(no subject)
Its been a while since I did a proper LifeUpdate, but I've been working my tits off for the past month or so and there really isn't all that much to say (I say "working my tits off", but I don't mean that adrenaline-fuelled nightmare that Terrie seems to dabble in so regularly, but rather my time from 9:30am to 5:30pm is generally taken up with rather more work than chatting or internet).
I think I last left you on the steps of Acorn House, where Terrie and I had eaten a simply splendid lavender ice cream. Ed Miliband wasn't leader of the Opposition back then, and Robbie Williams hadn't totally murdered a duet with Gary Barlow on that Saturday night monstrosity Strictly Come Dancing. Ah yes, those were more innocent times:
Well, from 11 to 18 September 2010 we hired a gigantic mini-van with no storage space, filled it with the finest Deans and Johannes we could find and sashayed up the M1 to the Lake District, where a Charles and a Dave were acquired at Keswick Railway Station for very little money.
Our ultimate desination was the sprawling metropolis of Watermillock, on the shores of Ullswater. Watermillock transpired to be a pub, a semi-detached house, a third of a mile of country lane, our cottage, a row of mining houses and a chicken farm. We turned up at our cottage, parked and then - since we'd bought no provisions at all - had to walk back down the third of a mile of winding country road to the pub for a slap up meal. We arrived early and the Brackenrigg Inn was unable to seat us for two hours, but thankfully this just gave us an excuse for an impromptu beer festival.
The cottage - Beck House - was an lovely converted water mill, with huge windows looking out across the valley to Ullswater and the distant mountains. Paul and I had the best room by far - with a king sized bed and en suite bathroom - although this is not to say Charles and Dave didn't have their share of amenities as well: in the middle of the night they were treated to a shower in bed when the dishwasher pipe broke upstairs and gallons of water flooded through their ceiling.
It rained for much of the holiday, but in many ways a pleasant state of relaxation can be achieved by just sitting in a window seat with nothing more than a glass full of cider and a herd of happy cattle to keep you entertained. We had red squirrels too, a particular specialty of the Lake District, although I only saw one and only once, when it gamboled along the wall after grabbing my nuts.
Early in the holiday we tried to take the approach that come rain or shine we would still enjoy the glorious countryside, and so marched up to Lanty's Tarn in the pouring rain. We found a beautiful wooded pond flanked with the fresh corpse of a sheep, got soaked to the bone and ate some of the worst cake ever in Glenridding.
Later in the holiday we determined only to go walking when we figured the weather might bear it. Given it poured near constantly, we thus decided to find an indoor activity and drove to the Honister slate mine. Ironically, the only time the sun came out that day was after we had bought our tickets and were herded out of the sunshine and into a cold, wet hole in the mountain.
Paul and I are both descended from mining stock (in each case it went: dozens of generations of miserabel miners, father an engineer, son in professional services) and during the tour I began to feel less sorry for my ancestors and more astonished they were willing to put up with it. Seriosuly, if that had been me we'd be living in the Soviet Kingdom of England and Wales right now.
A miner's lot in the Lake District was particularly harsh. You'd think the locals would have been attuned to nature and how to make a living from the fields, so why they would spend entire fortnights at the mine is difficult to understand. They would sleep in unheated stone huts built at the mouth to the mine, and spend fifteen hours a day in the dark and cold smashing up slate. For every tonne of slate dug out, just 1% got used (and it cost about a penny). Good god. They could have been meeting Oscar Wilde or Charles Dickens, why on earth did they choose that.
Our most succesful walk was up a thing called Catbells. A ridge, I suppose. I hesistate to say mountain. The path quietly meandered past the ubiquitous sheep (live this time), along a ridge and up to the top of a pile of rocks, offering stunning views in all directions.
Our least succesful walk was to visit the Old Man of Coniston. This involved an interesting enough stroll through the leavings of British industry - slag heaps and copper mines, that sort of thing - followed by a mad scramble up a very tall pile of waste slate, and then an endless slog up a pathway to the top of a very high mountain. Our reward at the top was a sudden shift in weather: glorious sunshine gave way to pouring rain, and the briefest glimpse across the rolling hills out to the sea at Morcombe Bay was suddenly sheathed in filthy grey, as the air around us turned to 50% water. We walked back down drenched.
I still don't know what the Old Man of Coniston was supposed to be. Ususally one would expect a splendid rock formation, but perhaps in this case it was eroded to an ugly nub by the horrific weather.
We were self catering, and we didn't eat out much at all. It seems Charles and Johannes are both eager cooks, and so from Charles we got sophisticated urban cuisine (figs with goat cheese, risotto, home made bread daily) while Johannes produced rib-sticking home-style cooking (pulled beef, pancakes, bit pots of chili served up with margharitas). It made life especially simple that I didn't need to walk to the pub to eat, and the only cost was having to do the washing up at the end (given the dish washer had given up the ghost and about fifteen gallons of water on the first evening - for which anyway we got a 10% refund).
The six of us got on splendidly and I'll certainly be encouraging more group holidays with the gang in future. The only downside was late in the evenings, when True Blood Season 1 would come out. True Blood totally sucks. The plot is absolute nonsense - two siblings descended from faeries spend their days having sex with and/or fighting with shape-shifters and vampires - and the fine line between farce and drama is poorly observed. As far as I can see, the only appeal is a sense of edginess, which is generated purely through references to drug abuse and sex. Count me out.
What next? Well, obviously we drove back to London and I had to hand back the car. The only problem in that respect was that we had hired a car for six grown men, which meant navigating the narrow winding lanes had proven hairy. Dry stone walling had not been kind to the hub caps or side door, but thankfully I returned the car on a Monday morning and they were too busy to check the car for damage.
Well the next few weekends were relatively quiet. Paul and I pottered a bit, and we had a fabulous feast at Tom and Lucy's house, and we went shopping. Nothing to write home about, really. I also met up with M. and Eammon, and we went to a new place in Chinatown (which - as I'm sure I've said - would be better renamed Asiahamlet), aptly named New China, where a platter of salt-and-pepper oysters large enough to feed four people can be had for less than a tenner.
I also went to see The Girl Who Played With Fire, a criminally poor sequel to the fabulous The Girl On The Drunken Baboon. The plot was utterly diffuse, hinged on a complete nonsense, built a weak back-story where none was required and ended with an absurd sequence in which our hero is shot three times in the tummy, buried for eight hours underground and then digs herself out of her grave with nothing more than an elegant silver cigarette case. I score this film three out of ten deformed, misogynistic circus apes.
There was also a brunch with Terriem in the ever fashionable Muswell Hill, a poached chicken, a superb meal at Loch Fyne, and I saw Reese Sheersmith ambling down the street looking decidedly older and less sexy than he did as a young man (but still the choice cut of the League of Gentlemen).
A new Tong also arrived in London - Mr Patrick Doherty - fresh from New Zealand, and Spim, Paul, Clara and I took the trouble to welcome him to town with warm beers at the Jerusalem Tavern. He fit in very well, and beer in the bar is to be followed up with prosecco in the park later this month.
"Is that it?" I head you cry. "Six weeks reduced to a mere one and a half thousand beautifully chosen words?" Well yes, I'm afraid that's it for now.
I think I last left you on the steps of Acorn House, where Terrie and I had eaten a simply splendid lavender ice cream. Ed Miliband wasn't leader of the Opposition back then, and Robbie Williams hadn't totally murdered a duet with Gary Barlow on that Saturday night monstrosity Strictly Come Dancing. Ah yes, those were more innocent times:
Well, from 11 to 18 September 2010 we hired a gigantic mini-van with no storage space, filled it with the finest Deans and Johannes we could find and sashayed up the M1 to the Lake District, where a Charles and a Dave were acquired at Keswick Railway Station for very little money.
Our ultimate desination was the sprawling metropolis of Watermillock, on the shores of Ullswater. Watermillock transpired to be a pub, a semi-detached house, a third of a mile of country lane, our cottage, a row of mining houses and a chicken farm. We turned up at our cottage, parked and then - since we'd bought no provisions at all - had to walk back down the third of a mile of winding country road to the pub for a slap up meal. We arrived early and the Brackenrigg Inn was unable to seat us for two hours, but thankfully this just gave us an excuse for an impromptu beer festival.
The cottage - Beck House - was an lovely converted water mill, with huge windows looking out across the valley to Ullswater and the distant mountains. Paul and I had the best room by far - with a king sized bed and en suite bathroom - although this is not to say Charles and Dave didn't have their share of amenities as well: in the middle of the night they were treated to a shower in bed when the dishwasher pipe broke upstairs and gallons of water flooded through their ceiling.
It rained for much of the holiday, but in many ways a pleasant state of relaxation can be achieved by just sitting in a window seat with nothing more than a glass full of cider and a herd of happy cattle to keep you entertained. We had red squirrels too, a particular specialty of the Lake District, although I only saw one and only once, when it gamboled along the wall after grabbing my nuts.
Early in the holiday we tried to take the approach that come rain or shine we would still enjoy the glorious countryside, and so marched up to Lanty's Tarn in the pouring rain. We found a beautiful wooded pond flanked with the fresh corpse of a sheep, got soaked to the bone and ate some of the worst cake ever in Glenridding.
Later in the holiday we determined only to go walking when we figured the weather might bear it. Given it poured near constantly, we thus decided to find an indoor activity and drove to the Honister slate mine. Ironically, the only time the sun came out that day was after we had bought our tickets and were herded out of the sunshine and into a cold, wet hole in the mountain.
Paul and I are both descended from mining stock (in each case it went: dozens of generations of miserabel miners, father an engineer, son in professional services) and during the tour I began to feel less sorry for my ancestors and more astonished they were willing to put up with it. Seriosuly, if that had been me we'd be living in the Soviet Kingdom of England and Wales right now.
A miner's lot in the Lake District was particularly harsh. You'd think the locals would have been attuned to nature and how to make a living from the fields, so why they would spend entire fortnights at the mine is difficult to understand. They would sleep in unheated stone huts built at the mouth to the mine, and spend fifteen hours a day in the dark and cold smashing up slate. For every tonne of slate dug out, just 1% got used (and it cost about a penny). Good god. They could have been meeting Oscar Wilde or Charles Dickens, why on earth did they choose that.
Our most succesful walk was up a thing called Catbells. A ridge, I suppose. I hesistate to say mountain. The path quietly meandered past the ubiquitous sheep (live this time), along a ridge and up to the top of a pile of rocks, offering stunning views in all directions.
Our least succesful walk was to visit the Old Man of Coniston. This involved an interesting enough stroll through the leavings of British industry - slag heaps and copper mines, that sort of thing - followed by a mad scramble up a very tall pile of waste slate, and then an endless slog up a pathway to the top of a very high mountain. Our reward at the top was a sudden shift in weather: glorious sunshine gave way to pouring rain, and the briefest glimpse across the rolling hills out to the sea at Morcombe Bay was suddenly sheathed in filthy grey, as the air around us turned to 50% water. We walked back down drenched.
I still don't know what the Old Man of Coniston was supposed to be. Ususally one would expect a splendid rock formation, but perhaps in this case it was eroded to an ugly nub by the horrific weather.
We were self catering, and we didn't eat out much at all. It seems Charles and Johannes are both eager cooks, and so from Charles we got sophisticated urban cuisine (figs with goat cheese, risotto, home made bread daily) while Johannes produced rib-sticking home-style cooking (pulled beef, pancakes, bit pots of chili served up with margharitas). It made life especially simple that I didn't need to walk to the pub to eat, and the only cost was having to do the washing up at the end (given the dish washer had given up the ghost and about fifteen gallons of water on the first evening - for which anyway we got a 10% refund).
The six of us got on splendidly and I'll certainly be encouraging more group holidays with the gang in future. The only downside was late in the evenings, when True Blood Season 1 would come out. True Blood totally sucks. The plot is absolute nonsense - two siblings descended from faeries spend their days having sex with and/or fighting with shape-shifters and vampires - and the fine line between farce and drama is poorly observed. As far as I can see, the only appeal is a sense of edginess, which is generated purely through references to drug abuse and sex. Count me out.
What next? Well, obviously we drove back to London and I had to hand back the car. The only problem in that respect was that we had hired a car for six grown men, which meant navigating the narrow winding lanes had proven hairy. Dry stone walling had not been kind to the hub caps or side door, but thankfully I returned the car on a Monday morning and they were too busy to check the car for damage.
Well the next few weekends were relatively quiet. Paul and I pottered a bit, and we had a fabulous feast at Tom and Lucy's house, and we went shopping. Nothing to write home about, really. I also met up with M. and Eammon, and we went to a new place in Chinatown (which - as I'm sure I've said - would be better renamed Asiahamlet), aptly named New China, where a platter of salt-and-pepper oysters large enough to feed four people can be had for less than a tenner.
I also went to see The Girl Who Played With Fire, a criminally poor sequel to the fabulous The Girl On The Drunken Baboon. The plot was utterly diffuse, hinged on a complete nonsense, built a weak back-story where none was required and ended with an absurd sequence in which our hero is shot three times in the tummy, buried for eight hours underground and then digs herself out of her grave with nothing more than an elegant silver cigarette case. I score this film three out of ten deformed, misogynistic circus apes.
There was also a brunch with Terriem in the ever fashionable Muswell Hill, a poached chicken, a superb meal at Loch Fyne, and I saw Reese Sheersmith ambling down the street looking decidedly older and less sexy than he did as a young man (but still the choice cut of the League of Gentlemen).
A new Tong also arrived in London - Mr Patrick Doherty - fresh from New Zealand, and Spim, Paul, Clara and I took the trouble to welcome him to town with warm beers at the Jerusalem Tavern. He fit in very well, and beer in the bar is to be followed up with prosecco in the park later this month.
"Is that it?" I head you cry. "Six weeks reduced to a mere one and a half thousand beautifully chosen words?" Well yes, I'm afraid that's it for now.