I discovered that the tower is now looked after by "The Box", Plymouth's own museum trust. I was able to negotiate some concessionary prices for admission, and listened avidly as the young man issuing the tickets gave us a safety talk, which was welcome given that lighthouses are not roomy and have an awful lot of steps.

We made or way up the granite spiral stairs, which became narrower as the tower itself narrowed, then tackled the series of four ladders, or more like four really steep sets of stairs, that took you up through the various levels. Halfway up a young woman was stationed to answer questions and, more probably, to give support to people panicking as they made their way down the steep steps. She was friendly and helpful, so top marks to The Box. 

The lighthouse was built in 1759, so the light room wasn't equipped with a big lamp or a rotating lens, just two great big cast-iron rings onto which had been fastened candles; quite the contrast to the modern, working lighthouse at Portland Bill. The view from within the light was excellent, but given the fine weather, it was very hot in there, so we ventured out onto the balcony that goes all the way around the top of the light. It may have been sunny, but it was windy out there, and even though there was a sturdy and high railing all the way around, stood holding my camera with two hands, my normally good head for heights was betraying me. It was fine when I held the railing, or pressed back against the wall, but just standing there, hands-free as it were, and I was starting to get a bit wobbly. Still, I got some photos, and a glorious view of Plymouth. Just for good measure, we could see the modern-day Eddystone Lighthouse, out on the horizon, and could just make out the original base of the very tower we were standing on, still anchored to the Eddystone Rocks. Nice.

The rest of the visit was with the family, and we eventually started home nearer 7pm than the 5pm we'd planned on. Again, it was a good run, although I have to raise a proper grumble about the fact that many of the food outlets at Motorway Service Stations close far too early in the evening. I know staff have to be paid, but there was a lot of business going begging at only a little past 8pm.

It was a long day, but we arrived home safely, and were reminded just how far north we are here compared with our home in Canada as it wasn't completely dark at 10:30pm. English summers, eh?

Blighty 2025 - Visit to the Zoo

We're not zoo people, uneasy as we are about holding animals captive. However, the Cotswold Wildlife Park is only ten minutes away and we had an afternoon to fill, so why not?

I went to the park probably more than twenty years ago now, but it's barely changed. Built around a big Victorian house in some nice park land, it's been home to a growing number of animals since 1970. It's not, thankfully, one of those places where animals are kept in bare concrete cages. Each type of large animal, and there's not many of them, have their own enclosures. I can't say for sure, but I'm fairly certain that all the animals were bred in captivity, so while they might hanker for more space, none of them will have known the Serengeti, or Indian jungles, or whatever. Not that I'm justifying zoos, I'm not, but the park is as good as it's going to get, given that it's in rural Oxfordshire.

Because it's midweek, the place wasn't too busy, although the coaches in the car park looked ominous. They were for parties of school children, of course, and once again we watched the harried adults marshalling long lines of hi-viz jacketed children around the park. There was also a group of Royal Air Force types, in uniform, milling around. They don't normally go out in public in their uniforms these days, but RAF Brize Norton is just down the road, and that's where all the foreign deployments leave from, so I'd guess they were waiting for an flight out.

Charlie was more interested in the little narrow-gauge railway that runs around the park, and went twice around the circuit behind a small locomotive that was a diesel, but was masquerading as a steam engine. When he's older, he'll be aware of that, but today he just loved being on a train.

What animals we did see were all supremely indifferent to the visitors. The lions, leopards, giraffes and monkeys (of various types) kept themselves to themselves, and at one point I was sat on a bench watching two rhinoceros grazing on the grass just like a couple dairy cows, which was almost surreal.

I had to visit the Fruit Bat house, because to watch those beautiful creatures wheeling around in a simulated cave environment, in near darkness, is just sublime. There was fresh fruit out on the ropes there, and they were having a right good feed, and squabbling over their spoils.

Apart from the school parties, there weren't too many children around, only those young enough not to have started school, and their mothers, fathers and grandparents of course. There were plenty of oldies like us, and a few work-age folks who were on a non-work day. The park has lots of toilets, lots of little outlets selling hot and cold drinks, ice cream and snacks, and of course there's the inevitable gift shop. There are also covered picnic areas, and quite a few little rain shelters should the weather not behave, which was a nice touch. As it happened, the weather did behave and it was really nice wandering around the extensive gardens and admiring not just the animals and birds, but the flora as well.

Did it alter my views on zoos in general? No, not really. But, if you're going to have a zoo at all, then this park is probably the right way to do, at least when you have a limited space. In the YouTube age, though, you have to wonder how long zoos are going to retain their relevance. That said, it was nice to sit quietly on a bench and listen to the quite tearing of grass as two rhinoceros graze the green pastures of Oxfordshire. 

Blighty 2025 - Travel

Yesterday was our third and final trip into London. We drove to Didcot Parkway railway station again, paid the nearly £8 parking fee and walked into the station concourse, as we had previously, although this time I had our travel tickets, printed when I collected the previous trip's tickets.

There had been an "Incident" somewhere between Didcot and London that was messing up the train schedule, but we managed to board a packed train that was stopping only at Reading and London. The rail network in and around London is amazing, so complex and heavily used, and it runs fairly well on any given day. Incidents, though, do mess things up and I doubt that the 1320hrs to London would have been that busy otherwise. But we all had seats, and the train was fast, and we emerged from it into the vast cavern that is Paddington Station, and I hit the noise filter on my hearing aids. London is such a noisy place.

We had to make a quick run to an Argos store, the reason isn't important. I divined that there was one some fifteen minutes walk from the station, but why walk when you have a Transport for London (TfL) Oyster card in your pocket? After the mandatory loo break, we stood on Eastbourne Terrace, curiously on the west side of the station, and waited for a bus. Now the TfL phone app is a thing of wondrous beauty, and while I had already worked out that we could get a Number 7 bus, the app said we could get a 36 as an alternative. Sure enough, a 36 lurched around the corner and we boarded it for the short trip to George Street, on the Edgeware Road.

Then it was off to Portobello Road, also on a Number 7 bus, only this time going west, not east. The app said there was "Disruption" on the route, so it was an unusual ten minute wait, but the bus wasn't too busy and we made our way up to the top deck for the fifteen minute ride. 

I have a social comment to make here, and it's about mobile phones. I have one, yes, so I don't eschew the whole rationale behind them, but boy are they ever intrusive? There was a man at the bus stop, walking around and talking loudly into his phone. He got on the bus of course, and continued to talk loudly into his phone. He got off the bus and he was still talking loudly into his phone. Everyone else was treated to half his call, which was nice. That was just one, though. All day we encountered people talking loudly into their phones while riding the bus, or the tube, or walking down the street, or whatever. Are these people so important that they can't wait to hold their long conversations until they find somewhere quieter and more private? I guess it's me getting old, but it doesn't seem too difficult to me to keep phone calls to less public places. I mean, what did these folks do before the invention of the shouting machine? 

Dear Wife made another social comment. She said she liked getting away from the tourist-dominated parts of Central London and mingle with some of the people who live in the great Metropolis. West of Paddington you're into Ladbroke Grove, where the people are more likely to be residents. The ethnic mix of Londoners is wonderful to see, and to hear, and I don't care what the current obsession with right-wing politicians is about, diversity IS strength. 

In Portobello Road is a market. There's a different one every day, for six days a week. I'm not sure what Monday's theme was but the road was closed to traffic and it was lined on both sides by stalls selling all sorts of weird and wonderful stuff, including what's known these days as "Street Food", which smelled divine. The street is also home to masses of interesting little shops, cafes and restaurants, and I'd imagine that you could happily spend many hours there. Unfortunately for us, Charlie was tired and was hankering for a ride on the Underground, so we fairly whisked along through the market, to our destination which was a shop used as a filming location in the second Paddington Bear movie. Sadly, Charlie wasn't much interested in the shop, but we did get the photos before moving off to the Underground Station at Notting Hill Gate. There are a lot of terraced houses in that part of Town, gentrified for sure, very expensive to buy, but very nice to observe as we walked. Many were brightly painted, but the presence of so many Banham door locks and burglar alarms told us these were wealthy people's homes in what was once a poor part of London. There were some bulky, brick built, 1920s London County Council apartment blocks, but even those looked to have been sold off. Margaret Thatcher is responsible for a lot of bad stuff, I can tell you.

We were making for Waterloo Station and a rendezvous with family. Charlie enjoyed his Tube ride, and we enjoyed another loo break and a snack, while people watching in that other huge cavern of a railway station. Unfortunately there was a very loud busker giving it some welly close by, and that added to the general level of the noise.

Heading home from Waterloo, we rode the Tube again, straight to Paddington this time. As we approached Paddington, though, the train's guard came onto the PA system and said that there was no rail service westbound out of Paddington. What? I had visions of trying to get hotel rooms in London for the night because there is no real alternative to getting to Didcot and the car other than by train. As we came up into the mainline station, though, I was mightily relieved to see the departure boards all functioning as they should, and trains apparently running normally. The guard on the Tube train clearly had old information and, as our arch-researcher, DW, discovered, the cause of the rail disruption was in fact the "incident" that had occurred in the morning and was long resolved. Although not specifically labelled as such, it looked like someone had decided to end it all on the tracks at Hanwell Station. The language of the reports suggested suicide, and the reference to The Samaritans kind of sealed it. I can't imagine being moved to do such a thing, and while lots of people were delayed earlier in the day, that's as nothing compared to the poor person at Hanwell.

We ran to catch a fast train back to Didcot, which was packed, of course. I upset everyone when I said to a young woman that she shouldn't have her shopping bags on the train seat when it's so busy, and she gave up her shopping bags' seat, and her sitting seat, and left the car entirely! Maybe I shouldn't have said that bit out loud, but it pisses me off when people use seats for their bags, very clearly in the hope that no one will sit next to them. I saw it on the morning train, too, and some people are just so polite that they won't ask, nay demand, that people leave the seats for people, and not for bags. I guess years of commuting frustration got to me.

Despite all my grumbles, the public transport network actually functions really well in and around London, and the fact that just about every train we caught was packed full tends to speak of its success. I am not a fan of privatised trains and their labyrinthine ticketing, but with tighter Government control, things are getting better. TfL's Oyster Card is great, as is its control of public transport within the Capital. I'm not saying it's as cheap as chips to use TfL's services, but the cost of getting around in London these days is acceptable. Kids who are eleven and under travel free in London, too, although five and over have to have their own, free, Oyster Card. Isn't that great?

We're done travelling to London now, at least for this trip. I will be reporting on the fun and games in Andy Burnham's Greater Manchester travel systems next week. Watch this space.

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.