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The Dusty Roads Of Incompetence
Something strange is happening. We’ve been back from the Philippines for 17 days now and we haven’t seen a drop of rain – and I mean, not a single drop. And this is late March and early April, a time of year which historically brings in England the characteristic blustery winds of the former and the sharp, soaking showers of the latter, usually with a helping of hailstones like ping pong balls and often with the winter’s last throw of the snowfall dice. But no, none of it. Not even a day of drizzle. Not a drop. The earth is dry, the garden dusty. The cricket season has started in…
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Autumn Sun
Our short sojourn between adventures has provided, as our times at home usually do, an opportunity to catch up with friends, family, football… and Cornwall. A changeable week in Cornwall weather wise brought a pattern of alternate sunny and wet days, though regardless of which it was, each day was pretty mild for the time of year. A few photos from the sunny days….
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Sun, Sea & Safari: Notes From The English Seaside
A short walk from our home – in fact, a very short walk, less a mile – is a dead end ditch-lined track known as Braggs Lane, which winds its way through farm fields to the edge of the woods between Herne Bay and Canterbury. The dead end is at what is known as Bleangate, one of the main entrances for hikers and ramblers to enter Blean Woods. Blean Woods, a large area of ancient woodland dating back centuries, is a designated area of special scientific interest due to its unique ecology and flora and fauna. Crossing through the centre of the woodland is a droveway which has been traced…
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Just Another Night In The Pub
There’s a keyboard in the corner of the bar, a bright blue guitar leaning up against the wall and an electronic drum machine glinting in the glare of the pub spotlighting. A short stocky guy holds a pint of cider in his left hand as he adjusts the height of the mic stand with the other. Around the room there’s a scattering of couples with fish and chips or a home made pie – short cut pastry according to the menu – and an older guy sitting on what is obviously “his” bar stool, engaging the bar staff in chatter. We can overhear part of the conversation and glean that…
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Floods And Frosts In The English Winter
The new year period trudges by and the dawning of 2024 passes with no great celebration, Michaela’s cough has turned out to be a nasty little chest infection which has taken a proper grip. As we watch London’s new year fireworks on the TV, we muse on the fact that we saw in 2023 in Pedasi in Panama and the previous year in La Fortuna, Costa Rica, this time it’s a matter of grabbing a GP appointment and snaring a dose of antibiotics. With the cough still barking but the spirit enjoying a measure of medically induced uplift, we head to Northamptonshire for my granddaughter’s third birthday party where River…
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Buried Ships & Blessed Fish
There I was, all poised to do a post about how miserable it is to return to England, heading home from Heathrow through the rain, checking the dates of the next rail strikes, reading depressing news items, waking up to dull grey skies and drizzle, when from nowhere England unexpectedly throws open its arms and says, welcome home you guys….this is what’s great about where you live… The history of Sutton Hoo is so rich that they made a film about it, but really, the absorbing part of the story is all condensed into the last 85 years or so. Edith Pretty and her son, recently bereaved of husband and…
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The Norfolk County Show
There are few things more endearingly, quintessentially British than a County Show. There are possibly even fewer things absolutely typically English than the Norfolk County Show, a county steeped in agricultural history and even on occasion the butt of affectionate humour through its connections to farming. With a slice of serendipitous timing, Michaela was last week able to join her Mum at what is one of Norma’s favourite events on the calendar, a chance to wander among prize animals, music, food, and that essential part of an English day out – eccentric characters who in their own esoteric way define Englishness. Joined by Norma’s lovely friends Daphne and Val, the…
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What Do We Miss About Home?
Funnily enough, it’s not usually the very first pint of English ale which goes down a treat and makes me realise what I’ve been missing: no, it’s more often than not a few days after we’ve returned and we’re now settled in a pub somewhere, absorbed in chatter whilst quaffing beer and scoffing peanuts and saying to ourselves, “yeah, this feels good”. That’s the moment. These days though, we don’t miss much about home when we travel, and it’s with a little sadness that we say we don’t miss too much about England either. Since we left these shores on our first post-retirement adventure in January 2020 we’ve spent over…
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February Days In England
The stillness of a windless February day in England is a stillness unlike any other. Even the most stirring of places becomes a sensory underload, sound deadened by the absence of birdsong, colours diluted like too-thin water paints, no breeze to carry scents, no leaves to decorate the woodland. Gorse splashes its yellow blotches on to the clifftops but carries no fragrance, its delectable musk scent absent yet for another month or two. Gulls’ cries sound forlorn and lonely, the occasional rasp of a jackdaw only serves to accentuate the stillness. If a skylark takes flight, its song is truncated, a burst of panic more than a trill of joy.…
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These Cornish Things
In our last blog post we discussed how unseasonable the current weather is, feeling far too mild to be cusp November. After over four decades of visiting Cornwall I really should have known better, for my comeuppance arrives swiftly and with a vengeance, in the form of howling gales and unforgiving hailstorms. Walking from Rock to Polzeath is a doddle, the morning clouds banished by the strong winds which, coming from behind, propel us along the coast path at roughly twice our normal walking speed. The return walk couldn’t be more different. Just in time for reaching the part of the path furthest from shelter, those winds, now head on…
