34. Morecambe

Private site
June 12^th - 14^th

Fifty miles up from Southport, into Preston then up the M6. Not bad site here, just behind Morecambe's new football ground and with a cycle path into the town one way and to Lancaster the other. Good TV and radio reception, so will be able to watch the opening World Cup match tonight, and my Three dongle works fine. All good then.

Just before I left Southport I was talking to the old chap in the van next to me. He was getting a push-chair out of his van and explained to me “This is for the dog. He's thirteen and gets very tired, but he likes a walk and doesn't like being left in the van. We'll walk down the town and put him in the push-chair when it gets too much for him.”  Priceless.

Across Morecambe Bay

Having good radio reception means I can listen to the ball-by-ball commentary on the First Test against Sri Lanka. Oh, bliss! And the sun is shining. In fact, it was so warm in the van on the way up that I had to use the fan for the first time. Ain't life grand? Isn't it strange that so many towns in this part of the world have been named after famous entertainers? Eric Morecambe, George Formby, Bing Crosby, Chuck Bury, Billy Preston, Burt Lancaster, the list is endless.

The Stone Jetty

So, after settling in, having lunch, a read and a snooze, I did my now usual preliminary scouting outing on the bike. There is an off-road cycle-track right to the sea-front, so I took that and rode along the promenade from top to bottom. Half-way along there is the Stone Jetty which has an old station building on it. The jetty was built in 1851 and the station was the terminus for boat trains for ferries to Ireland and Scotland.

 

 Another old station now contains the Tourist Information office, which is excellent and which provided me with a free cycling map of the area. A third station is actually the station where trains to Morecambe stop and start. As I rode along the promenade I enjoyed a lovely view of the fells in the Lake District across Morecambe Bay. There is a nice sculpture in steel on the prom of the fells with their names so you can see what you are looking at across the bay. The bay itself is amazing, the sands stretching out towards the Furness peninsular as far as the eye can see.



Steel fells on the promenade

On Friday I attacked Morecambe for real. In along the cycle track, which apparently used to be a single-track railway line, then south along the promenade to Heysham. The track made me climb a very stiff hill then disappeared when I got to the top; unkind, I thought. So I turned round and rode north, along the length of the Morecambe promenade and up to the coast road to the north. Set into the promenade were some metal discs engraved with interesting facts about Morecambe Bay. It would take twenty-four million years to fill the Bay from a bath-tap. The West End pier was damaged by fire in 1907 and destroyed by a storm in 1977. The Central Pier was damaged by fire in 1933 and demolished in 1992. The Central Amusement Arcade was destroyed by fire somewhen or other. Since I had just passed the Mega Zone laser tag attraction (whatever that is) still smouldering from a fire yesterday, it seems there is a long-term problem here with things catching fire. The fire brigade were on strike, incidentally, so the police had to deal with the fire.

Not the one with short, fat, hairy legs

On a wide grassy area next to the promenade were two old geezers having a chat, each of them with a golden retriever. The two dogs were sitting quietly, virtually nose-to-nose, and at first it appeared that they were just ignoring each other. When I looked closer, though, I could see they were talking:

Rover: Blimey, Towser, these Owners are something else, aren't they? Mine watched the Brazil match last night and now he thinks England can win the World Cup!

Towser: I know. What are they like? Mine listened to the Test Match this morning and now he reckons we're going to win the Ashes back. Did yours have a glass of sherry before we came out?

Rover: Yep, it always spells trouble, doesn't it? They'll probably want to go down the pub now instead of going for a proper walk.

A number of breakwaters formed from piled-up rocks have been built, and this has had the effect of creating a succession of little sandy bays along the seafront, making a most attractive sight. Another attractive sight is the bronze statue of Eric Morecambe, real name Eric Bartholomew, on the promenade near the Clock Tower. These features, together with the amazing Art Deco Midland Hotel, the Stone Jetty, the Lifeboat Station and the backdrop of the Fells make for a really outstanding promenade.

Sadly, the town itself, behind the facade of amusement arcades, rock-shops, pubs, ice-cream parlours and boarding houses, is not an attractive sight and is just appalling. It was a frightful shock to the system after the delights of the promenade. Dereliction of both buildings and of people. It even has an Arndale Centre, which is always the kiss of death. I didn't have the courage to go in. I've never seen so many derelict-looking, demented-looking or dangerous-looking people together in one place. Fertile ground for Channel Five documentaries.

I had decided the charity shops and the plaque about Thora Hird, who was born here, were the highlights of the town centre when my sanity was rescued by finding a brilliant model railway shop in a back-street. Half an hour's chat with the owner and I was ready to face the town centre again, but I escaped without waiting around. I did, though, sport an exquisite 148:1 scale Southdown bus from him and it's now in pride of place in the van together with Tintin and Snowy and the two cats.

I feel sad about Morecambe, because it has obviously at some time been an elegant town of some note and the people I met were friendly and nice, although they sounded a bit like Caroline Aherne. Will its decline continue, I wonder, or can the restoration of the Midland Hotel and the Winter Gardens and the new football stadium inspire a return to former glories? I think the life of the town has been sucked-out by Lancaster, just three miles up the road, with its university and county town status. By the way, I read that Caroline Aherne has lung cancer. I hope she makes it because she is a talented girl and we can't afford to lose talent early. Her “Mrs Merton” used to break me up totally.  

The fabulous Midland Hotel

I was so traumatised I cycled to Lancaster to reconnoitre in readiness for a proper trip tomorrow, and tomorrow I'm going by bus because I've cycled another 30 kilometres today and my bus pass is going rusty. 

On my last day I got the bus to Lancaster as planned. I had forgotten it was Saturday and was a bit overcome by how busy it was. It was also very hot, the hottest day this year for me so far. I enjoyed mooching around and had a pleasantly cool walk alongside the estuary of the River Lune, but didn't stay too long. I had been here a few years ago for work, but couldn't remember anything about the place. The vulcanologist (don't mention the ears) with whom I used to develop computer earthquake models did his PhD at Lancaster and had a research facility here. I later went to Bogota in Colombia with him and he was good company. He told me a very funny story about the crowd throwing meat pies at the players at Oldham Athletic, but I can't remember enough detail to make a go of it for you. I can, though, remember the one he told me about watching the Old Firm match (Glasgow Rangers v Celtic). Someone was taken seriously ill in the crowd. The paramedics came and took him away on a stretcher, but had to walk round the perimeter of the pitch with him (they couldn't stop the game, could they?). As they were walking along a true Christian threw an empty bottle, which hit one of the paramedics on the head, laying him out and causing him to drop the stretcher. “That's not funny”, I hear you say, but I can hear you tittering from here. 

A tremendous coup at the Oxfam bookshop when I got two completely mint Sjowall and Wahloo paperbacks (iconic pre-Wallander Swedish police procedurals). What a result! If England lose tonight it won't seem so bad now.

It took me only five minutes to decide that Colombia were going to be my favourite “Other” team. They were great against the stodgy Greeks and played like madmen on drugs, doing everything the hard way, hogging it when they should have passed it, obviously not talking to each other and generally playing like Under Thirteens. Brilliant! England could be playing them in the next round. Mental! If they ever decide to listen to their coach they will be a real handful.      

 

"The Shrimps"

 

33. Southport

CC Site

June 9^th - 11^th

A fairly innocuous drive of 40 miles via Preston with torrential rain throughout. The A565 brings you into Southport from the north and you drive right through the whole length of the town centre to get to the site on the south side. Wow! The town is really nice, colonnades and arcades and giant stone buildings. It's a bit like Tunbridge Wells by the sea. Definitely anti-Blackpool. I got a bit lost and trawled some back streets (or should I say 'back boulevards', because there were the most amazing mansions everywhere). This is definitely Millionnairesville. Had a quick cycle around after settling, just to get the lie of the land. This stage is going to depend very much on the weather. If it's fine tomorrow, Plan A (bus to Crosby to see 'Another Place', Antony Gormley's giant figures standing in the sea). If wet, Plan B (mooch around the town and hope for fine weather on Wednesday). 

Lord Street

 Oh dear, I've just been tidying up older Blog pages and for some reason or other the software has moved my first stage (Cambridge in February) to the front to make it the most recent. So, if it sounds familiar...................

Had a pleasant Tuesday walking around Southport. The main avenue, Lord Street, very wide, is lined with colonnaded shops on one side and parks and gardens on the other. Also on the 'other' side are the massive war memorial and the town hall and library and behind them the main shopping area. I went into British Home Stores to try to get some more of their brilliant anti-blister socks, but no joy. I shall have to stick to the Vaseline. Ho, ho! Lots of joy, though, from the shop itself, which looks to be unchanged, including some of the staff, since the place was built. No escalators, but three lovely lifts with Art Deco surrounds.

Lord Street again

The Town Hall and Library

In the town there are loads of seats for resting and people-watching and there is a great relaxed atmosphere. One nice arcade contains a bronze of Red Rum but the others are quite run-down. Red Rum won the Grand National three times and was second twice and never fell in a race, an unparalleled record. His trainer, Ginger McCain, was a Southport car dealer and trained the horse on the beach. His success is remarkable, given his unusual diet of oven chips. The bronze wasn't life-size, which rather spoiled it for me and explains why I didn't take a photo. One arcade, with a splendid Art Deco stained-glass entrance, contained a huge junk market with loads of old Dinky Toys and railway models.

Nice arcade (can you see Red Rum?)

I trawled the charity ships and found an interesting novel by a Colombian author but otherwise drew a blank. There was an awful lot of chick-lit, especially by the appalling Louise Bagshawe/Mensch. Maybe this is another place where only the ladies read books and the gentlemen go to the pub. Or, possibly, play crown-green bowls in Victoria Park. I sat on a wet bench and watched some playful oldies enjoying themselves in spite of their execrable dress-sense. One of them even took the time to explain the rules to me as he went along, although his broad scouse accent, which is quite common here, was almost impenetrable. In crown-green the green comes to a point in the middle and you play across the slope, not straight up and down as in flat-green. One old bloke was absolutely brilliant and got his wood, and sometimes both of them, closest to the jack almost every time. His opponents survived only by concentrating on knocking him out of the way. You could tell that everyone knew he was The King.

Ice cream - or body parts?

I passed (and then returned to take a look at) a sweetshop with every kind, shape, colour and flavour of rock imaginable and a grotesque display in the window of ice cream studded with assorted fruits and lumps of confectionery. This bizarre display, obviously intended to be attractive and to stimulate the sweet-tooth, looked truly disgusting, a bit like the internal organs of a post mortem subject laid-out for inspection. The photograph can't do justice to the horror of the sight. So I bought two scoops. Just kidding.

Well, my decision to wait until Wednesday to go to Another Place was proved good. Torrential rainstorms but no thunder and lightning after I got back home at 2 o'clock and they have continued into the evening. Tomorrow promises to be fine, so I think I will cycle to Crosby, twenty-eight miles there and back according to the AA Routefinder. No rush, take it easy, drink plenty of water and it will be flat, of course, along the sea front. The atmosphere has wrecked my TV signal, so no Endeavour or Fast Show for me tonight. Bugger. I shall have to read a book.

I'm just finishing one of Patricia Highsmith's Ripley thrillers, possibly her last one, called “The Boy who Followed Ripley”. There's not really any mystery or puzzle in these books but a nerve-racking feeling of menace and suspense, ratcheting-up as the book progresses. You need a lie-down in a dark room when you finish one. 

Wednesday, last day at Southport, a fine day. Off to Crosby, just outside Liverpool, to see Another Place, Antony Gormley's sculptures in the sea. The round trip proved to be forty-eight kilometers, about thirty miles. It started by passing through the extensive grassy sand hills either side of the coast road and by skirting Royal Birkdale Golf Club.

The sand dunes here are the home of the endangered natterjack toad, Britain's rarest amphibian. Some years ago there was a real possibility of their extinction, but careful conservation work of the very best kind has ensured its safety. When the site on which I am camping was extended there was a risk that one of their habitual areas would be threatened, and the Environment Agency took a very close interest in the development. It must be very difficult to inspire interest in protecting a toad; everybody loves furry creatures but few are enthusiastic about toads. There is a very good article on this, the Sefton Coast, on the BBC Countryfile website:-

http://www.countryfile.com/days-out/natterjack-toads-southport-lancashire

After the dunes, much of the journey was taken up by the Formby by-pass, but there were segregated cycle tracks most of the way and the cycling was pleasantly relaxed. Just before Crosby I passed through the village of Little Crosby, eight miles from Liverpool, where the only church was a large old Catholic church, surely a very rare occurrence in Britain. The Wikipedia article on Little Crosby is interesting:-

The village is perhaps the oldest extant Roman Catholic village in England, the squires being the notable recusant Blundell family. The village character has changed little from a 17th-century description that "it had not a beggar, ..an alehouse ..[or] a Protestant in it..." In 2009 Protestants reside in the village as old values change - Protestant inhabitants however must be 'vetted' by the local Squire before occupation of one of the 50 or so dwellings. In 1986 a senior member of the hamlet was quoted in the Liverpool Echo as saying "Protestants are discouraged from settling in our village".

How strange and rather disturbing to read that about a village in England. I was OK though; I had a book of papal indulgence vouchers and was allowed to pass through without being vetted by the Squire.

Crosby itself seemed a bit of a dump, but the brown-sign directions to Another Place took me north along the coast to Blundellsands, a very wealthy area. The sculptures themselves were individually wonderful, looking wistfully out to sea, but the whole scenario was rather disappointing, with the figures, one hundred of them, quite widely scattered and the whole not striking the eye with any vivid impact. I had expected them to be more closely grouped. The fact that they were gazing at a wind-farm and a drilling rig also detracted from the magic. To quote from the Visit Liverpool website:-

According to Antony Gormley, Another Place harnesses the ebb and flow of the tide to explore man's relationship with nature. He explains: The seaside is a good place to do this. Here time is tested by tide, architecture by the elements and the prevalence of sky seems to question the earth's substance. In this work human life is tested against planetary time. This sculpture exposes to light and time the nakedness of a particular and peculiar body. It is no hero, no ideal, just the industrially reproduced body of a middle-aged man trying to remain standing and trying to breathe, facing a horizon busy with ships moving materials and manufactured things around the planet.

Another Place

Well, I may have been disappointed but I was glad I had been to see them, another little pilgrimage completed.

The return ride was easier, but I had to spoil it by an act of random vandalism. I was buzzing along, plugged-in to Bruce Springsteen and, of course, as deaf as a proverbial, and didn't hear a racing cyclist trying to overtake me. My first sight of him was when he burst past me, got his front wheel (very skinny on a racing bike) on to the rubbly edge of the track and fell off. I stopped and apologised and he was very forgiving, but I could hear his teeth grinding (well, I think they were his teeth, because he was quite old). He remounted and took-off at high speed and, thankfully, I didn't see him again. 

I had a really good nap when I got back home. I'm very glad I came to Southport; I really liked it here.

Cambridge

CC site, Cherry Hinton

February 24-28

Here we go again. I had intended to start at Oxford, but the C & C Club site was very near the Thames and I can't swim. Decent drive up here, around 100 miles, via the M25 and M11.

The site is in an old chalk pit in the side of the only hill in Cambridgeshire. It's pretty much ideal, 3 minutes walk from a bus stop with a bus into the city every 10 minutes, loads of cycle paths in every direction and a massive Tesco a 10-minute bike ride away.

Have made a few trips into the city and walked all over it, including along the Backs. All of the colleges present a closed face to the world, of course. You can walk round any of them if you pay £5, but I demurred. Peering into the little doors let into their massive front gates, I got a strong sense of how Jude the Obscure must have felt as he walked around Oxford; Jude the Excluded. Beautiful architecture, though, especially Kings College chapel. I do struggle a bit, though, with the yellow brick; it reminds me a bit, especially when blackened by usage, of LNER railway architecture.

A high proportion of young oriental people here ( could it be the numerous language schools?) and, on the one seriously dark rainy day, I was reminded of “Blade Runner” by the swarms of bike-riders.

 

King's College

 

Took a picture of ”The Eagle” (formerly “The Eagle and Child”), a boring stone building worth a wonderful history. The plaque outside mentions Crick and Watson, but didn't the Cambridge Five (or is it the Cambridge Ring) booze in here? I didn't go in (what a hero you are, Rog) but I can't imagine they had framed pictures of Burgess, McLean, Philby and Blunt on the walls.

 

The layout of the streets is very eccentric and rather cunning. Streets seem to meet at right-angles but they are slightly off, so, when you imagine you are walking a square you are,in fact, walking in ever-increasing circles.

Walked over Christ's Pieces (3 Hail Marys) but not Parker's Piece as Parker asked me very kindly to leave well alone.

On Wednesday I sat outside and read my book – the First Sit-Out of the year! Just to make up for it, however, we had a gale and a torrent in the night and I had to get up to re-peg the awning more securely.

  

Thursday went to see “The Book Thief” at a very modern Vue cinema in a massive shopping centre. Very sentimental film, but enjoyable story. A sprinkling of wrinklies (including me) in there and the most inappropriate adverts and trailers for them. Spiderman 2, “Noah”, which seemed to be a massive punch-up between Russell Crowe's gang of savages and Ray Winstone's gang of savages (I must re-read my bible) and a really mindless-looking comedy with Emma Thompson, who should know better. Marketing is so sophisticated now you'd think they would know their audience and match the blurb to it. One of the adverts encouraged us to play a quiz game on our smartphones, even though we had been told to switch them off when we entered the auditorium. As for myself, I certainly turned-off my smartphone.

Saw Rory McGrath on his mobile outside Boots. He's even scruffier than me. In fact, HE asked for MY autograph. Just kidding. Also saw Charles Clarke (Home Secretary, I think, for a short while in Gordon Brown's circus)

Now, what about this. I was de-cluttering the van on Wednesday evening and came across a note saying “Brian Aldiss – Supertoys last all summer long”. It jogged my memory that this was the work on which the film “AI” was based. I was going into the City in the morning, so I thought I'd look for it then. In the morning, I turned the radio on to Radio 4Extra and there was a preview of readings next week from................. short stories by Brian Aldiss including “Supertoys last all summer long”. Amazing!

 



32. Blackpool

CC Site
June 6^th, 7^th and 8^th

Fifty-six down the M6, very busy, along the M55 then off at a roundabout, nearly getting killed by a psychopath driving an articulated Cemex lorry who went postal because I got in the correct lane at the roundabout and overtook me on the inside on the roundabout. I counted to ten and retired shaken. Life's too short.

 

Blackpool Tower and Pleasure Beach

Pleasant site here between Blackpool and Lytham St. Anne's, so will try to visit both. The bus service runs only from Monday to Friday, so I may have to cycle in to Blackpool. Lytham, by the way, used to be the home of the headquarters of the Football Association, but I imagine they have moved to Monte Carlo or New York. Appropriately named, the FA. They have delivered our national game into the hands of thieves, precisely by doing sweet FA. Rant over.

"Big Blue"

The day which promised much has now (2pm) clouded over and I hear heavy rain is forecast tomorrow. No problem.

Why did I come to Blackpool? Well, mainly to confirm what I devoutly hope, that it has improved since the last time I came (and the only time) about twenty years ago. It can't have got worse. I came before on an outing with some colleagues from work (the Mutants, in fact). There is a word, but I don't know what it is, for something that is so bad that it's good. That's how this outing was. It started at a pub near Euston Station. When we left to get the train, a dog had done the most enormous pile of poo just outside the door. We all missed it, but it was an omen and it all went downhill after that. The 'hotel' had a leaky ceiling and a drunken landlady. We couldn't find anything recognisable as a decent pub anywhere and had to settle for a Yates's Wine Lodge, drinking 'Aussie White' wine. We had a Chinese which gave me the worst flatulence I've ever had and which proved nearly fatal to my friends. We ended in a club which was a sort of prefab painted entirely black inside where nothing seemed to happen, where time seemed to stand still and life seemed a distant memory. The next day we went for a healthy walk all along the promenade and admired the sea, which seemed to consist of eighty per cent sewage and in which large lumps could be seen bobbing. Things became bearable only when we found a great pub in a Preston back-street while waiting to change trains on the way home. Sadly, we had time for only one drink. One brave soul had a British Rail curry on the train which consisted of a spoonful of rice, a pool of yellow liquid and a single lump of meat in the middle of it. Of course, it being Stuart Orchard, he wolfed it with relish.

The Tower and "The Albert and the Lion"

I did a good deal of planning with the idea of cycling to the sea-front then right along the promenade to the north side of Blackpool and back again. My route would avoid some of the really vile dual-carriageways I saw yesterday and their homicidal drivers. There don't seem to be any speed limits on these roads. It's a bit like some parts of LA where it's almost illegal to walk anywhere and certainly a sign of insanity. My attempt to walk to Tesco yesterday to catch a bus to town was nerve-racking to say the least, especially the bit where I had to cross two lanes of one of these highways of death. I was also risking drowning in the litter which covered the verges. Tesco had to manage without my custom. I saw the bus I was trying to catch three times, always disappearing round a corner, but I never saw a bus stop. Anyway, I digress. My cycling plans came to nought because it poured with rain nearly all day. It's sunny now (at 18:00) so I'm hopeful for tomorrow. It should be a really enjoyable ride. I've just heard it's forty-four degrees in Montreal. I thought Canada was a cold country; this one certainly is so far this year.


Mmmm, that adds a bit of class

Sunday, my last day here, and a great cycle-ride, thirty-two km., all the way along the seafront from St. Anne's to past the North Pier at Blackpool, mostly off the road on cycle paths and on the promenade. Off to the north was a faint view of hills, presumably in the west of the Lake District and a vast wind-farm out in the sea, off, I should think, Barrow in Furness. The funfair bit about Blackpool is not really my scene, but you have to admire a superlative when you see one. This place has really gone for it and it's pretty awesome. Lots of spectacularly naff buildings, but my favourite was a great art deco block next to the Tower which houses a Weatherspoon's pub called “The Albert and the Lion”. This is named after the Stanley Holloway song about a boy who goes to Blackpool zoo and gets eaten by Wallace the lion.

Then Pa, who had seen the occurrence,

And didn't know what to do next,


Said " Mother! Yon Lion's 'et Albert,"

And Mother said " Well, I am vexed!"

Then Mr. and Mrs. Ramsbottom,

Quite rightly, when all's said and done,


Complained to the Animal Keeper,

That the Lion had eaten their son.

 

 

This morning, enjoying my shower, I was looking forward to my bike ride and telling myself not to forget to wear my cycling shorts. Oh bliss, no more sore backside. That reminded me about the silly books titles we used to invent at school:-

 

“Cycling from Pole to Pole” by Major Bumsore

“Tragedy on the Cliffs” by Eileen Dover

“My Life as a Lion-Tamer” by Claud Bottom

Ah, simple, innocent pleasures, and we were only eighteen.  

The Albert and the Lion

31. Kendal

CC Site
June 4^th and 5^th

63 mile drive down the M6 to this site south-west of Kendal at Sedgwick. It's in a National Trust deciduous forest and used to be the site of a gunpowder factory. The pitches are just clearings in the forest and from mine I can't see anyone or anything except trees. An ideal situation for catching-up on my e-mails and the Blog. A warm rain fell nearly all day.

 

The River Kent in Kendal

The warden lent me a write-up on the gunpowder factory. The first was opened in 1764 and, after it had closed, another on the same site in 1857. The area was a centre for gunpowder production, with readily-available water for power and high-grade charcoal for the process itself. Salt-petre was imported from Chile and sulphur from Italy. The Sedgwick site was particularly suitable because of its dense forest and undulating terrain. The trees were used to test the strength of the gunpowder, missiles being fired at the tree trunks and the depth of penetration observed and the undulating terrain was a safeguard against explosions. I had been surprised by the almost total lack of any ruined factory buildings, but then discovered that the Explosives Act 1875 had stipulated that any gunpowder factory which ceased production had to be destroyed. A fragment of the staff canteen does remain, so this was presumably not seen as being dangerous. The gunpowder produced was used initially solely for military purposes, but in time was used mainly by the mining industry.

 

My own personal forest clearing

Watched England's hilarious performance against Ecuador. Against Peru they were competent but stultifyingly boring, against Ecuador they were shambolic but worth watching. Rooney again seemed to me to be a waste of space, unless you judge him as a defensive midfielder, and the hype following his scoring in an empty net from twelve inches was beyond belief. Milner seemed to be playing (badly) at right back, so, if Wayney must be in the team, why not play him there? Johnson is pretty useless defensively, so he couldn't do any worse. The high point was when Ben Foster came roaring out to save the missing defence again and took a flying hack at an Ecuador forward, just failing to sever his head. All in all, it was great stuff. I hope Roy plays this team in the World Cup. Football can be fun, even when England are playing! Sir Alf had the courage to leave Jimmy Greaves out of the team and I hope Roy will leave Rooney out.



Low Wood Caravan Club site, Kendal



Watched Pointless. They do seem to have more sentient beings on there than on other TV quiz programmes, but two young lads excelled themselves on questions about the Battle of Waterloo. One thought it had occurred in the 1500's, the other that the British commander was Nelson and the first, who was the real star, that the village of Waterloo was in England. Should this sort of ignorance be made an offence? Or what about having forfeits? What was that thing called in Tiswas when people got swamped by green slime? The two lads on it, Alexander Armstrong and Richard Osman, are funny enough anyway, but I'd love to see them trying not to laugh when a plonker was deluged.

Well, Thursday, just a perfect day. Cycled in to Kendal and back, about 20km and very hilly, by way of the A6 on the way (very scary) and by way of country lanes along the valley of the River Kent on the way back (much more enjoyable). Kendal is just a wonderful town, quite easily the best place I have been since I became a man of the road. Mere words are just not enough to describe how great it is, and it got even better when I found in the Oxfam shop six Maigret novels which I didn't have, £1 each and all in mint condition. It's been so long since I found a Maigret in a charity shop that I couldn't believe my eyes or my luck.

The site here is similarly indescribably wonderful. I would need a stroll round it with a video camera to convey to you its perfection. The scent of wild garlic and the sound of trickling streams. If they had seasonal pitches I would definitely take one and stay here as long as I could and cycle in to Kendal whenever I damn well felt like it. The next three days are going to be the most amazing contrast to my stay here.

The site again

Now, here's another article on one of my heroes. My mp3 player was playing 'Fools Rush In' by Ricky Nelson (don't ask), which made me think of Johnny Mercer, who wrote the words. He was also a talented singer himself and went on to found Capitol records. He was a little bald, gap-toothed bloke who wouldn't impress you if you saw him in a Tesco check-out queue. He was the scion of one of the top families of the old South and had a privileged upbringing. His father was a lawyer and property developer in Savannah, Georgia, who lost his money but, rather than declare bankruptcy, worked to pay-off his $1million debts. Mercer himself was an alcoholic, but worked all his life to help pay off his father's debts, because it was the honourable thing to do. When his father died still owing a substantial sum he sold his share in Capitol Records to pay it off. He wrote the words of many great songs, including 'I Remember You', 'That Old Black Magic', 'I'm Old-Fashioned', 'The Shadow of your Smile', 'Laura', ' Autumn Leaves', 'Days of Wine and Roses', 'Moon River' and many more and won four Oscars. He first won my admiration because he coined one of the greatest ever quotes. When asked what he thought of an immensely popular song (can't remember which) he replied “I could eat alphabet soup and shit better lyrics”. Sorry about the language. The BBC still have some footage of him on Parkinson (who greatly admired him) shortly before he died in 1976.

 

Johnny Mercer

 

 

 

That's all, folks. To-day, Friday, I'm off on the road again.     

30. Carlisle

Dalston Hall, Carlisle
Private site
June 1^st - 3^rd

What a lovely site, run by the most relaxed old bloke in the world. He had sounded great when I spoke to him on the phone, asking my name but not asking for a deposit. When I arrived he shook hands and we had a great old chinwag. He seems to run the little golf course here as well. It's expensive at £20, being a private site, but beautifully laid-out, spotless and the showers are amazingly space-age. The bus to Carlisle stops outside the site entrance and goes into the city every hour. The only drawback is the lack of internet coverage.

The drive down was motorway pretty much all the way until I took the A689 to Workington at Carlisle. Is this the road which goes to Bishop Auckland? What a treat to drive from Workington to Bishop Auckland! Steady now, Rog, you've never actually been to Workington. A real treat is having radio reception again. I've really missed it. At Moffat I got lousy reception but at least I got some, and listened to the England/Sri Lanka 50-over match with great difficulty. I did manage to get reception on Channel 5 to watch the highlights at 19:00, but fell asleep before it came on and missed Jos Buttler's amazing innings!

Cycled into the substantial village of Dalston a mile or so down the road. Just outside it is a huge grey metallic factory which I took to be a feed mill but which, it transpired, was a Nestlé beverage plant. A lady on the bus the next day told me they made Nescafé and Blue Riband biscuits there. I passed the Blue Bell pub as I entered the square. So many pubs in the North are called “The Blue Bell”. They are all named for a blue bell (the kind with a clapper) which is usually on the pub sign, and not the flower. I wonder what it's all about. Outside the Co-Op was a placard from a local paper saying “Robbery bid man demanded 'zombie' haircut”. Bizarre! Unfortunately the shop had sold out so I couldn't read the story.

 

 

Anti-Bulgarian prejudice in Carlisle

On Monday I took the bus into Carlisle, just a couple of miles. What a joy it is to use my bus-pass again and get something for nothing. We passed a big Pirelli tyre factory on the way in. At first sight the city is pretty gruesome, with street after street of horridly run-down terraces and disused warehouses and vacant sites. Once into the centre things get better, but, after Edinburgh and Glasgow, it seems a pretty low-rise sort of a place with little pretension to even the slightest grandeur. After a couple of hours of strolling around, though, I came to like it a lot. The layout is quite eccentric and there are lots of little fiddly bits. Not one of the streets seems able to travel from its start to its end without spawning alleys or ginnels or snecks all over the place, and there are arcades, too. There is even a nice  faux-Georgian crescent. The railway station, splendidly named the “Citadel”, is monumental and there is the daintiest town hall, now the tourist information centre. 

The Town Hall

On 'Start the Week' on Radio Four this morning they were discussing Rod Liddle's new book “Selfish Whining Monkeys”. It sounds great, largely because he agrees a lot with me about stuff and, therefore, must be right! How can I get to read it before 2020, because it's against my principles to buy a book new and I'm sure it won't appear in charity shops until then? Well, I popped into Waterstone's just in case they had it on sale for a fiver or so, but no joy. On the 'Clearance' shelf, though, they had Morrissey's autobiography and a tourist guide to Syria. Mmmm. What I did find was a book by Jon Ronson called 'Frank', which is about a film about Frank Sidebottom which is being released in 2014 starring Michael Fassbender and Maggie Gyllenhaal. I'd certainly be interested in seeing that.

Well, it was last of the current series of “Have I Got News For You” this week and I hope to God it's the last. It's a pale imitation of the programme it was even two years ago and has turned into a second-rate joke show. It was sad to see, like watching a beloved pet dog drag itself from its bed to bark weakly at a visitor. I mean, there was some idiot called Joe Wilkinson on the last show. He said nothing apposite and just made a string of pathetic quips. Who the hell is Joe Wilkinson anyway? Is satire dead? And, while we are at it, what IS the point of Harriet Harman? 

Went into Carlisle again on my last day and had a look at the major architectural features. The cathedral is initially rather unimpressive because, being built from red sandstone, it looks somehow recent. Inside, though, it's a different story. It's quite small compared with, say, Durham or York, but this adds to its attraction.

The Choir roof

There is a large chapel dedicated to the Border Regiment, or, to give it its full name, the King's Own Royal Border Regiment. One of its battle honours is Neuve Chapelle, where my grandfather was killed and was buried. There are many interesting memorial tablets, including one which shows that, in the South African War of 1899-1902 (the Boer War), three times as many men died of disease as were killed in action. How careless of the people in charge who should surely by then have known better. There is also a tablet to a man who was the vicar of Hutton Roof, a small village in south Cumbria, and who was awarded the DSO and the VC. He was also chaplain to the King. How did a padre get involved in action to the extent of winning the DSO and VC? He must have been involved to some extent because he died of wounds in October, 1918. Very strange. The choir is perfect and some bright spark has thought to place a mirror on its back on a table, pointing upwards so that you can look properly at the magnificent vaulted ceiling, heavenly blue with gold stars, without getting a fatal crick in your neck. The cathedral was built in 1133, so the new-looking red sandstone has lasted very well.  

 

The East Window

The station was next and was a cathedral in its own way. It is impressively called Citadel Station. If you can imagine a shoe-box with no lid and no ends; the two sides are of stone, twenty-feet and two storeys high and contain all the station offices, the ticket office, the waiting room, the left luggage office, the station-master's office, the buffet and so on. The shoe-box covers eight railway tracks. Spanning the two sides is a glass roof supported by a cast-iron canopy, surprisingly delicate given the length of the span. Inside, the station is light and airy and has such a pleasant atmosphere I wandered around for probably twenty minutes. As a bonus, the station is the northern terminus of the famous Settle and Carlisle Line, which the powers of evil tried so hard for so many years to close.  

 

Citadel Station

 Carlisle, you know, used to be the home of the state brewery. Yes, you and I, tax-payers, used to own a brewery, complete with its own chain of pubs. It was sold off to Theakston, the Yorkshire brewery and closed by Scottish and Newcastle Breweries after they had taken over Theakston. I had imagined its sale was the first fuhrer directive issued by Maggie as soon as she strapped herself into the Harness of Power in 1979, but, in fact, Grocer Heath was the culprit in 1971.

I thought Carlisle was terrific and congratulate the people who live here.

29 Moffat

“Magical Moffat – Scotland's Wee Gem”
C & CC Site
May 30^th - 31^st

This episode is going to be a bit delayed. When I got to my next stop I found I had no internet coverage with my dongle. It's a pretty boring episode (I slept most of the time) so you won't have missed too much.

After dropping-off for a night's rest at Lochgilpead I moved on to Loch Lomond and had another quick stop at Luss.

 

 My friends the mallards were still around and mobbed me pretty much as soon as I got there. Then quite a long drive (ninety four miles) down along Loch Lomond, over the Erskine Bridge and on to the M74 towards Carlisle. The geography along the way, once free of Glasgow, was pretty much rolling grassy, rocky and heathery fells, sheep and babbling brooks.

Busy site right in the centre of town. Had a walk around the metropolis (pop.2,500) in the afternoon after my usual nap. Nice! Old lady sitting on a seat outside the cemetery having a fag and basking in the sun had a quick chat, saying she could manage if this weather lasted until Christmas. More hotels here than people, because as I discovered, it used to be a popular spa town. Must try to take the waters to-day. Got an interesting Japanese detective novel in Oxfam and asked the ladies there for their opinion of the best fish and chips in town. One had just closed down, possibly to re-open, because the ninety-year-old lady proprietor had died.

Outside the very old, very interesting, but very closed Black Bull Inn was an inscription which left me puzzled. Was it ambiguous or am I being dense?  Also passed the narrowest hotel in the world (it's official, it's in the Guinness Book of Records). A sighting to go with the narrowest snooker hall in the world (not official, though, just my guess) which I had seen in Darlington.

Sat outside in the warm sun and read for the rest of the afternoon. The people in the caravan next to me have a small cat on a lead. I must ask them how they trained it. Katie had phoned me to ask if I wanted a ginger tom cat which her friend was going to have to let go as she was moving flats. Another Mick! It would be interesting, but I think that a female would be better for me as they don't wander like a tom. Another Mick, though!

I had bought a Times as a Friday treat and found a wonderful article on Johnny Wilkinson by Simon Barnes. How about this for journalism?

 

Turn on your television at teatime and you'll find yourself watching a quiz show. What do the contestants have in common? Ignorance. They grin and guess and hope for questions about Coronation Street and maybe Manchester United. They know nothing. They just want to be on telly.

At lunchtime you can watch random strangers buying antiques to sell at auction, all ignorant of the basic facts of history, without any understanding of craftsmanship and knowing nothing about the antiques market. But they're on telly, famous for the usual length of time. Call it Warholsworth, four to the hour.

Scan the channels and you find talent shows for people without talent and gory revelations about people no-one is interested in. The world is full of people who, with no qualifications such as knowledge, intelligence, understanding, talent or personality, have received a homeopathic dose of fame; fame in the abstract; fame as a kind of basic human right; fame unearned; as ardently sought as it is undeserved. To each such person a Warholsworth. It is part of the way we live.

How about that? He's right, isn't he? How weary he sounds of this dumbing-down awfulness. O Tempora, O mores. Of course he is, like everyone else, just in search of a hero and goes on to talk about Wilkinson, who, because of his temperament, shunned the limelight but in vain because of his tremendous talent. Great article.

And then I saw some good news. Malcolm Glaser has died, the American property developer who bought Manchester United and turned it from one of the richest clubs in the world to one of the most indebted and who is responsible for the club's current malaise. This is a man who, when “his mother Hannah died in 1980, leaving a million dollars, ….assumed all her assets and for the next twenty-four years resisted his sisters' challenge to his mother's will.” He made a fortune from shopping malls and trailer parks and was successfully sued for illegally charging trailer park tenants an extra $3 a week per dog and $5 per baby. This was a bad person, a monster, and now he's dust and has discovered that you really CAN'T take it with you. I'm so glad he's no longer among us. Someone like this should never become owner of a community asset like a football club. The game must protect itself against such animals.

I also found a really funny article (really good value, this Times) about a Wigan footballer who had his wedding rings (he was about to get married) and FA Cup medal stolen and who was quoted as saying “I am devastated, as is my fiancėe. The medal is priceless.” I do hope he is still getting married.

Well, dear reader, your correspondent is ashamed of himself. Saturday was such a beautiful day I spent it sitting in the sun, reading the paper and my Japanese detective mystery, which is very strange. Nothing at all to report, then. Never mind, everyone is entitled to a day off now and then. Onwards! I promise to try harder.