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?