Budapest Travel Blog

‘We are going hungry,’ said Madam. 

I was a little confused by this as we had just had dinner.

‘Hungry, my sweet?’ I queried.

Were we going on a diet?  Some weeks ago she suggested joining a gym and eating healthier food but I pretended not to hear and she hadn’t mentioned it since.  I had a sudden disturbing vision of getting half a grapefruit for breakfast and a bowl of weak cabbage soup for dinner.  

She reads a lot of magazines for women of a certain age and they invariably have glossy pictures of the latest fad diet together with svelte models promoting its benefits. 

Was it going to be Dukan or Atkins?  Paleo or Ketogenic?  None of them seemed appealing.

Madam sighed and looked at me.  ‘HUN GAA RY!’ she snapped.

‘Hungary?’  I asked by way of confirmation.

‘Yes, Hungary.  We are going to Budapest.  Go and start packing.’

Read about our other trips on our Retirement Travel blog.

I was very disappointed in Southern Rail.  We can normally rely on them to have cancellations or delays resulting in us being able to claim at least part of the fare back.  Leaves on the line.  A light rain shower.  Wind blowing in the wrong direction.  A mouse in the points.  Pheasants on the line.

We caught the 11am train for the hour-long journey assuming we would get there just before our 4:20 pm flight.  No such luck.  We rolled in right on time at 11:56, so no delay repay for this trip. 

Through security we still had almost three hours before the flight.  We bought a sandwich and walked around the overpriced shops.   A group of a dozen bikers clad in all leather were wandering the airport.  ‘They will look silly on the bus in Budapest’ I thought.

A Harry Potter store was opening soon.  Safety helmet wearing workers were furiously wielding hammers and saws.  I was tempted to stick my head in and ask why they weren’t just using their wands but I resisted.  Madam would have been cross and they were bigger than me.

There used to be a problem with dishonest and unlicensed taxis in Budapest but the city has clamped down and now only one taxi company is permitted to pick up airport passengers.  They are required to use a meter and have fixed rates.  The procedure now is to check in with a kiosk with details of your destination and they give you a printed ticket with the destination and approximate fare.  A designated taxi then picks you up.  It’s a good system that other airports could use.  Our metered fare was less than the estimate.

On the road into Budapest we passed several soviet era grey concrete apartment blocks interspersed with lots of international stores.  McDonald’s, H&M, Tesco, Burger King, Aldi and Lidl lined the main road.

A blast of hot air hit us as we entered the hotel room.  Madam immediately rushed to the air conditioning controller and turned it down to 12C.  ‘It won’t go any lower’ she snapped, ‘it isn’t blowing cold air!’

I opened the window to let in some cool air.

Madam checked with receptionist who told her that it wasn’t air conditioning season.  Now it was heating season.  I know it was November but it was still 20C outside and the hotel heating seemed to be turned to maximum.  A thermometer in the lift told us it was 27C.

Breakfast in the hotel was buffet style with labels of everything solely in English. If you were a non English speaker, you had to lift the lids to find out what was in the warming pans.  There were several nationalities in the hotel, I heard French, Spanish and German being spoken but everybody communicated in English.  

The signs throughout the hotel were all in English.  I guess we English speakers got lucky in the language lottery when ours became the de-facto second language of the world.  It could just as easily have been French given the shifting winds of history.  Sacré bleu to that.

The hotel had one of those automatic coffee machines where you just put your cup under a spout and press a button.  I was waiting for it to dispense a cappuccino when I overheard the American woman at the machine next to me say to her husband in a loud and strident voice, ‘where’s the rest of it?  Where’s my coffee?’

He had a hangdog expression that told me he knew he was going to get the blame for everything anyway and just accepted his lot.  His mouth opened to form words but none had time to escape.

‘Mock… mack.. macchiato.. what’s that?  She snapped.

Her husband started to open his mouth but gave up halfway and he just shrugged and looked at the floor.

Is macchiato European for a really small coffee?’ she asked.

We were out early, keen to explore the city.  The streets were almost empty.  There was still an early morning chill in the air. 

‘What are we planning on doing in Budapest?’ I asked Madam.

She looked confused and said ‘No idea.  My friend said it was really nice so I booked tickets.’

‘Did she say what was worth seeing here? Any museums, historic buildings, art galleries?’ I asked.

‘No, I don’t think so. She just went to the dentist.’ she replied.

‘The dentist?’ I asked thinking I must have misheard.

‘Yes, the dentist.  It was cheaper here than in England.’

I could see that this line of questioning wasn’t going to be productive vis-a-vis sightseeing plans so we asked the Google.  

‘One of the top attractions is the Terror Museum.  They say it’s really grim so you should go to the Pinball Museum afterwards,’ said Madam.

That sounded interesting.  A hundred and thirty pinball machines and play on them for as long as you like.  No money needed.   I looked at their website.  It was closed for a special event over the weekend and didn’t reopen until 4pm next Wednesday, five minutes before our plane was scheduled to leave.

‘Closed,’ I told Madam, ‘anything else?’

‘Well, there’s the Parliament Building, some bridges and ummm, stuff…’ she said.

We don’t normally bother with the ubiquitous open top tour buses when we visit a new place but we were clueless as to navigation and what was worth seeing so we made an exception and bought two three-day passes.

We sat on bus for the complete city tour, passing Heroes’ Square, several Danube bridges, the Basilica and the Parliament building.  We passed Freedom Square which had both a Soviet Monument honouring those in the Red Army who died liberating the city in 1945, and a statue of Ronald Reagan.  Make what you will of that.

We got off the bus at Great Market Hall.  I don’t believe I have ever seen a larger indoor market.  I didn’t attempt to count the number of stalls but there must have been at least thirty different greengrocers as well as butchers, fish stalls, wine merchants and an alarming number of stalls just selling paprika.  The ground floor was firmly aimed at local residents but the first floor catered for the tourist market.  Every stall had the same selection of Hungarian dolls, lace shawls and fridge ornaments.  

The narrow gap between the stalls on the first floor was packed with tourists.  There was hardly room to move.  Madam immediately plunged into the crowd and shouted ‘Christmas ornaments!  I can get Christmas ornaments!’

I quickly lost sight her amongst the crowds and, since I had no need of any tourist tat, I headed back down the stairs.  Madam followed a minute later complaining she couldn’t get near the ornaments for American tourists.

We stopped in at the cafe on the square opposite the market.  It was sunny and mild and the outside tables were packed, waiters dashing between them with trays held at shoulder height.  I only wanted a cup of coffee but Madam saw some traditional Hungarian Dobos torte layered cake being delivered to a nearby table so we had to have cake. It was a very sweet layered cake with a hard caramel top. I later learned that it was supposed to be a brittle top but ours seemed to be cast in sheet metal.

I had been to the dentist just  the previous day with a chipped tooth and was worried about causing further damage so bit tentatively into the caramel, then a little harder.  The faintest impression of a tooth was left but it remained stubbornly intact.  I carefully ran my tongue over my teeth to check for damage.

Just as I was examining the caramel and pondering whether it would be impolite to offer it for road construction, Madam said ‘This cake is really nice but how do you cut the top?’

Not wishing to explain a damaged tooth to my dentist as being caused by cake I tried stabbing it with a fork, which left only the faintest impression of the tines.   

I looked at Madam and she looked at her cake and shrugged.  I stood up and leaned in with all my weight, pressing hard on the fork.  

Success!  

The caramel broke into two, one half flying across the table and knocking over the salt shaker. 

Shame about the broken plate but you can’t have everything.

Back on the bus we went up to Heroes’ Square. This is one of the major squares in Budapest, noted for its iconic statue complex featuring the Seven chieftains of the Magyars as well as the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. It was a vast and open pedestrian area busy with tourists taking selfies.  Madam took several.  Selfies, not tourists.  I’m sure you have seen them on Facebook by now.

Adjoining the square  is a massive outdoor ice rink.  It was empty but being prepared for winter. I later learned that the skating area is 12,000 square metres (130,000 sq ft) and is the largest and one of the oldest in Europe.  

We were both tired by late afternoon, in spite of spending much of the time sitting on a bus so headed back to the hotel. We ended up walking back from the square and my knees were complaining and my feet aching as I collapsed on the bed.

 ‘Where are we going for dinner?’ asked Madam, ‘Make sure you pick somewhere nice.’  

Madam spends a lot of time focusing on food when we travel. 

I opened up a web browser on my iPad and typed in “Restaurants near me.”

The closest was an Italian restaurant called “Al Dente.”  The reviews were mixed, one complained that they were Italian and didn’t speak Hungarian, although the reviewer claimed to be from Texas.  Another review said the food came out too quickly.  I guess you can’t please everybody.

‘It needs to have good reviews’ she reminded me.

The internet apparently assumes I have a car when it lists  ‘near me’ results.  Their top choice was over two miles away.

‘There’s an Italian.  It has, um, reviews and it is just round the corner’  I told her.

Al Dente had only half a dozen tables and was empty.  It is usually a bad sign when the staff are looking forlornly out of the window for customers but I had the best pizza I’ve had outside of Italy.  Better than anything in England.  Madam had a carbonara pasta and practically licked the plate.  The bill with two drinks came to 5,600 forint (£15.30).  You should go and eat there immediately.  

Madam was indisposed on Sunday morning so I found myself wandering the streets and squares of Budapest alone with no location in mind.  I walked down past the indoor market and across Freedom Bridge, stopping to watch the boats cruising along the river Danube, and over to Buda.

Budapest is a combination of two cities, Buda and Pest.  Well, technically it’s a combination of three but Obuda (old Buda) got lost in the combination in 1873.  It’s a good thing really as Budaobudapest would have sounded silly.

I walked for a long way along the river.  Cruise boats were crowded and a steady stream of joggers ran past me.  The road was noisy with the sound of several lanes of traffic.  A man was fishing from the river bank.  

I hopped on a tour bus which took me back over the river past the parliament building and grim Soviet era buildings which had housed anonymous communist government agencies.  The recorded guide on the bus explained how little freedom people had during communist times and how bleak their lives.

I needed to use the facilities and get a drink, so I got off the bus at the railway station and went into the nearby McDonald’s.  The sign told me the toilets were in the basement so I walked down the stairs and got my own taste of the Soviet era.  A grim woman of indeterminate age blocked my entrance.  Her grey hair was in a severe bun and she had the beginnings of a respectable moustache on her top lip.  Her eyebrows met in the middle and she had a frown that would curdle milk. She was probably an attractive woman once if you always fancied the female shot putters at the olympics.  She crossed her arms, looked at me  and said ‘Nyet!’  

She then banged her fist on the wall by the sign that said something along the lines that toilets were for customers only and I couldn’t proceed without showing my receipt.  She had obviously been to that special Soviet charm school where they teach you that anybody not Hungarian must be Russian.  

She repeated ‘Nyet! Nyet!’ For emphasis, banging the sign again with her fist.

I thought about arguing that I was a customer just hadn’t bought my drink yet but she had a heavy wooden mop in her hand and looked ready to use it in an offensive manner.

I certainly wasn’t going to outwitted by some angry harridan of the east and returned to the top of the stairs, grabbed a receipt from a discarded tray and returned to the babushka.  She snatched my receipt and studied it carefully.  She looked at me and again at the receipt, then at my stomach.  Had I spoken Hungarian or Russian she might have asked me how I had eaten two cheeseburgers and a chicken sandwich in less than a minute but she grudgingly let me pass.

I walked past studiously ignoring her tip saucer.  I was tempted to tell her not to mess with an Englishman but she still had her mop. 

To be fair, she was the only Hungarian who was even slightly unpleasant during our trip.  Most were friendly and happy to chat in English.  

I was concerned about Madam being unwell, so was back in the hotel by early afternoon.  We sat and read for a couple of hours until Madam decided she was hungry and sent me out to McDonald’s  for food.  

McDonald’s meals always leave me with a strange craving for chocolate, so I looked in the hotel mini bar.  Two sticks of Kit-Kat would cost me 300 forint (84p) and if I wanted a beer with that it was 1050 forint (£2.92).  A weedy little Kit-Kat wasn’t going to cut it so I walked a hundred yards to the corner shop and bought a family sized bar of fruit and nut chocolate and a litre of beer for 527 forint (£1.46).  Budapest was starting to grow on me.  A two day supply of two of the essential food groups for less than £1.50 can’t be bad.

Madam was feeling better by the following morning so we resumed our exploration on the tour bus.  Our first stop was St Stephen’s Basilica.  It was named after Stephen, the first king of Hungary who died in 1038.  His supposed petrified right hand is housed in the reliquary and it’s not often you get to see a thousand year old dried up hand in a glass case.  We stood outside and took a few pictures but realised that, since we had lost a day on our three day bus pass, we would have to come back to see the inside tomorrow.

Back on the bus, our next stop was the Széchenyi Chain Bridge, a suspension bridge spanning the river between Buda and Pest.  It was designed by the English engineer William Tierney Clark and built by the Scottish engineer Adam Clark and opened in 1849.  You just couldn’t keep those Victorian engineers down.  At the time of its construction, it was regarded as one of the modern world’s engineering wonders. Its decorations, made of cast iron, and its construction have elevated the Chain Bridge to become a major tourist attraction.

Just along the river from the Chain Bridge was The Shoes on the Danube Bank Memorial.  It was created to honour the Jews who were killed by fascist Arrow Cross militiamen in Budapest during World War II. They were forced to take off their shoes and were shot at the edge of the water so that their bodies fell into the river and were carried away. Many people had left pebbles, flowers and candles amongst the shoes.  

Over 437,000 Hungarian Jews were either killed or sent off to concentration camps between the fascist takeover in 1944 and liberation in 1945, most of them never to return.  Just before we came to Budapest a USA home-grown fascist had stormed into a Pittsburgh synagogue shouting ‘All Jews must die’ and killed eleven worshipers in a twenty minute attack and this was on our mind as we looked at the shoes.

I sat for a long time looking at the memorial, watching the river flow past  and thinking about those who had lost their lives during that terrible period and those that continue to do so.  I wished I had bought a pebble or two from our own beach.  

We walked across the river on the Chain Bridge over to the Buda side of the river.  An open-sided shuttle bus took us to the top of Castle Hill with far-reaching views over the Danube and Pest.  

Castle Hill is now a World Heritage Site with eighteenth-century Baroque houses and cobblestone streets.  Cars are supposedly banned with only people who live and work here permitted to drive but both sides of most of the narrow streets were lined with parked cars.

Matthias Church and the Fisherman’s Bastion sit on top of the hill.  We took a lot of pictures of the views over the river and walked around the town.  There was a small open air market where Madam bought a Christmas ornament and two postcards.  It was a lovely area and we would have been happy to spend more time there but it was getting late and we needed to fit in a river cruise, so we headed back to the shuttle.

The shuttle was an open sided affair with no seat belts.  We were sitting in the back seat hanging on to a flimsy side rail.  We were bounced around in an alarming fashion and the shuttle drove down the steep and winding cobbled streets which added a certain frisson to the journey.  ‘I wonder what their safety record is’ said Madam.

‘Remind me to Google “Budapest Castle Shuttle Death Crash” when and if we get back’ was all I could reply, my knuckles white from gripping the rail.

A 75 minute river cruise was included in the price of our tour bus ticket and we made our way to the dock with a few minutes to spare.  There was an option to add on a pizza and beer for €20 a person.  During this trip I realised that anything priced in Euros instead of Forints was aimed at tourists and probably a bad deal.  It didn’t take a maths genius to work out you could buy three pizzas and two litres of beer for that money.

 It was a pleasant enough cruise, passing the Parliament building for photo opportunities from the top deck and back south on the river to an area away from the normal tourist attractions. We had seem most of the buildings from the river bank and they didn’t look a lot different. It was starting to get cold towards the end of the cruise so we headed to the enclosed lower deck and watched through the windows.  

One family was eating indifferent looking pizzas.   They didn’t look happy.

‘I wonder if they have any life jackets’ asked Madam.

‘There’s one on a chair over there, but I think the crew will get to it first,’ I replied, ‘remind me to Google “Budapest Cruise Ship Death Sinking” when we get back.’

We were tired by the time we got back to the hotel so we picked a local upmarket restaurant near the hotel.  ‘Will you have the grilled grey cattle steak’ I asked Madam as I read the English menu, ‘or would you prefer the dijon in piglets ripened with mustard and a spicy jus?’

‘No, I think I will have the Beef cheek goulash with egg barley and sausage’ she replied.

We both thought goulash was a sort of stew but it came on a plate with a knife and fork and was pronounced delicious by Madam.  Mine was supposed be ginger salmon with spiced potatoes but tasted of neither ginger nor spice.  The bill was around £40.  Not as good as my £4 pizza I thought, as I handed over my credit card.

On the outside of the Terror Museum wall is a line of portraits of those who were executed or tortured to death by the Soviet regime during or soon after the Hungarian uprising of 1956.  Below the portraits people have left dozens of candles, ribbons and lamps, many of them still alight.  Inside of the museum are rows of portraits of Hungarians who perpetrated the torture and murder of their fellow countrymen.  

For reasons known only to the custodians there is a ban on photography inside which was disappointing.  It’s hard to summarise the museum.  It’s moving certainly, detailing the inhumanity of man but I found it disjointed and confusing.  Many of the exhibits were either unlabelled or only described in Hungarian or Russian.  There were strands of barbed wire in a glass case, tattered items of clothing in another, but no explanation as to their origin or meaning.  Rooms have things like a reconstruction of cells and gallows, uniforms of the police and photographs of some of the victims but there never seemed to be a coherent theme.  

It was also packed with visitors and hard to get close to anything which didn’t help.

There were several pages of handouts in English which gave a history of fascism and communism but very little information on the exhibits.  I was left with a powerful image of the horrors but no real understanding of the history.

We left the museum and walked randomly through a pleasant area of bars and restaurants, which turned into a slightly less nice area, then into a decidedly grim area.  Graffiti clad doorways were used as toilets, the few shops amongst the boarded buildings were offering adult entertainment, tattoos or Thai massages.  Two red curtained areas at the front had a spot for the masseuse to stand.  Both were empty, the masseuses were either busy or maybe still asleep after a long night of muscle kneading. 

‘What’s next?’ I asked Madam.

She thought for a while and said ‘the Hungarian National Museum is close to the hotel and doesn’t close until 6pm.  It’s near the hotel, so we won’t have far to walk afterwards.’

I liked that idea.  The not far to walk bit.  I wasn’t so sure about the museum.  A visit to Budapest was a one off. Neither of us felt the need to come to Hungary again.  What did I need to know about the history of the country?  I had seen enough of their horrors of the last century.

Madam was of course right.  It was fascinating and absorbing from the 720 square feet Roman mosaic in the basement to the piano on the first floor used by both Beethoven and Liszt (not simultaneously), and made by John Broadwood of London. I almost forgot my aching feet and we ended up staying until closing time.  I think we were the last visitors there.

We started in the vast basement filled with Roman mosaics, gravestones and statues.  ‘I suppose they were the selfie of the day’ said Madam as she looked at the statues of long-dead dignitaries.  She held up her phone and took a selfie in front of a minor caesar. 

Different periods of history were covered on different floors.  The section covering the WWII and the communist era was far better presented then the Terror Museum and almost empty of visitors.   I would have liked to linger longer but Madam was keen to see a dress or something embroidered by nuns a thousand years ago.  We searched several sections to no avail and ended up asking one of the custodians.  It was in a small side room which he had to open and turn on lights.  I got the impression that we were the only visitors that day and he was pleased that we had wanted to see it.

Our plane home didn’t leave until 4pm so we had time for one last attraction.

‘Where would you like to go?’  I asked Madam.

‘I don’t know,’ she replied, ‘where would you like to go?’ 

‘I don’t mind, you decide.’

‘No, it’s up to you.’

We went on in this manner for several minutes until Madam suggested seeing the inside of the Basilica. My mind was already imagining sitting in the lounge with a cup of coffee and reading the papers, so I replied ‘The Basilica?  How far is that?’

She looked on her phone and said ‘two point two miles, but we have an hour to get there before it opens.’

My ankle still hadn’t fully recovered from being twisted the week before while we were in Oxford and it gave a little complaining twinge.

I wonder if we could get a taxi back? I thought.

‘We can always get a taxi back’ said Madam.

We had briefly passed the Jewish Synagogue yesterday without realising what it was, so we took a slight detour for a closer look.  It was twenty minutes before it opened but a queue was already forming.  We sat outside for a while admiring the architecture and looking through the iron gates into the gardens.

I had previously looked at reviews for the Basilica and although many of them were positive, several reviewers said the staff were rude, it was almost dark inside and it was just like every other cathedral in Europe.  I still wanted to see a thousand year old withered hand though.

‘Would you rather go in here?’ Asked Madam, ‘into the synagogue?’

‘I don’t know,’ I replied, ‘where would you like to go?’ 

‘I don’t mind, you decide.’

‘No, it’s up to you.’

‘You decide.’

‘The reviews for the Basilica are a bit mixed,’ I offered.

‘I’ve never seen the inside of a Synagogue,’ said Madam.

‘Me neither,’ I replied.

And so it was decided.  We joined the queue, which turned out to be mostly elderly women from New York.  

And what a good decision it was. After passing through a cursory bag search and metal detector (and who can blame them?) we passed into the Synagogue. We both stopped dead and just stared, mouths agape.  I don’t think I have ever seen the inside of a building as stunning, as beautiful.  Having been to museums and cathedrals where photography was discouraged or banned, Madam asked the guide if it was okay to take photographs.

‘You must.  You must take photographs.  I insist you take many, many beautiful pictures,’ he replied.

We sat in the synagogue pews and listened to the guide who told us about the history of the synagogue and the Jews who worshiped there.  It is the largest in Europe and the second largest in the world with capacity for 3,000 worshippers.  It was designed by a non Jewish architect so has a large organ (which was played by Franz Liszt at the opening ceremony) and naves based on a typical cathedral design.  You have to wonder about architects sometimes.  The guide told us that Jews were not allowed to play the organ on the sabbath so ‘we have to bring in a goy to play on the shabbat, God bless him.’

Outside of the synagogue there is a memorial garden with the Holocaust Memorial, also known as the Emanuel Tree.  This is an artificial weeping willow tree with the names of Hungarian Jews killed during the Holocaust inscribed on each leaf.  Also part of the memorial are marble plates, commemorating many non-Jewish Hungarians who saved Jews during the Holocaust. Prominent was a plaque to Raoul Wallenberg, a Swedish diplomat who gave protective passports to thousands of Jews. Wallenberg survived the Nazi occupation of Hungary only to be captured and imprisoned by Soviet forces in 1945.  He was never seen again.

Pictures from the trip can be found here</spa

Cheddar Caves

A journey to Cheddar Caves (Gough’s Cave and Cox’s Cave) and a climb up Cheddar Gorge.

This morning found us back in Cheddar for  a proper look at the caves, now called Gough’s Cave  after Richard Gough, the man who found, excavated and opened them to the public.

The cave system stretches for over two miles but only a small section of this is open to the public. During the excavation in the 1800s, a number of human skeletons were found along with human brain cases which appear to have been prepared as drinking cups.  DNA taken from a skeleton dated to 7150 BC has been matched to a retired history teacher living locally.  Now that really is something to impress people with at dinner parties.

The caves were pleasant enough, but once you have seen one limestone cave you have seen them all.  They are a constant temperature of 11C which, I am told, is the perfect temperature to mature cheese.  Just inside the entrance was a store of cheeses from the factory across the road.  The air had a musty unpleasant smell close to the cheese.  I don’t know if that was the cheeses or simply because it was the lowest section of the caves.  The guide said there was often an unpleasant smell when they opened the doors in the morning.

We stood and looked up at the wire cages, high up on a rocky shelf, containing hundreds of wheels of cheese.

“You ate some of that cheese yesterday, do you want some more?” I asked Madam.

She gave a small shudder of pleasure and said “I certainly do!”

As we walked further into the cave we climbed higher into the limestone cliffs and the air became fresher.  There were small pockets of plants growing near to the electric lights.  Hearts tongue ferns, mosses and lichens were in patches wherever there was water and light.  The guide told us that spores and seeds were carried in by a colony of a hundred or so resident horseshoe bats.

“This is way more entertaining!” said Madam as the snarling wolf lunged forward. 

“This is brilliant!” she continued as the brown bear tore through the rocks into our tiny cave.  We were trapped by a rock wall at the back and a cascading waterfall to the side.  Luckily the Mesolithic hunters in front had some pointed sticks, so we were saved.  You can do a lot with a pointed stick in the right hands.

We were in ‘Dreamhunters – The Adventures of Early Man’ in Cox’s Cave, just down the road from Gough’s Cave.  According to their promotional  leaflet: 

‘This multimedia experience allows guests to walk in the footsteps of their ancestors.  Discover the ingenuity that saw our forebears master tools, weapons and fire to overcome fierce predators and a changing climate.’

And very well done it was.  The caves were small, we were shuffling sideways through narrow passages, crouching under low overhangs and dipping fingers into pools of freezing water.  I was so entranced by the whole experience that I completely forgot to take any pictures so you will just have to go and see it for yourself.

The exit from Cox’s Cave led us to the foot of Jacobs Ladder, a steep set of 274 stone steps that take you directly to the top of the gorge.  About halfway up I reached the startling conclusion that I was no longer thirty years old.  I stopped, panting and struggling to recover my breath.  I took the last section slowly on wobbly legs, listening to creaking knees and complaining muscles.

After the steps was a further long climb along a steep and slippery rocky path.  Black and white goats were sitting alongside the path unconcerned by the steady stream of passing walkers. The full trail is three miles but that was more than either of us wanted, so we reached an open point above the gorge and stopped to admire the views.

The view stretched over green fields with compact tidy farms towards the Mendip Hills.  Nestled in the valley below was the city of Wells, the cathedral clearly visible.  On the far horizon was Glastonbury Tor standing high above the other hills.

“Worth the climb?”  I asked Madam, but she was already heading back down the trail to the cheese shop so I never received a reply.

Pictures from the trip can be found here

Cheddar Cheese

“It doesn’t taste anything like American cheese!” exclaimed Madam.

We were heading to Wells in Somerset for a couple of days and stopped off at Cheddar on the way and, after a brief look at the end of the gorge, had gone in to the only cheese shop to actually make Cheddar cheese in Cheddar. 

They had a wide range of samples and we worked our way around them from mild to mature.  The first cheese sample was the mild, matured for only a few months.  Madam savoured it slowly and said “Mmmm… nice.”

The second was more mature with a stronger taste.  Madam’s breath quickened and said “This is NOTHING like American cheese.”

When the cave aged Cheddar touched her tongue her breath became heavy and she let out a long soft moan.  Several women standing behind looked on with interest.  I wasn’t sure if I needed to guide her from the shop for fear of embarrassment or just buy her a wedge of extra-mature and leave her alone in a room.  

After much sampling, we settled on a cave aged mature Cheddar and an oak smoked Cheddar.  I’m not big on hard cheeses, preferring a soft French cheese, but even I could see how much better this was that the average supermarket offering.  I should hope so for the prices they were charging.

“I’ve eaten Cheddar cheese in Cheddar!” said Madam excitedly as we headed back towards the car.

“I’ve eaten American cheese in America” I thought.  It was bright orange and tasted of nothing much at all.  It was weirdly soft and sticky all at the same time.  

But I didn’t want to spoil the moment, so I kept the thought to myself.

“I’ve never seen a television that small” I said as I opened the door.

We had booked a self-catering “cottage” for three nights which was on a caravan park.  It was more chalet than cottage.

I opened a cupboard and the knob came off in my hand.  The ceiling was Artex.  Madam turned on a table lamp.  “Let their be light.” she said.

There was darkness.  

I pulled on a knob to open the wardrobe.  But you know what happened.  I put the two spare knobs on a shelf.

It had a tiny lounge with a two person sofa,  a TV just a little larger than my iPad, a two person dining room, a slide in sideways kitchen, a tiny bathroom and a bedroom just big enough for a bed and a wardrobe. 

“It’s better than a hotel room” said Madam.

Which was true, once you got used to moving sideways.   It was clean and comfortable with everything we needed for a few nights.   

We drove into Wells for dinner but we ended up passing the cathedral on the way from the car park.  We popped in and had a quick look round. The guided tours had finished for the day, so we planned on coming back later this week.  We had a really enjoyable tour in Salisbury cathedral and I hoped this would be as good.  It was almost deserted, for a cathedral, so I wandered round happily taking a few photographs unobstructed by other visitors.  I’m sure you have seen them on Instagram by now.

It was getting late and we hadn’t eaten since breakfast so we walked down the High Street looking for somewhere to eat.  Wells is billed as the UK’s smallest city.  It is certainly compact, you could walk across the centre in 20 minutes and still have time to pop into the bank, chat to a friend and change your library books.  

Unfortunately, its compact size hasn’t kept the chain stores at bay. All down the High Street was a succession of the likes of W H Smith, New Look, Costa, Nero’s, Vision Express, Carphone Warehouse, Waterstones and Greggs.  I’ve nothing against any of these – I can often be found frequenting them myself but it’s sad when you see family owned businesses, who have probably served the town for years and live locally, closing down to be replaced with yet another identikit store.  Maybe if we supported the independents more they might survive longer.

We went into Costa for a coffee.

We struggled to find a restaurant serving food at 5pm.   They were either lunch cafes that closed at 4pm or pubs serving food from 6pm onwards.  Eventually we wandered down a side  street and found an family run Italian restaurant by the name of Da Luciano which was both happy to rustle up a couple of pizzas and excellent. Worth a visit if you find yourself in the area.  Madam wanted some weird combination not on the menu involving artichokes, swede, onion, basil, dandelion, elderberry, porridge, grapes and marmalade.  The staff were happy to oblige and Madam said it was the best pizza she had had for years. 

I may have got a couple of the ingredients wrong.  I was hungry and forgot to make notes.  

Pictures from the trip can be found here

Padstow and Newquay

Madam had wanted to visit Padstow for some time, mostly because it is the home of a celebrity chef.  I couldn’t find a single hotel in Padstow with availability that wouldn’t make my credit card squeal with pain, so I booked one in nearby Weybridge for a couple of nights. 

After checking in to the hotel, which turned out to be on the edge of town in a dreary industrial estate next to a timber merchants, we were both too tired to travel any further so we ended up having dinner in the attached restaurant, an experience neither of us wishes to repeat. 

It was a cloudy but warm day as we drove into Padstow. I had set the SatNav to the postcode of a car park near the town centre.  On the way into town, we passed a park and ride offering all day parking for £5.  I wondered why such a small town would even have a large park and ride as we continued into the town.  The first two town car parks were full.  The third had a narrow space that, after much manoeuvring, we managed to squeeze into. I started to see the wisdom of the park and ride.

Madam told me that the town was often referred to as Padstein due to the presence of the businesses owned by Rick Stein, the aforementioned celebrity chef.  We walked from the car park into the centre and passed a restaurant with his name, then a bakery, then another restaurant.  Even the tourist information office has a book of his recipes.  I checked with the Google later and learned that he owns four restaurants, a cookery school, a patisserie, a hotel and holiday rentals in the town.

The streets were packed with tourists. It was impossible to walk on the crowded pavements, we were forced into the road to make any progress. We had a look around the pretty harbour and I took a few photographs.  A fisherman was unloading lobsters from his boat.  A light breeze blew from the river.   A passenger boat was busy ferrying passengers between Padstow and Rock on the other side of the River Camel.

The streets were well kept and pleasant but I just couldn’t see enough to attract the masses of visitors.  A gift shop had a sign in the window that read ‘Anyone who tells you money can’t buy happiness doesn’t know where to shop.’ 

I stepped over an extending dog lead stretched across the pavement.

“So who is the Stein chap then,” I asked Madam.

“You’ve seen him on TV,” she replied, “he does the seafood dishes.”

I thought for a while.  “The one from Essex that whizes and wazzes stuff?  I like him.”

“No, that’s Jamie Oliver.  Stein does seafood.  Travels a lot.”

“Oh I remember now,” I said, “the one that owns the Fat Duck.”

Madam sighed, shook her head and pulled me away from a Spaniel about to use my leg as a lamp post.

“He wrote the ‘How to Cook’ series?” I asked.

Madam sighed.  “No, that was Delia Smith.  Stein is a really popular chef.  He has a seafood restaurant here.  Expensive but very good. We should go and look at the menu. It might be a good place for lunch.”

“Expensive you say?” I asked in a small but controlled squeak. 

We watched the ferry disgorge more passengers while I thought about our lunch plans.  A small fishing boat chugged into the harbour.

“Those £3 pasties in the bakery looked really nice.” I said.

I’ve never seen so many dogs in one town.  They were everywhere.  Most of them looked stressed and unhappy in the crowds. They were urinating on every available lamp post.  Many people had two or three dogs. We passed two specialist dog accessory shops.  Even the gift shops were selling dog bandanas. 

A Yorkshire Terrier was leaving a steaming deposit in front of one of Stein’s cafes.  We popped into a gift shop nearby as Madam needs more Christmas ornaments, apparently.  They didn’t have any but we asked the owner why there were so many dogs.  

He hesitated a while then said “I like dogs, I really do…. but it’s just out of hand.  Some of the shops started putting up dogs welcome signs.  Then they all did it. Word got out and everybody started bringing their dogs here.”

He rearranged a rack of t-shirts and said “I’m fed up with dodging piles of crap on the pavements.  One of my friends even calls this place Dogstein.”

He looked at Madam and said “Would you like a tea towel with a Labrador picture or do you prefer the Scottie?”

We had enough of tripping over dog leads and jumping puddles ourselves and couldn’t see anything in the town to further detain us, so we headed towards Newquay.  I was upset at leaving as we still had 45 minutes on our parking.

We stopped off at Mawgan Porth on the way.  It was a small sandy cove with a surf shop and a couple of cafes and, more importantly, free parking.  

Surfers were fighting the waves to get further out to sea.  An RNLI boat was on the beach, close to the water.  The wind was picking up and fine sand was blowing in the air. A few people were walking dogs on the beach.  The dogs looked happy, running in all directions, tails wagging furiously.  

And so on to Newquay.  As we passed through the outskirts, signs were advertising cheap wetsuits and slick boards, whatever they are.  We drove in along a high cliff road lined with hotels and parked close to the town centre.  A man was sitting on a sleeping bag by the car park entrance rolling a cigarette and enjoying a morning aperitif.   We walked past pound shops, charity shops, betting shops and an off licence.  Several shops were closed with faded ‘To Let’ or ‘For Sale’ signs.  

The attractive and photogenic sandy beach was small and focused on surfing.  Two RNLI trucks stood by on the beach.  Two men in wetsuits were standing at the waters edge holding boards and looking forlornly at the lack of any surf.  There were two surfing shops overlooking the beach, one if them looked as if it had closed down.  A bakery cafe and a fish and chip shop stood alongside them.

Six people were lying on boards on the sand, their instructor standing over them. Their lesson must have been ‘how to fall asleep on a board’ as none of them moved while we were there.

“Look at that sea” said Madam “It’s so blue.”

“You can go for a swim if you like” I replied.

She looked out at the fast receding tide and said “Lets get something to eat.”

I bought my first Cornish pasty of the trip and sat eating it on a wall opposite ‘Rip Curl Surf Threads’.  Next door, the library had signs outside in both English and Cornish.  A total of 400 people claim to be fluent in Cornish, while another few thousand can speak a little.  It isn’t recorded how many of them live in Newquay but I’m guessing they could hold a party in a phone box and still have room for the buffet table.

We added Newquay to the list of places we never needed to visit again.

We were back in the hotel by mid afternoon and I needed something cold to drink.  The vending machine in the lobby of the hotel was empty so I asked the receptionist if there was another machine.  She shrugged and said no, implying it wasn’t her problem and why was I bothering her. 

I walked into Weybridge along a busy main road in the hope of finding a convenience store or supermarket.  It was longer than it looked on the map, about a mile or so. I walked down a long busy main road, over a 15th century stone bridge above a shallow river, and into the town centre.

I was halfway up the pedestrianised main street when I realised there was something different about the town. There was a complete absence of chain stores. No WH Smith, no Boots with their glaring plastic and glass shopfronts. No Starbucks, no Next or New Look.  There were independent butchers, stationers, clothes shops, even a locally owned bookshop. 

It was like being back in the 1960’s. It was wonderful.

Pictures from the trip can be found here

Eden Project and Lost Gardens of Heligan

I woke in a state of some anticipation for today we are going to the Eden Project.  I had wanted to visit for several years but due to a certain geographical inconvenience had never managed to get here.

In 1996, about three miles from St Austell, there was once a very large hole in the ground.  It was a disused china clay pit that had reached the end of its useful life.  It briefly courted fame when it was used by the BBC as the planet surface of Magrathea in the 1981 TV series of the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, but otherwise it just did what holes do and sat there.

Later that year, a chap by the name of Tom Smit came along with a rather grand idea.  I should probably call it a Grand Idea.

Fast forward to 2018 and it has two huge enclosures consisting of adjoining biodomes that house thousands of plant species from around the world.  The largest of the domes simulates a tropical rainforest and the smaller a Mediterranean climate.  It also has an outside botanical garden that is home to plants native to Cornwall and the UK

A pleasant young man in the Eden Project ticket office cheerfully liberated us from £55, gave us a membership card and told us we could come back just anytime we wanted for the next year.  He even took our photograph.  It was like going through US immigration but without the fingerprints and unbridled hostility and aggression. 

There was a long walk down a winding path to the tropical dome.  It was hot and humid, not surprisingly in a tropical forest.  We wandered happily around the dome looking at the luxuriant foliage, beautiful vibrant flowers, and spotting exotic birds and other wildlife living in the undergrowth.  We stopped for a baobab smoothie which tasted a lot like pineapple.  We drank from a water fountain where a guide told us we were losing a litre of water an hour in the dome.  

I spotted a viewing platform high up in the centre of the dome.  At the entrance to the steps leading up to the platform we were presented with a printed sign with long list of reasons why we shouldn’t even think of climbing to the platform.  Were either of us pregnant?  Did we suffer from vertigo?  Back problems?  Mobility issues?  Are we prone to sudden heart attacks or strokes?  Could we cope with extreme heat?  Are our knees a bit creaky?  Did we eat breakfast?  Remember to clean our teeth?  

Madam looked at the list of warnings and up at the steel steps and viewing platform suspended by steel cables and decided she wanted to go to the lower levels and look for a certain frog.  I suspect she really snuck in another baobab smoothie.

I climbed up and up with a couple of stops on the way to admire the scenery.  The platform hovered just above the tops of the tallest trees, I could have almost touched them if I hadn’t been gripping the hand rail quite so tightly.

The platform was hanging from steel cables and swayed gently which added a certain frisson to the experience.  The guide told me that it was 34C on the platform and they closed it when the temperature rose above 37C. She said we were 100 feet above the ground but a normal tropical tree canopy reaches up 150 feet so still had some distance to grow.

I stood for a long time, sweating liberally, and looked down at the trees and the people walking below.

We had a look round the Mediterranean dome and the outside botanical gardens and in at an exhibition hall which had a smoke ring blowing machine.  No really, it did. They were all nice and worth a visit but the tropical forest was the big highlight for me.  

I’m sure you have already seen (and liked and shared) my pictures on Instagram or Facebook by now.

After another night listening to the boy racers, it was time to head to Lost Gardens of Heligan, Cornwall.  

It was a mild and sunny Saturday and we waited behind a long line of cars to enter the car park.  I blinked when I saw that Lost Gardens of Heligan admission was going to cost £14.50 each to look around.  I blinked again to clear my vision.  It was still £14.50.

The Lost Gardens of Heligan were created by members of the Tremayne family from the mid-18th century to the beginning of the 20th century. The gardens were neglected after World War I and restored only in the 1990s.  They include aged rhododendrons and camellias, a series of lakes fed by a ram pump, flower and vegetable gardens, an Italian garden, and a wild wooded area with subtropical tree ferns.  

We headed first to the kitchen gardens where they were growing a large quantity of beans, squashes, pumpkins, brassicas and numerous other vegetables that I neglected to note.  There were all in very neat rows and well tended and mostly weed free.  Far better than my allotment ever looked. Pens held turkeys, geese, chickens and pigs.  

We moved on to the flower gardens to find that the flowers were also growing in neat rows.  

It was like visiting a well-ordered and especially neat smallholding.  

In the hope of finding something more interesting we headed to the Jungle, the wooded area with the tree ferns and a much advertised rope walk.  The rope walk was, I guess, about 40 yards long and suspended above a small valley.  It swayed from side to side in an interesting manner and rather reminded me of a children’s adventure playground. We were a dizzying ten feet above the ground.  I stood on the walk and Madam took my photograph.

After the excitement we needed a sit down, so we sat for a while overlooking a pleasant pond on one side of the valley. Two loud, amply proportioned, older American women on the other side of the valley were discussing their trip to England and Scotland and how wonderful it was.  

One confided to the other “The only problem is the size of their seats.  Why do the British have to make their chairs so small?”

Pictures from the trip can be found here

Looe to St Austell

It was a bright sunny day as we crossed the Tamar Bridge into Cornwall.  A few fluffy white clouds scudded across the blue sky. The river below sparkled in the sunlight.  Being a bit geeky, I was more focused on the Royal Albert suspension rail bridge which ran alongside the more modern road bridge.  A plaque in large white letters on one end reads ‘I K BRUNEL, ENGINEER, 1859.’

Isambard Kingdom Brunel has a lot to answer for.  The first tunnel under the Thames, the Clifton Suspension bridge, most of the major bridges and tunnels for the Great Western Railway, The SS Great Britain, the Renkoi hospital amongst other engineering masterpieces.  What an amazing list of achievements for one man – many of them considered impossible at the time. Many of his bridges and tunnels are still in use today, 150 or more years after their construction.

We parked in the massive car park in Looe and walked down to the harbour.  Three people were crabbing from the harbour wall. One man had a bucket almost full with small crabs.  We asked him what he did with them as they looked too small for eating. “I just put them back” he replied.  It was something to do, I guess.

Shops lined the road alongside the harbour.  Bakers, chemists, estate agents and banks. Narrow lanes led away from the harbour.  Every street away from the harbour had nothing but gift shops and cafes. They were packed with tourists stopping to look in every shop window and at every restaurant menu.  Try as I might I could never understand the appeal. Every shop had the same selection of postcards, buckets and spades, t-shirts, sun hats, keyrings, ornaments and tea towels.  Most of the visitors were elderly. Even older than me. Maybe life gets like that. You reach a certain age and all you want to do is shuffle down crowded streets with other old people buying tea towels and ornaments.  

Madam went into a gift shop and bought a tea towel.

Cars were moving through the narrow lanes, some not much wider than a car, forcing pedestrians into doorways.  It was crowded and chaotic. We fought our way through the crowds to a small sandy beach, briefly admired the scenery and the packed  beach and said “Let’s go to Polperro.”

We got back to the car and Madam looked at her phone for directions to Polperro.  After much sighing and poking at her phone, she said “It looks as though we needed to book a parking space last April. Most of the websites said don’t even think about driving, they say to take a taxi or the bus.”

She poked a bit more and said  “There’s a bus next Tuesday I think,”

I looked at an old-fashioned paper map and said “Let’s go to Fowey instead.”

The only parking in Fowey was at the top of a very steep hill.  The town website helpfully told us that it was an easy five-minute walk down to the town and just a little longer back up.  Very steep wasn’t an exaggeration. It was ski-jump steep. It was don’t fall over or you will roll 300 yards into the river steep.  We staggered crab-like, hanging on to any handrail, down to the harbour.

It was a lovely setting and worth the walk.  Sailboats were bobbing about on the river harbour.  Hanging flower baskets and boxes were full of a dazzling profusion of petunias, red, white and purple, reflecting in the water below.  Tables outside of the pub and coffee shop were packed with people watching the river and enjoying the September sunshine.

We walked back into the town but the crowded narrow streets only had the usual fudge, pasty and gift shops.  I wonder where all the locals go for their shopping. There were no grocers, no hardware shop, no regular clothes shops.  Unless you live on pasties and ice cream and wear beach clothes all the time you are pretty much out of luck. When I think about it though, that doesn’t sound such a bad life.

 The local council had thoughtfully provided a shuttle bus back up to the main car park so we headed towards the bus stop.  Unfortunately, every other tourist had the same idea and the queue for the bus stretched halfway down the street. We didn’t have enough time left on our parking to wait in line for a space on the sixteen-seater bus, so we trudged up the long, steep hill pausing many times to catch our breath and admire the scenery.

We stayed for two nights in St Austell so that we had time to visit both the Eden Project and the Lost Gardens of Heligan. I’d wanted to see the Eden Project since I first heard of it fifteen years ago and Madam had the Lost Gardens on her bucket list.  

The only hotel I could find with availability was a budget chain on the main road near a McDonalds and a KFC.  The drab corridors smelled of frying. The room was hot and without air conditioning, so we had to sleep with the window open and got to listen to the local boy racers showing everybody how fast they could drive until the early hours.

Pictures from the trip can be found here

Buckfast Abbey, Dartmoor and the Pilgrim Steps

A visit to Buckfast Abbey, the wilds of Dartmoor and the Mayflower Pilgrims Steps at Plymouth.

We left Exmouth soon after 10am and headed towards Dartmoor.  When we planned this trip we would travel along the south coast stopping wherever we fancied in seaside towns.  Realising that we had seen enough fishing harbours and sandy beaches for the week, pretty as they were, we craved a change of scenery.  And you don’t get much different than a windswept desolate moor. 

We were passing Buckfast Abbey so stopped for a quick look round.  I was vaguely aware they made tonic wine and things with honey,  but didn’t know much else.

The abbey forms part of an active Benedictine monastery.  They started the current abbey building in 1906 but only finished it in 2013. You need to sell a lot of jars of honey and tonic wine to pay for an abbey.

Having seen a lot of different cathedrals and abbeys over the years I am used to seeing stone steps and floors worn down by thousands of feet over centuries.  It was nice to see something that new. The stonework was immaculate. The carvings looked like they were completed yesterday. They were, in cathedral age terms.

There was a small exhibition, nicely done, about the lives of the monks living at the abbey.  I got the, probably accurate, impression that it was mostly praying and keeping silent. Since we had no desire to pray and Madam does not have the ability to be silent, we returned to the car and set the SatNav for the Dartmoor Visitor Centre.

We climbed winding steep lanes heading inland. The lanes got narrower.  One car wide with only occasional passing places. Ferns where whipping against the sides of the car.  I tightened my seatbelt. My ears straining, listening for the sound of any car coming the other way. My eyes bulging as I tried to peer around corners. Perspiration glistened on my brow.   I gripped the steering wheel tighter and tighter, my knuckles white.

“Let go of the steering wheel Honey,” said Madam, “I can manage the driving on my own.”

We climbed higher still.

Finally the road opened up and it presented us with the most amazing views of the moor.  Gorse dotted the hillsides with bright yellow flowers. Dry stone walls enclosed neat fields.  A few intrepid walkers were silhouetted on top of one peak. Cattle and sheep were wandering unhindered in the road and along the verges.

We parked in a small car park near the top of a hill and stood and gazed out over the moor. Serious looking hikers with Gore Tex coats, backpacks and poles were heading in all directions.  Rocky outcrops were dotted on the hillsides. Craggy granite peaks topped the hills. The hills were green and every shade of gold and brown. It was wild, desolate and jaw-droppingly beautiful.

Madam walked for a while up a steep incline following the hikers while I sat and kept the car company. I was concerned it might be frightened out there all alone.  

The visitor centre  had an exhibition based on Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes story ‘Hound of the Baskervilles.’  The visitor centre was formerly the Old Dutchy Hotel where Conan Doyle stayed and was inspired to write his novel.  Many of the locations featured in his book are nearby: Great Grimpen Mire, where the hound was kept; the tomb of Squire Cabell, reputedly the inspiration for Hugo Baskerville; and Hexworthy, the village of Grimpen in the novel.

Dartmoor is the largest area of upland and open space in southern Britain with peaks rising to 2,000 feet. Mostly granite (or more specifically adamellite for any geologists reading) covered by a  layer of peat.  Far more interesting is that the area is home to the world’s largest slug, the ash black slug, which grows up to eight inches long.  You can only find it in dense woodlands in remote valleys, otherwise I would have insisted we go search for one to take home as a pet. Much easier to care for than a Norwegian Blue.

Many places we visited on this trip left only vague and hazy memories. Others were just “Bleh,” no need to ever come again.  Some, like Dartmoor, left a lasting impression and vivid memories. Definitely a place to re-visit and spend more time. But time was pressing and we had a hotel booking for tonight so we headed to Plymouth as Madam was keen to see the Mayflower Steps.

We had booked into a budget hotel in Plymouth which turned out to be in a grim semi-industrial area.  A tyre and exhaust centre was opposite with a car crushing plant next door. The map showed a long walk via busy roads and roundabouts to the city centre but I noticed on the satellite view of Google Maps there was a cobbled path hugging the side of the docks. After some exploratory wandering in backyards and car parks, vaulting walls and studiously ignoring ‘Private’ signs, we found the path and reached the old harbour and Pilgrim Mayflower Steps away from the busy roads.  

Madam rushed to the steps which may, or may not, be the departure point of the Mayflower to America.  

“Take my picture… take my picture … take my picture,” she shouted as she pushed a couple of Japanese tourists aside.  

The steps are commemorated with a stone arch with a Union Flag and USA flag flying either side.  There is a small museum above the tourist information office which gave a brief history of the Mayflower and her passengers.  

The Mayflower was an English ship that transported the first English Puritans, now known as the Pilgrims, from Plymouth to America in 1620. There were 102 passengers, with a crew of about 30.  

Some cargo choices were odd.  You would think that a ship bound for a colony would focus on seeds, farming and hunting equipment.  A few sacks of dried foods.  A return ticket in a back pocket.

One passenger, William Mullins brought 126 pairs of shoes, 13 pairs of boots, hose, stockings, haberdashery and stuff breeches amongst other items.

It must have been a miserable experience.  The cabins were cramped – the total area was only 25 ft by 15 ft.  Each person had a space less than the size of a modern single bed. The headroom below decks was less that 5 ft.  The cargo included pigs, goats, and poultry. Some passengers brought family pets such as dogs, cats and birds.  They were at sea for 65 days, much of it in rough weather, so add in seasickness for extra fun.

After arrival in America the harsh winter climate and lack of fresh food caused more problems.  Several of the colonists developed scurvy and the cramped conditions led to other contagious diseases.  Between the landing and the following March only 47 colonists and half the crew had survived. 

Not the best start for a new country.

We wandered around the harbour for a while, had dinner and helped fish the Japanese tourists out of the harbour, then headed back to the hotel for an early night.

Charmouth to Exmouth and Jurassic Coast Fossil Hunting

Charmouth to Exmouth on our West Country road trip.  Hunting for fossils along the Jurassic Coast and a trip to Lyme Regis.

We headed to the Charmouth Heritage Centre and had a polite look round at the locally found fossils on display.  The centre was set up in 1985 to encourage safe and sustainable collecting of Jurassic fossils from the local beaches.  They run guided fossil hunting walks on every day except Tuesday.  It was Tuesday.

They had an impressive display of fossils, both in terms of size and quantity.  So numerous were the 195 million-year-old belemnites that they were just piled in an apparently haphazard manner in a recreation of the sandy shoreline.

The fossil collecting part of the Jurassic Coast stretches from Charmouth to Exmouth in Devon to Studland Bay in Dorset, a distance of about 96 miles.  It spans 185 million years of geological history covering the Triassic and Cretaceous periods as well as the Jurassic. At different times, this area has been desert, shallow tropical sea and marsh.  

The many sedimentary layers on this coastline are rich with fossils which can be found in abundance as sections of the cliff crumble and landslides occur. Fossil groups found here include crustaceans, insects, molluscs, echinoderms, fish, amphibians, reptiles and even a few mammals. 

How hard could it be to find fossils, even without a guide?  Just pop down to the beach and pick up a few handfuls. A walk in the park.  Well, a walk on the beach I guess.

A stiff breeze blew from the sea and waves were crashing on the beach.  Small groups of people were spread out along the shoreline looking down at the ground. Some down by the water following the receding tide and some up by the crumbling cliffs.

I had forgotten to bring the hammer from my toolbox and was too cheap to buy a proper geologists hammer for £20, so we walked along the beach, occasionally smashing two rocks together looking for fossils.  I walked a long way down by the water in the hope of finding a washed up belemnite or two.  I randomly kicked at pebbles and scraped my shoes through the wet sand.  All I got was a wet foot.

I tried searching up closer to the cliff but discovered that the cliffs are mostly made up of layer upon layer of soft mud, silt and clay.  Wet this with a drop of seawater and it makes an astonishingly sticky mud that adheres to shoes in an enthusiastic and expansive manner.

After much walking up and down the beach, we realised we didn’t have a clue what we were doing, so we returned to the car and I spent the next ten minutes scraping the mud from my shoes.  

After a brief visit to the facilities, I decided one last time to go fossil hunting while Madam waited in the car.  I popped into the gift shop and bought a (very small) 120 million-year-old ammonite for 50p, which I presented to Madam with a flourish.  

Lyme Regis is smaller than I expected.  Unless I missed something it consists of one steep hill with the usual chain stores plus a few gift shops and a single fossil shop. 

It is more famous than its size indicates.  The harbour wall (The Cobb) features in Jane Austen’s novel ‘Persuasion’, and in John Fowles’ novel ‘The French Lieutenant’s Woman’. The 1981 film of the latter was partly shot in Lyme Regis.

The town is situated at the heart of the Jurassic Coast. It was in the cliffs nearby that an  Ichthyosaur was discovered by self-taught palaeontologist Mary Anning in 1918.  She later found a complete Plesiosaur and the fossilised remains of many other creatures.  Anning became known around the world for the important finds she made in the fossil beds in the cliffs along the coast. Her discoveries contributed to important changes in knowledge of prehistoric life and the history of the Earth.

As a woman, she was not eligible to join the Geological Society and she never received full credit for her scientific contributions. The gentlemen geologists who published the scientific descriptions of the specimens she found often neglected to mention her name. 

To be fair on the Geological Society, when Anning was diagnosed with lung cancer in 1846, the society raised money from its members to help with her expenses.  Did anybody say too little too late?

I popped into the fossil shop at the bottom of the hill to fondle a few more fossils while Madam looked in an outdoor shop at Nordic poles.  I keep telling her I will never agree to go skiing or hiking over glaciers but will she listen?

We strolled down to the seafront.  Along the front was a combination of small cottages, mostly holiday lets, amusement arcades and tourist restaurants.  A stone harbour arm at the end of the bay provided a sheltered anchorage.  The tide was out and bilge-keeled sailboats were resting on the mud.  Two paddle boarders were trying to get through the shallow surf into deeper water.  A narrow street ran behind the harbour with gift shops and fish restaurants.  The promenade was crowded with visitors walking in the sunshine.

I saw two older men independently wearing Led Zeppelin t-shirts of impressive vintage.  Early 1970s tour shirts if I’m not mistaken.  Like the mythical elephant’s graveyard where you will find a treasure-trove of ivory, I think I have discovered where old rockers go to die.  Somewhere in Lyme Regis there is an enormous pile of valuable Gibson Les Paul and Fender Stratocaster guitars just waiting to be found. 

Since we were far too young to hang out with old rockers, even if they were Led Zeppelin fans, we climbed up the steep hill to the car and set the SatNav for Exmouth.

Exmouth had more than its fair share of charity shops, bargain everything a pound or less, tanning salons and betting shops. The Conservative Club, squashed between ‘Bargains Galore’ and a gift shop selling buckets and spades and children’s fishing nets, was looking tatty with weeds growing from the roof.  

To be fair on poor Exmouth, it also had some pleasant pedestrian areas and leafy squares with more upmarket restaurants.  It had a compact well-managed park with thriving flower beds and hanging baskets. We walked around the park admiring the flowers and eventually found a wooden bench.  We sat and watched a balding man in his 40s feeding squirrels from a Fortnum and Mason bag.  

I looked at Madam and she looked at me.  “I think he still lives with his parents,” said Madam.

“I was thinking exactly the same thing,” I said.

While we watched the squirrels a young odd looking couple walked by.  Possibly the product of multiple generations of distinctly unbiblical sex.  They proudly showed us a large bag of nuts they used for feeding squirrels. They told us in great detail where we could purchase our own bag, how much they cost, and what fun it was.  

Some towns have cinemas.  Some have bowling alleys.  Most have pubs and clubs.  Exmouth has nuts.

A tea room nearby was selling Devon cream teas. Not just cream teas, but Devon cream teas.  

A cream tea, for those of you disadvantaged by geography, consists of a pot of tea together with scones, clotted cream and strawberry jam. Traditionally a speciality of Devon and Cornwall, cream teas are now offered in most parts of England.  If you like to live on the wild side you can have a scone baked with currants or sultanas.  

There is a rivalry between Cornwall and Devon as to their cream teas.  The Devonshire method is to split the scone in two, cover each half with clotted cream, and then add strawberry jam on top. With the Cornish method, the scone is first split in two, then spread with strawberry jam, and finally topped with a spoonful of clotted cream.  

“We need to try a cream tea in both counties,” said Madam, “we can see how they differ.”

Being partial to a scone or two I quite liked the idea and licked my lips in anticipation.

A little later that day she told me she didn’t really like cream teas so I wasn’t going to get one.  

Weymouth

A visit to Weymouth, England, via Lulworth.  Memories of a Weymouth B&B, checking the pier and Weymouth beach.

We headed from Durdle Door towards Weymouth through the village of Lulworth which has more pretty thatched cottages on one street than you would have thought possible.  I wanted to stop and take pictures but the roads were narrow and covered with no parking signs and double yellow lines.

Weymouth was on an attractive sweeping bay ringed by elegant townhouses, most of them now converted into hotels and guest houses. It is a pleasant old-fashioned seaside resort.  The sort of place my grandparents would have visited on holiday.  Down on the train for a week in a B&B.  Fish and chips for lunch.  Sit on the beach and eat ice cream.  Rent a deckchair as an extravagance.   My grandad would roll up his trouser legs and put a knotted handkerchief on his head to keep off the sun.  They would have gone home happy and talked about it for months.

Nowadays, people go to Majorca or Magaluf and feel hard done by if they can’t stream Netflix on the beach and aren’t blind drunk by tea time.  I had better stop there as I can feel a moan coming on and Madam will tell me off. 

Weymouth has one claim to fame that you’ll not find in many tourist brochures.  In 1348 the Black Death entered England in the port of Weymouth, then known as Melcombe Regis.  The plague had been spreading from the far east and crept across Europe, reaching France in 1347.  

According to a contemporary account: 

‘…two ships, one of them from Bristol, came alongside. One of the sailors had brought with him from Gascony the seeds of a terrible pestilence and, through him, the men of that town of Melcombe were the first to be infected.’ 

The victims would only develop symptoms six days after infection so would often travel some distance unwittingly carrying their infection to new areas.

In case you need to know the symptoms for a future outbreak they include black necrotic pustules on your skin, fever, delirium and an unbearable headache.  If that isn’t bad enough your lymph nodes will swell to the size of an orange.  That would make putting on a sweater a real bitch. You have only a 70% chance of dying so it’s not all bad. 

The Black Death would go on to kill somewhere between 30% and 40% of Britain’s population.  The worst of the effects were over by 1351 but occasional resurgences would appear right up to the end of the 17th century, notably in 1665.

I would change my name as well if I was responsible for a plague entering the country.

We checked into our hotel, Somerset House, which was above a pub and in a bit of a rough area.  It was opposite the railway station, just across from “My Amazing Fantasy – Licensed Adult Shop” and just down the road from an off-licence whose main selling point seemed to be the alcoholic content of their beer.

Despite some misgivings about the area, the room was lovely.  The best we had stayed in for some time.  The bathroom was the largest and most elegant I’ve seen in any hotel.  It had a massive two-person shower, a bathtub with a TV built into the wall and many strangely coloured unguents lining the shelves.  Bathrobes and slippers were hanging on the back of the door.  Madam declared she wanted to move in and stay there, or at least take the bathroom home.

We walked down to the seafront, around the sweep of the bay, and along to a building at the end of the promenade optimistically described as the pier bandstand.  There was an attractive Art Deco building but no sign of either a pier or bandstand.  

There had been a bandstand on the site, built in 1939 and extending 200 feet out to sea, but it was demolished in 1986 to save a £300,000 repair bill.  A competition was held to determine who would press the button to start the destruction.  They gave two schoolgirls from Birmingham that dubious honour.  The demolition left only the land building which was eventually refurbished and taken over by a Chinese restaurant in 2002.

The 1980s have a lot to answer for.

We sat on a bench, overlooking the sandy beach and watching the sea and the seafront strollers.  The vibrantly coloured and decorated clock tower was to our right. A man walked past with an owl on his arm.  Two heavily tattooed shaven-headed men with a staffie walked past and glared at anybody who looked their way.  Older couples walked slowly past, leaning on sticks, watching the sea.

A cruise ship sailed gracefully out of the harbour from around the corner in Portland.  We found out later that this was a Disney ship catering mostly to Americans that started in Barcelona and sailed around Spain and Portugal to Dover.  They stopped in Portland for a day-trip to Stonehenge. An inside cabin a snip at only £4,592.

Just off the seafront was a large double-fronted fossil shop.  I was entranced. I picked up a heavy  68 million-year-old dinosaur bone.  Fondled ammonites by the score.  Examined echinoderms.  Thought about buying a dapedium or maybe a pholidophorus.  I’ve seen a lot of fossils over the years but they were all behind glass cases in museums.  Here, I get to hold them and all for free.  I would have been happy to stay for hours touching every item in the shop but Madam was bored after a minute and we needed to check the gift shops for tea towels. 

 We meandered slowly down the main shopping street.  It was pleasant enough and pedestrian friendly but with lots of cash converter style, betting and pound shops.  A sign outside one shop offered a Mr Whippy soft ice cream with a flake for £1.  Madam was asked a couple of times if she was from the cruise ship.  It would be a sad state of affairs if the cruise passengers had shelled out all that money and Weymouth was all they saw of England. 

Like a lot of seaside towns, Weymouth has suffered a reversal of fortunes as people holiday abroad.  There were still pockets of the town doing well with businesses obviously thriving but also areas of deprivation that gave it a seedy air.  Still, where else can you park your car and get an ice cream with a flake for a pound anywhere else along the south coast.

Madam looked online and picked the top two restaurants from Trip Advisor and we walked down to look at their menus.  She looked through the windows at the tablecloths and elaborately laid tables and said “They are a bit posh.  I don’t think we are dressed properly for these places.”

I rolled down my trouser legs, took the handkerchief off my head and presented myself for inspection.  Madam just rolled her eyes and said “You don’t have a jacket.”  

Instead, we went to a cafe bar around the corner and had a nice tapas selection for under a tenner a head.  Not having a jacket with me saved me £50.  Something to remember for future trips.

I woke up to loud chanting outside the hotel room at 3:30 am.

This wasn’t the calming chant of monks at morning matins or Buddhists preparing for meditation but the tuneless incoherent noise that comes from the strange physiological reaction you get when you mix a small brain with strong lager. 

“I don’t think I would want to live in Weymouth,” I thought as I lay awake listening and watching stray beams from the street lamp dancing on the ceiling.

In the morning we got to shower together in the hotel’s fabulous bathroom and I checked Madam carefully for any signs of necrotic pustules or enlarged lymph nodes.  There were none so, after only a brief delay, and a lovely breakfast at the hotel we were on our way to Charmouth to look for fossils.

Bournemouth to Durdle Door

First stops at the Durdle Door, Dorset, the beach and Bournemouth on our road trip to the south-west.

Due to Madam’s impressive driving skills we arrived in Bournemouth two hours before we could check into the hotel so we found a multi-story car park close to the pier where I parted with £4.50 for two hours parking.  We left the car park via the enclosed and gloomy stairs which seemed to serve as the local latrine.  The pungent smell made my eyes water.  This happens when you charge people 50p to use the toilet, never mind £2.25 an hour to park.  They use whatever doorway or stairwell is available.  I was tempted to have a discrete wee in a corner myself to get my money‘s worth but Madam was in a hurry to get lunch.

We had lunch on the upstairs balcony at the Hot Rocks restaurant overlooking the pier and beach.  A Dotto land train ran along the seafront below us.  A Ferris wheel opposite the pier turned slowly. The beach, packed with families was soft sand from the promenade down to the sea.  Couples strolled along the promenade.  

Madam said “The people are younger here.  Younger than in Bexhill.”

There is a belief that people move to Bexhill and wait to die.  It isn’t true.  They move to Eastbourne.  Bexhill is where their parents live.

We checked into the hotel, high on the East Cliff and walked down to the beach.  The tide was partly out.  Madam took off her shoes and walked along the waterline. As soon as her feet touched the wet sand she jumped up and down with joy and said “I’m on holiday!”  

It’s true.  We were.

She walked alongside the water towards the pier and picked up a weird looking seashell which we later identified as a slipper snail.  It looked like a claw or hand with six fingers.  I’ve lived by the sea for many years and seen nothing like it.  She put it in her bag to add to her souvenir collection.  She walked on past the pier and I suspect she would have carried on until the next town had I not promised her a ride on the Dotto land train that ran along the seafront towards Boscombe.  I’d wanted to visit Boscombe because it had a pier.  I have a weakness for piers that Madam will never understand.  

“What’s the point?” She said.  “You are just walking out over the water.”

“That’s exactly the point.” I replied.

“Boring,”  was all she could say.

We got to the Dotto stop only to find that the last departure was at 15:10.  On a Sunday.  During the summer.  A major tourist attraction stops running at ten past three on a Sunday.  Sometimes you wonder who organises these things. 

We went into the tourist information office to see about a trip on the open-top bus but found that stopped at 5pm. 

Bournemouth is divided neatly into two by a succession of fine parks running from north to south. They were created in the mid 1800’s and remarkably have survived to this day.  They were originally known as the Lower Pleasure Gardens, The Central Pleasure Gardens, and Upper Pleasure Gardens.   The former name proved too much for the genteel folk of Bournemouth.  The combination of both ‘pleasure’ and ‘lower’ in close vicinity to each other was just too much for ladies of a delicate disposition and they are now known simply as the Lower, Central and Upper Gardens.

We walked up through the Lower Pleasure Gardens.  Sorry, forget I said that.  We walked up through the Lower Gardens.  Whoever is in charge of the gardening does a wonderful job.  The flower beds were a blaze of colour even at the tail end of summer when you expect things to have died down ready for autumn. Large groups of foreign students and young couples had spread themselves over the grass enjoying the late afternoon sun.  We sat for a while admiring the flowers and watching people strolling through the gardens.  The Lower and Central Gardens are separated by an attractive pedestrian square with a restaurant and outdoor seating. We wandered through the square and up into the Central Gardens where they had the largest war memorial I had ever seen.  

The memorial was built in 1921 to remember the dead of World War I. It features two lions, one asleep and one awake, based on Canova’s tomb of Pope Clement XIII in St Peter’s. This enormous stone and marble memorial is now Grade II listed and was later extended to commemorate the dead of both world wars.

The upper gardens seem to be mostly sports fields so we stopped our journey and, it being a respectable time to start drinking, returned down to the square to find a suitable hostelry.  With a combination of random searching and Madam peering into her phone looking at TripAdvisor we found The Moon on the Square which turned out to be a Wetherspoons. 

There’s a tradition in all Wetherspoons that there has to be a large group of men drinking lager hovering near the bar and having a (mostly) good natured shouting match.  It is invariably regarding which footballer has the most knobbly knees.  I think that’s right.  Something to do with football anyway.  It requires them to wave their arms exuberantly and spill copious amount of beer on the carpet.  This pub was no exception.

Still, where else can you get somewhere to sit down, books to read, free WiFi and two drinks for less than a fiver?  

In 1946 George Orwell wrote an essay for the Evening Standard newspaper describing his perfect pub.  He called his pub The Moon Under Water.  It should have he said, amongst other things, that it be quiet enough to talk; the barmaid should know your name; that it sells cigarettes, aspirin and stamps; it never serves beer in a handleless glass; and you can get a good lunch for three shillings.

Several Wetherspoons pubs have ‘Moon’ in their name since they feel that is a good link to Orwell’s  fictional pub.  I’ve never been in a Wetherspoons where the barmaid knew my name, nor have they have ever served me a beer in a glass with a handle.  I’m not sure how I feel about them linking to one of my favourite authors for commercial purposes.  Maybe I will order lunch one day and proffer three shillings (15p) in payment then ask for an aspirin.  I’ll let you know how it goes.

We got back to the hotel and were relaxing and reading when Madam noticed a gentle slurping noise. She looked at me and I looked at her.  “It wasn’t me” I told her.  

She looked to the dresser on the far side of the room and shrieked “It’s alive!  It moved!”

It turned out that her seashell was still very much in use and the resident mollusc was wondering why the sea was so far away and how come the tide hadn’t risen.

“We have to take it back to the beach.” She said.

“It’s late.  We’ll take it tomorrow.” I told her.

She put it in the bottom of the bath lest it develop impressive locomotive powers in the night and crawl into bed with her.

“He needs a name. Think of a name,” she demanded.

“I don’t know” I said, “Shell?  Shelly?”

“Shelly is a girl’s name,” she said.

I went into the bathroom and reached into the bottom of the bath.  I carefully turned Shelly upside down.

“Yup, it’s female,” I told her.

I had a look at the Google to see if there was anything else worth doing in Bournemouth and, amongst the dozens of pages of advertisements offering me hotels and tours, was a brief piece from the official tourism website that told me, amongst other things, that it was a prosperous town with a population of almost 200,000 and that tourism remains an important industry.  

And boy, does it milk its tourists.  Parking for two hours was £4.50.  A stroll along the three hundred metre pier is £1.20.  An ice cream?  That will be £3.70 please.  Need a bottle of Coca Cola with that?  A mere £2.50.  A one mile taxi ride back to the hotel £6.00.

We were packed and on the road by 9am and heading towards the Durdle Door arch in Dorset.  Shelly was safely wrapped in the back seat.   As we drove along the B3070, there was a large sign ‘WARNING Sudden Gunfire!’ 

“Just like in Texas,” said Madam.  

I was glad she got to feel at home. 

We parked above the footpath down to Durdle Door beach to see the famous Durdle Door arch.  £4 for two hours.  A sign informed me they had over one million visitors a year.  It wasn’t hard to do the maths.  Four million pounds for a scree car park and footpath is a nice little earner for somebody as Arthur Daley would have said.

We started down the steep and slippery footpath towards the beach.

“Did you remember Shelly?” I asked Madam.

“Oh no!  I’m a terrible mother!” She shouted as she ran back towards the car.

She laid Shelly carefully at the water’s edge at Durdle Door beach and starting talking quietly.  I’m sure it was something profound but the wind took most of her words away.  All I caught was “I’ll miss you so much” and “send me a shelfie.”

We wandered down the beach along the chalk cliffs and water’s edge, stopping to take pictures of Durdle Door as we went.  Madam was under strict instructions not to touch any shells, dead or alive.

As we started up the long and steep path back to the car Madam said “Shelly was very lucky really.  She can cross Durdle Door and the Jurassic Coast off her bucket list.  It would have taken her years to crawl here.”