22nd September
Okay so I’m a tad obsessed over the definition of a castle but it isn’t that Jimmy’s wrong or the Blair Atholl Estate or Trust or whatever the fuck it’s called has it inaccurately – it’s just that my own boyhood visions of castles always involved roughly hewn stone, jagged battlements, moats, drawbridges, portcullises and a generous complement of soldiers to man the thing – preferably clad in armour or at least chainmail.
Blair Atholl or Blair Castle conjured up none of these childhood perceptions therefore it had to be wrong. Although Oxford Concisely – it isn’t wrong – it’s just – ah fuck it!
The following day we were embarking on a day trip and I harboured this secret hope that Karen would be a lot more impressed with Edinburgh’s famous castle than she had been by the mishmash of furnishings, displays and accoutrements of my own ancestral seat.
But first we were to route our trip via Rosslyn Chapel, originally highlighted as a place of interest in an esoteric sense by the writers Baigent, Lincoln and Leigh through their alternative Jesus/Mary Magdalene book: Holy Blood, Holy Grail and which Karen and I had read in the 90’s.
I had visited the place back in ‘99 on my last trip to Scotland and at that time the chapel had still been covered by an external structure to help dry it out during a period of renovation lasting over a decade.
Holy Blood, Holy Grail had certainly raised the profile of the little chapel which had enjoyed an upswing in visitor numbers after its publication and subsequent worldwide success but nothing prepared the Rosslyn Chapel Trust for the madness that was to ensue when one Dan Brown picked up on the Baigent, Lincoln and Leigh hypothesis and wove the concept into a blockbuster of a book called – yup – that’s right – The da Vinci Code.
After the DVC, the village of Roslin and the chapel itself was never the same again, thousands upon thousands of people flocking there annually just to see what all the fuss was about and hoping against hope that the present Earl of Rosslyn had suddenly decided to excavate the floor and reveal the holy grail or the remains of Mary Magdalene or even Christ himself.
No such luck, the Earl being a staid and canny fellow and reportedly dead against (ooh sorry) disturbing the graves of many of his forebears who seemingly repose in crypts below the chapel floors.
But the stories, the mythologies, the mysticism, the dreams and fantasies of the public fuelled by Dan Brown’s fertile imagination (at least that’s what they’ll tell you) are just that – pure and utter fiction but they refuse to be quelled.
The Holy Blood, Holy Grail authors weren’t quite as admiring of Mr Brown’s fictions claiming that he had usurped their hypothesis, which was firmly anchored in truth through factually referenced sources and years of painstaking research. Dan said that he had simply taken their ideas and woven them into a novel but as their own work was claimed to be factual and his was mere fantasy, how on earth could he possibly be called a plagiarist? The matter went to court and the judge found in Brown’s favour.
Ah well, armed with all of this insight and knowledge served only to compound the complexity of what you see inside Rosslyn, for the chapel is so ornate and full of stone carvings that it would take you a couple of weeks to go through it properly and enjoy every detail. You could take lots of photographs, one might say, and study them at home later, right?
Well, once you could – in 1999 you could but since a litigious wanker of an American stumbled on the uneven flagstone floor while photographing some delightful carving then tumbled over hurting herself and instantly sued the Trust, the owners decided after legal counseling to ban all comers from taking photos inside the chapel. If you want the detail, then buy the picture DVD from the gift shop through which you are compulsorily channeled before you reach the exit. Of course you are – ask Banksy.
But cynicism aside for a moment and notwithstanding the myth associated with Rosslyn Chapel, standing inside the small supposedly Christian edifice, one cannot help but be moved by the dedication that went into its creation. The apprentice pillar, the master craftsman’s pillar, the geometry, the symmetry interposed with a seemingly deliberate imbalance and the legends behind why this is so all contribute to the energy that abounds in this place.
The St Clairs may dismiss the beliefs of those who would attribute more to their family church but there is mystery here for sure and no-one knows exactly why this place was built in the manner it was nor why it replicates a portion of Solomon’s Temple yet is filled with pagan iconography to its core.
My own take on it is simple – I believe Rosslyn was a monument to spirituality rather than to the prescribed religion of the day hence its arcane symbolism, its Templar lore and its enduring magnetism. Messrs Baigent, Lincoln, Leigh and Brown didn’t do its reputation any harm either but their contribution to Rosslyn’s mystique has conversely diluted one’s ability to soak up that mystique in any private way due to its massive popularity.
Karen, I believe, was entranced and disappointed simultaneously as I know she would have relished the idea of being alone within the carved walls for just fifteen minutes to engage with the place in her own unique way.
As it was, we left with mixed emotions only to be confronted by a 1911 vintage car in the small gravel carpark, which immediately deflected our mood and provided new focus both for cameras and admiration.
“Nineteen eleven,” I thought, “the year before the voyage of the Titanic. So that’s what cars looked like back then – wow!”
The guys who alighted from the machine looked decidedly windswept but happy and we chatted for a few minutes while Karen photographed the car (pics which I have to track down on her return from Cape Town and paste on my facebook profile).
And so – on to Edinburgh just a lick up the road with Gabby’s destination set for Edinburgh Castle and my heart beating in my chest just that little bit harder as it always seems to do when I visit this beautiful city. And maybe, if we had time, I could take Karen down to 60 Bath Street, Portobello where I spent the first ten years of my life.
This was Britain in the autumn – I thought it would be the perfect time on both hemispheres for a trip – Britain in autumn – not too cold, not too rainy and South Africa in spring - pushing into summer when we returned.
I remember thinking before we left SA (usually while sitting on the bog with a Mojo or Classic Rock magazine in my hands) how cool it would be to have all that musical talent around because we were bound to catch a gig either in England or Scotland – a little Sting perhaps, or maybe Portishead or Morcheeba or Paul Weller or Steve Harley or Bad Company – anyone actually. But fuck me if every single gig that was worth a wank wasn’t either in August or October onward. It was as if September didn’t exist for rock stars or they all went into detox for that month or something – absolutely stone to the wall fuck all – and I mean nothing!
So it was in Edinburgh for we were there the month after the Royal Military Tattoo which is held each year in August. The sum total of what we witnessed of the event was the dismantling of the massive seating scaffolding as we walked up the forecourt toward the portcullis. I say, dismantling but it was really a bunch of Jock “workers”, some idly leaning on brooms under the structure while one lethargic guy loosened steel struts and planks then slid them downhill to a team of three who even more lethargically piled them in a kind of a stack in readiness for some more contemplation tomorrow perhaps. All the while they did what all good construction workers do and took in the passing talent leeringly and with much more relish than anything occurring on the scaffolding.
But I run ahead of myself again.
Karen’s response to Edinburgh and her reaction to the castle were even more passionate than I had anticipated. She loved the place and was in awe of the castle even though I took pains to make no comparisons with Blair Castle (chortle). I didn’t need to. The castle seduced her, embraced her and titillated her far more than any lascivious construction worker (or Blair Castle) ever would.
We spent an idyllic couple of hours meandering the castle grounds, lunching at the castle café which enjoys a panoramic view of the city and where I got to crack a couple of jokes with an Afrikaans family who were dining at the other end of the room.
When I passed them by clad in my distinctive Springbok windcheater, the father of the family piped up: “Waar loop jy met so ‘n jas, meneer?” (“Where are you going wearing that jacket, sir?”)
I stopped, smiled and responded in English: “After our kak performance in the tri-nations, they were giving these away gratis at OR Tambo…”
They all laughed and I made my way to the khazi for a call of nature. On my return I passed the table again and made another little chirp, which had come to me while gazing at the porcelain tiles over the urinal a floor below the dining room.
“Y’know,” I began, “we are actually in the wrong place…”
Raised eyebrows all around.
“Ja,” I went on, “We saw all these signs saying CASTLE and we followed them thinking we were heading to the beer tent!”
More laughter and a wink or two and then I was back with Karen relating my interaction with the Seffricans before we continued on our rounds of the castle.
Gazing out over the Scott Monument to the magnificent backdrop of the city beyond is an awe inspiring sight for those who are used to the view; breathtaking for those, like myself, who’ve seen it more than once but have forgotten its majesty; and just indescribable for first-timers like Karen.
It isn’t that Edinburgh is more grand than London or has a more imposing natural setting than Cape Town or that it boasts an Eiffel Tower for it doesn’t perhaps match up in any of those departments but the pure beauty of its cityscape seems to be imbued with an energy that somehow infects the viewer to a degree that wows you. So it was for Karen too who confessed that she could easily live in this city and for the first time since arriving in the UK, I had to confess that I felt the same way. There’s just something about the place.
I felt just a little smug knowing that my wife loved my hometown as much as I’d hoped – perhaps even more than I’d hoped, in fact. When we’d walked the cobbles of Edinburgh Castle as much as we had a mind to, Karen suggested we head off to my boyhood home in Bath Street. I just grinned madly and said, okay.
Setting the address in Gabby showed us that we’d be there in around fifteen minutes, which I thought to be impossible – surely I had lived further from the city centre than fifteen minutes…? I mean, everything had been so far away back then. The swing park had been a walk from the house, Towerbank Primary further still and Joppa Rocks had been on the other side of the planet. Well, it had been a lick around the coastline hugging the Firth of Forth, a name Karen insisted was a drunk man ordering a measure of whisky or something which I suppose it does, in fact, sound a bit like.
And true to form, within twenty minutes we were driving down Bath Street, Gabby being unable to calculate in my poor interpretation of her directions at Portobello High Street which ran us around a little detour and then the snail’s pace down my old boyhood stomping ground taking me by surprise with its narrowness and then the single lane transition at the bottom end of Bath Street where I misjudged the oncoming traffic, got a little too close to the parked cars and clipped Sally’s passenger side wing mirror on one of them. Oops! But no damage done and after a swift three-point manoeuvre at the bottom of the road and an even more rapid parking move outside (what used to be) Cullen’s Pub now The Espy, we were safe from any nosy witnesses or the squillion cameras that dot the British landscape. More on those later.
End of this part
Wednesday 20 October 2010
Friday 15 October 2010
NOTES FROM MUD ISLAND PART 9
Friday 17th September
And having left the beautiful verdant carwash lanes of Devon and Cornwall, we headed back to Yatton as Robin & Tracy were starting work the next day. The idea of work, something so second nature and addictive just a scant week or so ago, seemed foreign and unappealing on all levels and we were very happy that it was happening to someone else and not to us - just yet.
The mattresses in our guest bedroom in Yatton, still a long way from our own home comforts were never so rapturously embraced as that night after the rigours of bed hell in Edeswell.
Tomorrow (13th Sep - I'm running a bit behind here) would be our first venture out into the harsh world of Mud Island under our own recognisance (with the aid of Gabby Garmin, of course) and in our newly named Skoda, Sally.
And so, off we set to Bristol and the very first thing we encountered before even leaving Yatton was a detour in front of the local shopping precinct which really pissed Gabby off, however, we soon learned that forcing her hand simply got to her to recalculate a new route once we ignored the initial protestations and the little car graphic spinning wildly off the preplanned magenta course..
But soon we were cruising into Bristol under leaden skies with me trying to figure out the idiosyncrasies of Sally's windscreen wiper controls. Now this may seem dull and uninteresting to many (me too initially) but it took some working out and I still wonder if this methodology was planned by some coke-snorting engineer to annoy drivers whilst bamboozling them simultaneously or if there is just some quirky fault that is unique to Sally and Sally alone.
What happens is this: if you click the intermittent mode on from the off position then the wipers do a grudging sweep of the glass before resting again and sitting there unmoving for - well they simply don't move. So, as the windscreen is now totally obscured by rainwater, one clicks one mode up to slow wipe which is too much as there isn't sufficient rainfall to warrant this and the rubber begins to scrape across the glass with terrifyingly annoying squeals so off the wipers go.
But not before I tried to click one mode down to intermittent again from the slow wiper speed only to find out that this intermittent mode is now not really intermittent at all but just a slight pause as they sweep back to their starting point and begin a new sweep and repeat this interminably.
Fucking bizarre, I think to myself and switch the damn things off.
Rain builds up on glass, accident seems imminent so on they go to intermittent again until eventually I discover that if you go through the motions of: OFF / INTERMITTENT / SLOW SPEED / INTERMITTENT / OFF (PAUSE HERE FOR AT LEAST 6 OR 7 SECONDS) / INTERMITTENT then the stupid fucking things actually operate at a speed that works for light drizzle.
And it has nothing to do with the density of the rainfall or the speed of the car - it has everything to do with serendipity and eureka moments which I chose not to divulge to Karen for fear of being certified by the time we found our way to our Bristolian destination.
Which was (drumroll) a cosmetics shop to exchange some mail-order goods that weren't quite as expected. Yeah I know - anticlimactic and as about as exciting as - well a monologue about Skoda windscreen wiper operation.
But to Karen's abject horror (yes, of course it wasn't me exchanging cosmetics you dumbasses), the frigging shop was closed for renovations and the nearest alternative was in Bath.
Seemed like divine providence if you ask me - it was wet (off and on - just like the temperamental Skoda wipers) and we had an opportunity to go and see Bath, a pretty place by anyone's standards and it was the quiet time of the day.
So off to Bath we tootled under Gabby's circuitous guidance (she just loves roads that are not straight and after a further week of driving here in mud island we can safely report that another euphemism for that activity would be: Death By Roundabout). Fucking hell but there are a lot of roundabouts in this country and Gabby developed a wicked knack for instructing me to take whatever number exit from a roundabout where a) in some instances she counted minor exits such as sporting venue entrances and b) in other instances she didn't which then resulted in a) me spinning around the fucking roundabout more than once to Karen's (and many other road users') horror or b) us shooting up the wrong exit (easy boys this is a family blog) with me cursing the stupid satnav bitch, Karen telling me to calm the fuck down and Gabby placidly saying "recalculating" as I steamed and fumed.
We reached Bath unscathed, much wiser as to the guiles and vagaries of satnav devices, and found the place friendly, very touristy (but in a nice way - i.e. it was quiet that day) and glory be - the Lush shop (no not a rehab clinic for alcoholics but an emporium of natural, solid cosmetics - apart from the sodium-lauryl-sulphate that is) was open.
I parked, Karen went to the shop, I moved the car to a longer term parking precinct, went back to the shop, waited, waited some more, ended up paying for a wagonload more cosmetics than had been originally ordered (surprise, surprise) then we meandered through the drizzle and among the shops to a nice vegetarian pub, The Porter where we had lunch.
The barmaid was a hybrid South African / English combo who had lived just about 75km from our place in Magaliesburg on the West Rand, Roodekrans. What a small world it really is. Afrikaans being bandied about in the heart of Bath - yegods!
The food was superb, Karen drank some Italian rose and soon we were meandering back to Yatton with Gabby getting her own back on me for ignoring her earlier orders (vich must be obeyed at all times jawohl) by taking us yet another death-by-roundabout route all the way. Must we always be commanded and managed by women? That is rhetorical of course but it is the reality all good men should live by - the women do actually know best.
Sigh.
Goo goo ga joob...
And having left the beautiful verdant carwash lanes of Devon and Cornwall, we headed back to Yatton as Robin & Tracy were starting work the next day. The idea of work, something so second nature and addictive just a scant week or so ago, seemed foreign and unappealing on all levels and we were very happy that it was happening to someone else and not to us - just yet.
The mattresses in our guest bedroom in Yatton, still a long way from our own home comforts were never so rapturously embraced as that night after the rigours of bed hell in Edeswell.
Tomorrow (13th Sep - I'm running a bit behind here) would be our first venture out into the harsh world of Mud Island under our own recognisance (with the aid of Gabby Garmin, of course) and in our newly named Skoda, Sally.
And so, off we set to Bristol and the very first thing we encountered before even leaving Yatton was a detour in front of the local shopping precinct which really pissed Gabby off, however, we soon learned that forcing her hand simply got to her to recalculate a new route once we ignored the initial protestations and the little car graphic spinning wildly off the preplanned magenta course..
But soon we were cruising into Bristol under leaden skies with me trying to figure out the idiosyncrasies of Sally's windscreen wiper controls. Now this may seem dull and uninteresting to many (me too initially) but it took some working out and I still wonder if this methodology was planned by some coke-snorting engineer to annoy drivers whilst bamboozling them simultaneously or if there is just some quirky fault that is unique to Sally and Sally alone.
What happens is this: if you click the intermittent mode on from the off position then the wipers do a grudging sweep of the glass before resting again and sitting there unmoving for - well they simply don't move. So, as the windscreen is now totally obscured by rainwater, one clicks one mode up to slow wipe which is too much as there isn't sufficient rainfall to warrant this and the rubber begins to scrape across the glass with terrifyingly annoying squeals so off the wipers go.
But not before I tried to click one mode down to intermittent again from the slow wiper speed only to find out that this intermittent mode is now not really intermittent at all but just a slight pause as they sweep back to their starting point and begin a new sweep and repeat this interminably.
Fucking bizarre, I think to myself and switch the damn things off.
Rain builds up on glass, accident seems imminent so on they go to intermittent again until eventually I discover that if you go through the motions of: OFF / INTERMITTENT / SLOW SPEED / INTERMITTENT / OFF (PAUSE HERE FOR AT LEAST 6 OR 7 SECONDS) / INTERMITTENT then the stupid fucking things actually operate at a speed that works for light drizzle.
And it has nothing to do with the density of the rainfall or the speed of the car - it has everything to do with serendipity and eureka moments which I chose not to divulge to Karen for fear of being certified by the time we found our way to our Bristolian destination.
Which was (drumroll) a cosmetics shop to exchange some mail-order goods that weren't quite as expected. Yeah I know - anticlimactic and as about as exciting as - well a monologue about Skoda windscreen wiper operation.
But to Karen's abject horror (yes, of course it wasn't me exchanging cosmetics you dumbasses), the frigging shop was closed for renovations and the nearest alternative was in Bath.
Seemed like divine providence if you ask me - it was wet (off and on - just like the temperamental Skoda wipers) and we had an opportunity to go and see Bath, a pretty place by anyone's standards and it was the quiet time of the day.
So off to Bath we tootled under Gabby's circuitous guidance (she just loves roads that are not straight and after a further week of driving here in mud island we can safely report that another euphemism for that activity would be: Death By Roundabout). Fucking hell but there are a lot of roundabouts in this country and Gabby developed a wicked knack for instructing me to take whatever number exit from a roundabout where a) in some instances she counted minor exits such as sporting venue entrances and b) in other instances she didn't which then resulted in a) me spinning around the fucking roundabout more than once to Karen's (and many other road users') horror or b) us shooting up the wrong exit (easy boys this is a family blog) with me cursing the stupid satnav bitch, Karen telling me to calm the fuck down and Gabby placidly saying "recalculating" as I steamed and fumed.
We reached Bath unscathed, much wiser as to the guiles and vagaries of satnav devices, and found the place friendly, very touristy (but in a nice way - i.e. it was quiet that day) and glory be - the Lush shop (no not a rehab clinic for alcoholics but an emporium of natural, solid cosmetics - apart from the sodium-lauryl-sulphate that is) was open.
I parked, Karen went to the shop, I moved the car to a longer term parking precinct, went back to the shop, waited, waited some more, ended up paying for a wagonload more cosmetics than had been originally ordered (surprise, surprise) then we meandered through the drizzle and among the shops to a nice vegetarian pub, The Porter where we had lunch.
The barmaid was a hybrid South African / English combo who had lived just about 75km from our place in Magaliesburg on the West Rand, Roodekrans. What a small world it really is. Afrikaans being bandied about in the heart of Bath - yegods!
The food was superb, Karen drank some Italian rose and soon we were meandering back to Yatton with Gabby getting her own back on me for ignoring her earlier orders (vich must be obeyed at all times jawohl) by taking us yet another death-by-roundabout route all the way. Must we always be commanded and managed by women? That is rhetorical of course but it is the reality all good men should live by - the women do actually know best.
Sigh.
Goo goo ga joob...
NOTES FROM MUD ISLAND PART 8
Thursday 16th September
On the follow up from the smashing (accidentally) of Kayla's yo-yo, I made enquiries at the toy shop in the centre of the budding metropolis of Tintagel, a beautiful little Cornish village boasting the sprawling ruins of Tintagel castle (more on that elsewhere).
The rosy-cheeked shopkeeper looked at me balefully and peered cornerwise into some realm where her distant memory seemed to reside.
"Yo-yos," she murmured as if I had asked her for a glazed ham with sparklers on it, "we had some of them..."
"Perhaps you have some in the back then?" I enquired optimistically.
"Oh no, love," she replied with a reproachful shake of the head, "the last time we had yo-yos here was about two or three Christmases ago."
Which only goes to show that the events and the period between events in a place where nothing happens ever all the time - it is easy to allow the period between these events to stretch into profound antiquity commensurate to priority and a paradoxically immediate recall.
Much in the same way a farmer in the Free State would say: "There's nothing so important that it can't wait two weeks..."
I'm really beginning to like things about this funny little island - I am being surprised by the quirkiest things in the best kind of way.
Goo goo ga joob...
On the follow up from the smashing (accidentally) of Kayla's yo-yo, I made enquiries at the toy shop in the centre of the budding metropolis of Tintagel, a beautiful little Cornish village boasting the sprawling ruins of Tintagel castle (more on that elsewhere).
The rosy-cheeked shopkeeper looked at me balefully and peered cornerwise into some realm where her distant memory seemed to reside.
"Yo-yos," she murmured as if I had asked her for a glazed ham with sparklers on it, "we had some of them..."
"Perhaps you have some in the back then?" I enquired optimistically.
"Oh no, love," she replied with a reproachful shake of the head, "the last time we had yo-yos here was about two or three Christmases ago."
Which only goes to show that the events and the period between events in a place where nothing happens ever all the time - it is easy to allow the period between these events to stretch into profound antiquity commensurate to priority and a paradoxically immediate recall.
Much in the same way a farmer in the Free State would say: "There's nothing so important that it can't wait two weeks..."
I'm really beginning to like things about this funny little island - I am being surprised by the quirkiest things in the best kind of way.
Goo goo ga joob...
NOTES FROM MUD ISLAND PART 7
Monday 13th September
(Just realised we were mindlessly oblivious of the September 11 anniversary - so belatedly - condolences to all who suffered or lost their loved ones on that fateful day but perhaps it presented yet another lesson to humankind in ways too complex to be processed by our emotions)
Insert - 1 minute's silence here...............................................................................
Well, what is so gratifying about being in England is looking at the roadmap and wondering how the hell we're going to cover the distance in a single day then realising that the density of development within all those intersecting lines on the paper are so close together that nothing is further than 2 1/2 hours away - brilliant!
So the preparation of the cars and organising "padkos*" and anticipating an epic journey seemed so funny afterwards when it took around an hour to get to where we were going which was near Totnes in Devon at a little resort called Edeswell Farm.
Cute place I have to say but the mattresses were the highest quality from the new IKEA Marquis de Sade summer range and left us all buckled, bent and grumpy each morning - fucking atrocious things.
Another interesting dynamic was the assumption by sister-in-law-from-hell that there were 2 double beds in the 2nd bedroom, so accommodating 7 of us would be no problem but the sneaky gits who posted the pic on their website must've used a fish-eye lens because the skinny little single beds that were actually snugly (and I mean 'snugly') ensconced in the bedroom were anything but accommodating.
And I have recently discovered that my wife is not just into retail therapy but has evolved to a fully-fledged serial shopper and the pathetic sight of Robin & myself trailing after the women in various shopping precincts like a pair of puppy dogs is about as good as it gets for the boys who have no browsing capabilities whatsoever and, it has to be said, no retail stamina in any manner or form.
Men can run, cycle, jog, shag or walk for hours and hours to attend a desired sporting event etc. and this only serves to invigorate them, however, when it comes to a mere 20 metres of lethargic meandering around any form of specialist store boasting how much you will be saving by spending money there for items that may perhaps never see the light of day other than the very moment of purchase, the will to live just seems to fizzle out and die within the breast of the normal man. Women, conversely, are buoyed by these activities and seem to suck the lifeblood from their partners with scant disregard for his dwindling life-force which seems to be inexorably connected to the thickness of his wallet. And it's an event of attrition - the shopping stops when a) the husbank falls over in the mall, twitching and gasping for air or b) the wallet dessicates into dust as the remaining credit is drained from its innards never to be resurrected in that particular realm of retail.
Having survived the rigours of mallemia or craftcentre-fever, we assembled at the local supermarket to buy 2 days groceries for 7 which seemed to result in the gross domestic product of a small developing nation squeezed into a landfill's worth of plastic bags and catered for every dietary requirement from vegetarian to cholesterolarian.
An afternoon of swimming, eating, eating, eating and then surprisingly eating when we were bored, ended in an evening at the local pub which is reputedly haunted and, I'm told by my wife, is called The Coachman circa 1046 which boggles the South African mind. Not the possibility of haunting (we have millions of spooks scattered throughout car-parks of South Africa haunting the hapless motorists daily), but the vintage of the place and the fact that it is still an operational establishment in fine condition and, judging by the dank atmosphere of the place, still boasts the original plumbing system.
Having instructed the resident barman in the intricacies of concocting of a rock-shandy for moi, we settled for a very cosy evening of banter and bullshit before retiring for the night, knackered and unaware of the horrors that faced us...
and no, once again, not the haunting which would have been welcome in comparison to the torture visited upon us by the self-minded man-eating mattresses.
Twisted and tetchy we breakfasted unenthusiastically then headed off for a drive to Bigbury-On-Sea as Robin cited this as a potential surfing spot and an area he would have visited aplenty if he'd secured a transfer to this part of the country. It was beautiful and typical of the dramatic coastline we would see over the weekend and I was fascinated by the elevated sea tractor they used to drive people across the isthmus to the island hotel across the way.
What was even more impressive for me was the stainless-steel self-contained hand-washing units in the public loos. What a great idea - soap-dispenser, lukewarm water and dryer all in one compact unit. Brilliant! I know I am odd but these practical gadgets would work a bomb anywhere and I've never seen anything like them in SA.
We enjoyed a pleasant lunch at a local fish & chip shop in Torcross where locals tucked into the giant cod portions - catches that would have sunk a destroyer but were happily consumed by denture-challenged wrinklies with much gusto and broad exposure of semi-masticated food.
Is it just me or do people generally have fucking atrocious table manners? I've never seen so many people chewing open-mouthed, talking at the same time while exposing their lunch to their dining companions who, in deference to their piggy partners, seem to reciprocate with a similar obliviousness. Head down, eat food, don't look around and escape became my lunchtime motto.
Now that we have acquired a Garmin satnav device - a must for anyone hoping to traverse the mazelike hedged-in roadways of Britain, we gave our little device a name - Gabby and true to her programming she guided us in the "fastest route" possible around the Devon countryside which is great unless you suffer from motion sickness and/or claustrophobia being contained within green tunnels, hedgerows whipping past the windows like verdant carwash brushes.
And I'd tell you about the passing scenery if I'd been able to see the fucking stuff! Hedge heaven.
A lazy meander back after breaking Kayla's yo-yo while attempting to demonstrate the walking-the-dog manoeuvre and smashing it on the pavement. Someone needs to teach that kid how to tie slipknots I tell you.
Night of telly in the room and the dread of the Marquis-de-Mattress to look forward to.
Goo goo ga joob...
(Just realised we were mindlessly oblivious of the September 11 anniversary - so belatedly - condolences to all who suffered or lost their loved ones on that fateful day but perhaps it presented yet another lesson to humankind in ways too complex to be processed by our emotions)
Insert - 1 minute's silence here...............................................................................
Well, what is so gratifying about being in England is looking at the roadmap and wondering how the hell we're going to cover the distance in a single day then realising that the density of development within all those intersecting lines on the paper are so close together that nothing is further than 2 1/2 hours away - brilliant!
So the preparation of the cars and organising "padkos*" and anticipating an epic journey seemed so funny afterwards when it took around an hour to get to where we were going which was near Totnes in Devon at a little resort called Edeswell Farm.
Cute place I have to say but the mattresses were the highest quality from the new IKEA Marquis de Sade summer range and left us all buckled, bent and grumpy each morning - fucking atrocious things.
Another interesting dynamic was the assumption by sister-in-law-from-hell that there were 2 double beds in the 2nd bedroom, so accommodating 7 of us would be no problem but the sneaky gits who posted the pic on their website must've used a fish-eye lens because the skinny little single beds that were actually snugly (and I mean 'snugly') ensconced in the bedroom were anything but accommodating.
And I have recently discovered that my wife is not just into retail therapy but has evolved to a fully-fledged serial shopper and the pathetic sight of Robin & myself trailing after the women in various shopping precincts like a pair of puppy dogs is about as good as it gets for the boys who have no browsing capabilities whatsoever and, it has to be said, no retail stamina in any manner or form.
Men can run, cycle, jog, shag or walk for hours and hours to attend a desired sporting event etc. and this only serves to invigorate them, however, when it comes to a mere 20 metres of lethargic meandering around any form of specialist store boasting how much you will be saving by spending money there for items that may perhaps never see the light of day other than the very moment of purchase, the will to live just seems to fizzle out and die within the breast of the normal man. Women, conversely, are buoyed by these activities and seem to suck the lifeblood from their partners with scant disregard for his dwindling life-force which seems to be inexorably connected to the thickness of his wallet. And it's an event of attrition - the shopping stops when a) the husbank falls over in the mall, twitching and gasping for air or b) the wallet dessicates into dust as the remaining credit is drained from its innards never to be resurrected in that particular realm of retail.
Having survived the rigours of mallemia or craftcentre-fever, we assembled at the local supermarket to buy 2 days groceries for 7 which seemed to result in the gross domestic product of a small developing nation squeezed into a landfill's worth of plastic bags and catered for every dietary requirement from vegetarian to cholesterolarian.
An afternoon of swimming, eating, eating, eating and then surprisingly eating when we were bored, ended in an evening at the local pub which is reputedly haunted and, I'm told by my wife, is called The Coachman circa 1046 which boggles the South African mind. Not the possibility of haunting (we have millions of spooks scattered throughout car-parks of South Africa haunting the hapless motorists daily), but the vintage of the place and the fact that it is still an operational establishment in fine condition and, judging by the dank atmosphere of the place, still boasts the original plumbing system.
Having instructed the resident barman in the intricacies of concocting of a rock-shandy for moi, we settled for a very cosy evening of banter and bullshit before retiring for the night, knackered and unaware of the horrors that faced us...
and no, once again, not the haunting which would have been welcome in comparison to the torture visited upon us by the self-minded man-eating mattresses.
Twisted and tetchy we breakfasted unenthusiastically then headed off for a drive to Bigbury-On-Sea as Robin cited this as a potential surfing spot and an area he would have visited aplenty if he'd secured a transfer to this part of the country. It was beautiful and typical of the dramatic coastline we would see over the weekend and I was fascinated by the elevated sea tractor they used to drive people across the isthmus to the island hotel across the way.
What was even more impressive for me was the stainless-steel self-contained hand-washing units in the public loos. What a great idea - soap-dispenser, lukewarm water and dryer all in one compact unit. Brilliant! I know I am odd but these practical gadgets would work a bomb anywhere and I've never seen anything like them in SA.
We enjoyed a pleasant lunch at a local fish & chip shop in Torcross where locals tucked into the giant cod portions - catches that would have sunk a destroyer but were happily consumed by denture-challenged wrinklies with much gusto and broad exposure of semi-masticated food.
Is it just me or do people generally have fucking atrocious table manners? I've never seen so many people chewing open-mouthed, talking at the same time while exposing their lunch to their dining companions who, in deference to their piggy partners, seem to reciprocate with a similar obliviousness. Head down, eat food, don't look around and escape became my lunchtime motto.
Now that we have acquired a Garmin satnav device - a must for anyone hoping to traverse the mazelike hedged-in roadways of Britain, we gave our little device a name - Gabby and true to her programming she guided us in the "fastest route" possible around the Devon countryside which is great unless you suffer from motion sickness and/or claustrophobia being contained within green tunnels, hedgerows whipping past the windows like verdant carwash brushes.
And I'd tell you about the passing scenery if I'd been able to see the fucking stuff! Hedge heaven.
A lazy meander back after breaking Kayla's yo-yo while attempting to demonstrate the walking-the-dog manoeuvre and smashing it on the pavement. Someone needs to teach that kid how to tie slipknots I tell you.
Night of telly in the room and the dread of the Marquis-de-Mattress to look forward to.
Goo goo ga joob...
NOTES FROM MUD ISLAND PART 6
Thursday 9th September
Well today was our first day trawling around a city, Bristol City to be precise and I just love saying those words Bristol City - probably one of the first naughty rhyming slang expressions I ever learned from my old man - whoah hey - she's got a nice pair of Bristols...it was all downhill from there I can tell you.
And en-route along the country roads I couldn't help but notice the stark difference in approach to things here compared with South Africa. Here, they aim to take people out of the equation at roadworks where a traffic lane is blocked. Whereas we have the workers (?) in the middle and one person at either side of the detour playing with flags and rotating STOP/GO signs, the English have a fully synchronised automated set of mini traffic lights set up so that one bloke can do the entire gig.
Just think how much more crime there would be in SA if we automated all those sad flag waving twats out of work as well...
We stopped off in Leigh Woods en-route to Bristol and partook of a casual stroll around the place.
It's what's so nice about the English countryside - no matter where you are, there's a forest close by or a place to walk and enjoy nature.
Although this must've been a South African forest as there were very big oaks everywhere dressed in green...(sorry - lame I know but it was funny this morning...)
Then on to Bristol where we crossed over Brunel's suspension bridge spanning the Avon Gorge, the first one ever built I'm reliably told, however, my in-laws clearly know nothing about the cross-dimensional construction of the Giza pyramids by Thoth, the Atlantean who I'm sure could have manifested a suspension bridge in a matter of nanoseconds. I felt it unwise to embark on this particular line of speculation at the time as it would have killed the moment and detracted from the godlike status Isambard Kingdom Brunel (that was his name, I kid you not) enjoys in these parts. And he was a singular fellow by all accounts which is odd as most civil engineers that I've worked with are just boring bastards with all the wit and panache of a salted slug.
The bridge was impressive though - even if short by modern standards and the way people behave on the roads here is also quite startling - us Seffrican anarchists are constantly taken aback by the decorum and consideration shown by local motorists - it's just not normal.
Bristol seems like a nice (love the vagueness of that word) city which is neat, clean and populated by lots of bouncy students, looking even bouncier thanks to the wonderful sunshine that is following us through this trip.
We lunched at an unpretentious little cafe called Rocatello's where Karen and I experienced "curly" fries for the very first time and man you gotta love the good old British potato in any manner or form. Curly fries are a wonderful invention and make chip eating so much more interesting than anything the Americans could come up with. (If anyone tells me that the yanks invented curly fries, I think I'll vomit in my mouth right now!)
On to the Bristol Museum & Art Gallery which, surprisingly, didn't feature nearly enough of Banksy's work if you ask me but Karen did spot a few of his graffiti in and around the place as we strolled after lunch down to the harbourside area.
A ferry trip to a quaint little pub where we supped on beer/cider etc. while watching the locals and listening to them saying arrrrrr and stuff like that. I think the place was called The Bumcombe Inn as Karen made an inappropriate remark about buttock hair which we all found totally distasteful - or perhaps on reflection it may have been me...
Another splendid, peaceful and relaxed day in the south western environs of Mud Island - a jolly good time was had by all.
And tomorrow on to Devon...ah well.
Goo goo ga joob...
Well today was our first day trawling around a city, Bristol City to be precise and I just love saying those words Bristol City - probably one of the first naughty rhyming slang expressions I ever learned from my old man - whoah hey - she's got a nice pair of Bristols...it was all downhill from there I can tell you.
And en-route along the country roads I couldn't help but notice the stark difference in approach to things here compared with South Africa. Here, they aim to take people out of the equation at roadworks where a traffic lane is blocked. Whereas we have the workers (?) in the middle and one person at either side of the detour playing with flags and rotating STOP/GO signs, the English have a fully synchronised automated set of mini traffic lights set up so that one bloke can do the entire gig.
Just think how much more crime there would be in SA if we automated all those sad flag waving twats out of work as well...
We stopped off in Leigh Woods en-route to Bristol and partook of a casual stroll around the place.
It's what's so nice about the English countryside - no matter where you are, there's a forest close by or a place to walk and enjoy nature.
Although this must've been a South African forest as there were very big oaks everywhere dressed in green...(sorry - lame I know but it was funny this morning...)
Then on to Bristol where we crossed over Brunel's suspension bridge spanning the Avon Gorge, the first one ever built I'm reliably told, however, my in-laws clearly know nothing about the cross-dimensional construction of the Giza pyramids by Thoth, the Atlantean who I'm sure could have manifested a suspension bridge in a matter of nanoseconds. I felt it unwise to embark on this particular line of speculation at the time as it would have killed the moment and detracted from the godlike status Isambard Kingdom Brunel (that was his name, I kid you not) enjoys in these parts. And he was a singular fellow by all accounts which is odd as most civil engineers that I've worked with are just boring bastards with all the wit and panache of a salted slug.
The bridge was impressive though - even if short by modern standards and the way people behave on the roads here is also quite startling - us Seffrican anarchists are constantly taken aback by the decorum and consideration shown by local motorists - it's just not normal.
Bristol seems like a nice (love the vagueness of that word) city which is neat, clean and populated by lots of bouncy students, looking even bouncier thanks to the wonderful sunshine that is following us through this trip.
We lunched at an unpretentious little cafe called Rocatello's where Karen and I experienced "curly" fries for the very first time and man you gotta love the good old British potato in any manner or form. Curly fries are a wonderful invention and make chip eating so much more interesting than anything the Americans could come up with. (If anyone tells me that the yanks invented curly fries, I think I'll vomit in my mouth right now!)
On to the Bristol Museum & Art Gallery which, surprisingly, didn't feature nearly enough of Banksy's work if you ask me but Karen did spot a few of his graffiti in and around the place as we strolled after lunch down to the harbourside area.
A ferry trip to a quaint little pub where we supped on beer/cider etc. while watching the locals and listening to them saying arrrrrr and stuff like that. I think the place was called The Bumcombe Inn as Karen made an inappropriate remark about buttock hair which we all found totally distasteful - or perhaps on reflection it may have been me...
Another splendid, peaceful and relaxed day in the south western environs of Mud Island - a jolly good time was had by all.
And tomorrow on to Devon...ah well.
Goo goo ga joob...
NOTES FROM MUD ISLAND PART 5
Wednesday 8th September
We thought we had it sussed with our anti-rain manoeuvres the night before, however, as we neared Stonehenge, the rain began to drizzle down and the sky just fuzzed over with grey.
I'll load Karen's photos later onto the Mud Island album but you'll see how washed out the day looks compared with the brightness of Avebury.
Without the benefit of a GPS unit and with the added confusion of a primary and secondary navigator (Tracy and Paul respectively), the meandering route to Stonehenge was very interesting and I cannot recall how many villages we passed through. Many. A lot. Plenty. Loads. Millions even...
As we suspected a few days ago, we're certainly in Star Wars territory as we noticed a Wookie Hole then there was Chew Magna which must be a local misspelling of Chewbacca, the most famous Wookie of all time thanks to George Lucas. Sightings of some locals confirmed that there were indeed aliens in our midst although they had shed their body hair in an attempt to blend in with the resident humans. It didn't work. We could see which were which.
Stonehenge was blustery and miserable with hordes of Asian, Dutch and German tourists whom I thought to be incredibly rude as they weren't at all interested in the sacred ancient monolithic structure but simply stood around listening on their mobiles.
As I neared I realised they were all using the informative audio devices to gain an insight into the monument and its history.
Ah how quickly technology reduces us to looking more like morons every day.
Karen braved the rain while I meandered back to the car to munch snacks with Robin & Tracy and grumble about the weather but as Robin so sagely observed: "If you wait for weather to clear in this country, you'll never go anywhere ever - you just do it and hope for the best..."
How true this proved to be for a short trip to Avebury found us in a totally different climate with bright blue skies and puffy cumulus clouds overhead. And, it has to be said, a totally different vibe - a much more pleasant one where you can walk among the standing stones and actually touch them. I realise that allowing public access to Stonehenge would reduce it to a vandalised ruin within months (well it would in South Africa in any event) but the knowledge of the millions of feet that have trodden the grass perimeter some way distant from the trilithons, sarsens and blue stones ahead of me just seemed to dampen my enthusiasm along with the grey weather. No disrespect to the Druids, hippy people and other space cadets who tramp the Stonehenge mystic pathway to whatever it is they get from it and I am as taken by the miraculousness of the solar alignment of the site and all that represents - but it just wasn't inspiring today. It sucked.
Avebury, on the other hand, was peaceful, warm, uplifting and had a much better goodies shop with the prospect of crop circle visits (all laid out on a map). Unfortunately, all the demarcated circles had been lost in the recent harvesting but we got the number of a local guide who checks up on the latest occurrences as and when they appear. May check that out on another visit. Has to be done.
The whole place was amazingly imbued with a profoundly placid energy which seemed to set our mood for the way home.
As usual, the gemstones and crystals were minutely inspected by Karen who bought a crystal skull - in the form of an alien Grey no less. Which only goes to prove that they do actually exist after all but I had no idea they were that small. Perhaps there are Martian headshrinkers just like we had here on old Terra.
Perhaps my need for food at that time had kicked in - either way, it was another fabulous day out with the most interesting simulacra on display all around us.
And our sixty odd quid on the National Trust membership for the year has paid for itself in the last 2 days - brilliant.
Tomorrow we have booked for a half day spa and some self-indulgent pampering back in Yatton.
Ah well - what is life for but to enjoy it?
Goo goo ga joob...
We thought we had it sussed with our anti-rain manoeuvres the night before, however, as we neared Stonehenge, the rain began to drizzle down and the sky just fuzzed over with grey.
I'll load Karen's photos later onto the Mud Island album but you'll see how washed out the day looks compared with the brightness of Avebury.
Without the benefit of a GPS unit and with the added confusion of a primary and secondary navigator (Tracy and Paul respectively), the meandering route to Stonehenge was very interesting and I cannot recall how many villages we passed through. Many. A lot. Plenty. Loads. Millions even...
As we suspected a few days ago, we're certainly in Star Wars territory as we noticed a Wookie Hole then there was Chew Magna which must be a local misspelling of Chewbacca, the most famous Wookie of all time thanks to George Lucas. Sightings of some locals confirmed that there were indeed aliens in our midst although they had shed their body hair in an attempt to blend in with the resident humans. It didn't work. We could see which were which.
Stonehenge was blustery and miserable with hordes of Asian, Dutch and German tourists whom I thought to be incredibly rude as they weren't at all interested in the sacred ancient monolithic structure but simply stood around listening on their mobiles.
As I neared I realised they were all using the informative audio devices to gain an insight into the monument and its history.
Ah how quickly technology reduces us to looking more like morons every day.
Karen braved the rain while I meandered back to the car to munch snacks with Robin & Tracy and grumble about the weather but as Robin so sagely observed: "If you wait for weather to clear in this country, you'll never go anywhere ever - you just do it and hope for the best..."
How true this proved to be for a short trip to Avebury found us in a totally different climate with bright blue skies and puffy cumulus clouds overhead. And, it has to be said, a totally different vibe - a much more pleasant one where you can walk among the standing stones and actually touch them. I realise that allowing public access to Stonehenge would reduce it to a vandalised ruin within months (well it would in South Africa in any event) but the knowledge of the millions of feet that have trodden the grass perimeter some way distant from the trilithons, sarsens and blue stones ahead of me just seemed to dampen my enthusiasm along with the grey weather. No disrespect to the Druids, hippy people and other space cadets who tramp the Stonehenge mystic pathway to whatever it is they get from it and I am as taken by the miraculousness of the solar alignment of the site and all that represents - but it just wasn't inspiring today. It sucked.
Avebury, on the other hand, was peaceful, warm, uplifting and had a much better goodies shop with the prospect of crop circle visits (all laid out on a map). Unfortunately, all the demarcated circles had been lost in the recent harvesting but we got the number of a local guide who checks up on the latest occurrences as and when they appear. May check that out on another visit. Has to be done.
The whole place was amazingly imbued with a profoundly placid energy which seemed to set our mood for the way home.
As usual, the gemstones and crystals were minutely inspected by Karen who bought a crystal skull - in the form of an alien Grey no less. Which only goes to prove that they do actually exist after all but I had no idea they were that small. Perhaps there are Martian headshrinkers just like we had here on old Terra.
Perhaps my need for food at that time had kicked in - either way, it was another fabulous day out with the most interesting simulacra on display all around us.
And our sixty odd quid on the National Trust membership for the year has paid for itself in the last 2 days - brilliant.
Tomorrow we have booked for a half day spa and some self-indulgent pampering back in Yatton.
Ah well - what is life for but to enjoy it?
Goo goo ga joob...
NOTES FROM MUD ISLAND PART 4
Monday 6th September
Low cloud and a forecast of ongoing drizzle didn't dampen our spirits today - no siree bob!
We willed away the grey and forced some blue to brighten our day as we set off once again for Glastonbury - this time a tad earlier, perhaps because we weren't trying to rendezvous with Rex Dunlop aka Kurt Alexander aka Zhig O'lo (it's a long story - ask me when we get back...)
And so we laughed, we cried with the banter and repartee between the travelers especially Tracy's directions, Robin's lack thereof and our collective lack of observation concerning road signs at traffic circles / roundabouts. Thus we ended up somewhere in Glastonbury suburbia at a quaint little enclave entitled Leg Of Mutton Road (I shit you not - see the pics for yourself).
Turning back after the photo op was completed - much to the consternation of local drivers behind us - we trundled down to Glastonbury and set out for The Tor where the wind whipped us relentlessly but the hazy views were still fantastic - again that "Here In England It's So Green" vibe - you can't get away from it. Pastoral, gentle rolling hills, fields and meadows then an overwhelming urge to piss drove us down to the Chalice Well site where Karen bought jewelry.
Piss complete, jewelry safely stowed, blessings of the sacred depths upon us, we gave some Indian travelers very vague directions to Street (a village nearby). The: "just head down this street until you're in town and see a sign to Street then follow it..." seemed to bamboozle them no end and I have no idea why.
We returned to our (new) old haunt of the splendidly vegetarian Blue Note Cafe where we partook of haloumi burgers while observing a very sickly serene expression permanently etched onto the face of a gowned young new-age woman who was about as convincing as a soap powder advert. Her vegetarian lunch notwithstanding, it was clear she had not only reached Glastonbury but had sashayed into nirvana simultaneously. I suspect her hippy boyfriend was probably hung like a donkey hence the doe-eyed Mona-Lisa smirk but if that's what it takes to achieve total enlightenment then what the fuck...
Following lunch, Karen headed back to the shop in which she'd been seduced first time around and - guess what - bought some more jewelry - a Libyan gold tektite scarab ring accompanied by a pair of gold and moldavite earrings in the shape of little star-tetrahedrons - very beautiful. But I managed to maintain firm denial during this piece of retail therapy by tossing a rubber toy for the owner's very cute labrador-cross - once started, hard to stop...and fairly disruptive in the tiny square as doddery old hippies scattered in Jaydee's slobbery, manic wake. That was real fun I can tell you. I thought their whole bag was love, man - but I got some really filthy looks. Peace, baby, peace...
Dark enlightenment (pardon the oxymoron) followed shortly thereafter by virtue of a self-proclaimed guru in a small crystal shop in the middle of Glastonbury - I had no idea there was someone else on the planet who knew as much as me yet could get it so spectacularly wrong but there you have it - she must be the antipaul or something...(tosser ;-) )
As you can imagine, we were exhausted after such a strenuous day of doing absolutely fuck all really so we headed off to Cheddar where we ate the best scones that have ever been made enhanced by clotted cream and fresh strawberry jam at The Simply Gorgeous Tea Room while listening to cars hiss by through the rain outside. Sweet shops, hot mulled scrumpy (the women had that) then Cheddar cheddar and back to the Pengelley pad for a lazy evening of TV and dishwashing I guess...
Sigh...we're gonna do a reverse-rain-dance tonight to ensure the skies clear before morning.
Watch this space
Goo goo goo joob xx
Low cloud and a forecast of ongoing drizzle didn't dampen our spirits today - no siree bob!
We willed away the grey and forced some blue to brighten our day as we set off once again for Glastonbury - this time a tad earlier, perhaps because we weren't trying to rendezvous with Rex Dunlop aka Kurt Alexander aka Zhig O'lo (it's a long story - ask me when we get back...)
And so we laughed, we cried with the banter and repartee between the travelers especially Tracy's directions, Robin's lack thereof and our collective lack of observation concerning road signs at traffic circles / roundabouts. Thus we ended up somewhere in Glastonbury suburbia at a quaint little enclave entitled Leg Of Mutton Road (I shit you not - see the pics for yourself).
Turning back after the photo op was completed - much to the consternation of local drivers behind us - we trundled down to Glastonbury and set out for The Tor where the wind whipped us relentlessly but the hazy views were still fantastic - again that "Here In England It's So Green" vibe - you can't get away from it. Pastoral, gentle rolling hills, fields and meadows then an overwhelming urge to piss drove us down to the Chalice Well site where Karen bought jewelry.
Piss complete, jewelry safely stowed, blessings of the sacred depths upon us, we gave some Indian travelers very vague directions to Street (a village nearby). The: "just head down this street until you're in town and see a sign to Street then follow it..." seemed to bamboozle them no end and I have no idea why.
We returned to our (new) old haunt of the splendidly vegetarian Blue Note Cafe where we partook of haloumi burgers while observing a very sickly serene expression permanently etched onto the face of a gowned young new-age woman who was about as convincing as a soap powder advert. Her vegetarian lunch notwithstanding, it was clear she had not only reached Glastonbury but had sashayed into nirvana simultaneously. I suspect her hippy boyfriend was probably hung like a donkey hence the doe-eyed Mona-Lisa smirk but if that's what it takes to achieve total enlightenment then what the fuck...
Following lunch, Karen headed back to the shop in which she'd been seduced first time around and - guess what - bought some more jewelry - a Libyan gold tektite scarab ring accompanied by a pair of gold and moldavite earrings in the shape of little star-tetrahedrons - very beautiful. But I managed to maintain firm denial during this piece of retail therapy by tossing a rubber toy for the owner's very cute labrador-cross - once started, hard to stop...and fairly disruptive in the tiny square as doddery old hippies scattered in Jaydee's slobbery, manic wake. That was real fun I can tell you. I thought their whole bag was love, man - but I got some really filthy looks. Peace, baby, peace...
Dark enlightenment (pardon the oxymoron) followed shortly thereafter by virtue of a self-proclaimed guru in a small crystal shop in the middle of Glastonbury - I had no idea there was someone else on the planet who knew as much as me yet could get it so spectacularly wrong but there you have it - she must be the antipaul or something...(tosser ;-) )
As you can imagine, we were exhausted after such a strenuous day of doing absolutely fuck all really so we headed off to Cheddar where we ate the best scones that have ever been made enhanced by clotted cream and fresh strawberry jam at The Simply Gorgeous Tea Room while listening to cars hiss by through the rain outside. Sweet shops, hot mulled scrumpy (the women had that) then Cheddar cheddar and back to the Pengelley pad for a lazy evening of TV and dishwashing I guess...
Sigh...we're gonna do a reverse-rain-dance tonight to ensure the skies clear before morning.
Watch this space
Goo goo goo joob xx
NOTES FROM MUD ISLAND PART 3
Sunday 5th September
In answer to Mr Griggs' query about our interesting day today - well it was rather quiet in fact with another visit to the freaky precincts of Weston-Super-Mud/Mare - not to view the Darwinian dropouts but rather to have a gawk at the sand sculpture exhibition down on the beach which was very entertaining.
Larger than life renderings of such diverse personages from Wallace & Gromit to Maggie Thatcher & Prince Charles done Spitting Image style were just great.
Sitting by the English seaside eating mushy peas and chips on the promenade while watching the passing freak-show provided an hour or two of fascination for us.
Anyone who is into manufacturing and/or selling and/or maintaining the frail people's motorised buggies must be worth a mint regardless of where you go - there are thousands of the things.
Eminently practical for sure but one cannot help noticing that the average age of people around you seems far higher than that of South Africa hence, I suppose, the need for these electrical perambulatory devices which Tracy (my ever irreverent sister-in-law) has dubbed NDW's.
When I asked her what that meant, she wickedly replied: Nearly Dead Wagons....
And another day shuffles to a close here in sometimes sunny, sometimes overcast Somerset in the south west of Mud Island and you know I have to say - not a bad day at all.
Watch this space for photos which will be appearing soon.
In answer to Mr Griggs' query about our interesting day today - well it was rather quiet in fact with another visit to the freaky precincts of Weston-Super-Mud/Mare - not to view the Darwinian dropouts but rather to have a gawk at the sand sculpture exhibition down on the beach which was very entertaining.
Larger than life renderings of such diverse personages from Wallace & Gromit to Maggie Thatcher & Prince Charles done Spitting Image style were just great.
Sitting by the English seaside eating mushy peas and chips on the promenade while watching the passing freak-show provided an hour or two of fascination for us.
Anyone who is into manufacturing and/or selling and/or maintaining the frail people's motorised buggies must be worth a mint regardless of where you go - there are thousands of the things.
Eminently practical for sure but one cannot help noticing that the average age of people around you seems far higher than that of South Africa hence, I suppose, the need for these electrical perambulatory devices which Tracy (my ever irreverent sister-in-law) has dubbed NDW's.
When I asked her what that meant, she wickedly replied: Nearly Dead Wagons....
And another day shuffles to a close here in sometimes sunny, sometimes overcast Somerset in the south west of Mud Island and you know I have to say - not a bad day at all.
Watch this space for photos which will be appearing soon.
NOTES FROM MUD ISLAND PART 2
Sunday 5th September
Thanks for the heads-up Lana - I get it. But the rambling would have been what it was in any event so this thread may continue with some more meandering unless I keep the UK journal via my notes - I don't really care being on holiday and all.
Obtained some interesting perspectives on England from a few Seffrican/Zimbabwean imports last night - people who've been here for between 2 - 15 years and it's an immutable truism that people's impressions are shaped by their personal circumstances regardless of the country they're in or the customs into which they're immersed.
The short-termer whose circumstances were much harder than the others I spoke to, had a far more critical view of the place than those who "had it better" both personally and financially. And as my fantastically psychotic sister-in-law observed so sagely: anyone who is stressing financially will find it hard to enjoy life no matter where they are.
And that is so true.
My own impressions (after 2 days!) - too early to tell and I haven't really had any interaction with the locals other than people in shops and cafes etc. and, just like in South Africa, I find that people respond to me depending upon my own mood and approach - in other words, they've been absolutely great.
And the stuttering light of morning has dawned into the more familiar drizzly grey weather of Beatles' I Am The Walrus reflection:
Sitting in an English garden waiting for the sun
If the sun don't come
You get a tan from standing in the English rain
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen
I am the walrus,
goo goo goo joob
goo goo goo joob
And on that profound pearl of wisdom - goo goo goo joob, folks
Thanks for the heads-up Lana - I get it. But the rambling would have been what it was in any event so this thread may continue with some more meandering unless I keep the UK journal via my notes - I don't really care being on holiday and all.
Obtained some interesting perspectives on England from a few Seffrican/Zimbabwean imports last night - people who've been here for between 2 - 15 years and it's an immutable truism that people's impressions are shaped by their personal circumstances regardless of the country they're in or the customs into which they're immersed.
The short-termer whose circumstances were much harder than the others I spoke to, had a far more critical view of the place than those who "had it better" both personally and financially. And as my fantastically psychotic sister-in-law observed so sagely: anyone who is stressing financially will find it hard to enjoy life no matter where they are.
And that is so true.
My own impressions (after 2 days!) - too early to tell and I haven't really had any interaction with the locals other than people in shops and cafes etc. and, just like in South Africa, I find that people respond to me depending upon my own mood and approach - in other words, they've been absolutely great.
And the stuttering light of morning has dawned into the more familiar drizzly grey weather of Beatles' I Am The Walrus reflection:
Sitting in an English garden waiting for the sun
If the sun don't come
You get a tan from standing in the English rain
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen
I am the walrus,
goo goo goo joob
goo goo goo joob
And on that profound pearl of wisdom - goo goo goo joob, folks
NOTES FROM MUD ISLAND PART 1
The chronicles and meandering waffle from our trip around the UK in Sophie Skoda...
Sunday September 5th
Interesting day in Glastonbury watching geriatric hippy folk amble around the town square - really shoo-wowish - haven't seen so many tie-dyed fabrics, dreadlocks and filthy denim for a while. Oh, the abbey and the tor were interesting too...and as Thomas Dolby said:Here in England it's so greenMartian men can move unseen...
Well now chronologically: yes indeed, David (Faye says everyone only ever calls you Mr Griggs so bollocks to that), I am measuring my vacational success by the degrees to which ennui overshadows my fervent ability to do as little as possible with innate enjoyment.
So far so good.
Traipsing after Karen through all the little crystal and psuedo-wiccan shops was more than interesting although I did feel a bit like her feline familiar rather than a husbank (oops sorry - Freudian slip there) husband!
And Mr Closs, yes indeed, we'll be visiting the auld fowk in the last 2 weeks of September aroon Edinburgh, Perth, Pitlochry, Dundee etc. (aw on the east coast - nane ae yer Glescae rubbish noo) ;-)
My sister, Norma arrives from South Africa via Portugal around 18th and we're hooking up with her to do the Scottish leg.
Some of our relatives are getting very long in the tooth now so this may be our last opportunity to see them - kinda bittersweet visit in that sense but cathartic in a way as well.
And Lana, my green-eyed sister - we'll have to revisit Glastonbury as we arrived late following an eye-opening visit to the shallowest of gene-ponds in Weston-Super-Mare (sounds like a gender-confused equine superhero) to buy myself a local mobile package for the month.
It is affectionately (or not) known as Weston-Super-Mud given the silty nature of the tidal flow in the estuary there. Some of the residents looked like they'd recently crawled amphibiously from the slime that very morning and bipedal locomotion was altogether new to them...but I digress.
Glastonbury needs a relook and we wanted to spend a little more time visiting the chalice well and the tor which we didn't get to and frankly want to see more privately to get the most from the experience. So we'll make a plan next week.
Today off to Wells (I can only ever hear the immortal line from Blackadder II) - "It's the baby-eating bishop of Bath and Wells..." as he bursts in on Edmund who is snugged up with a strumpet whom he introduces as "...a very dear friend of his..." and to which she replies: "I'm not dear at all actually considering all the weird, kinky..."
Edmund interrupts timeously - well you get the picture.
It's a beautiful part of the world I must confess and we half expected to see knights on horseback thundering across the meadows or pox-ridden serfs wailing at the roadside but truth be told - just aging hippies with interesting aromas and even more interesting tonsorial arrangements...Ah England - so civilised. (I wonder when we'll see that bit...?)
Sunday September 5th
Interesting day in Glastonbury watching geriatric hippy folk amble around the town square - really shoo-wowish - haven't seen so many tie-dyed fabrics, dreadlocks and filthy denim for a while. Oh, the abbey and the tor were interesting too...and as Thomas Dolby said:Here in England it's so greenMartian men can move unseen...
Well now chronologically: yes indeed, David (Faye says everyone only ever calls you Mr Griggs so bollocks to that), I am measuring my vacational success by the degrees to which ennui overshadows my fervent ability to do as little as possible with innate enjoyment.
So far so good.
Traipsing after Karen through all the little crystal and psuedo-wiccan shops was more than interesting although I did feel a bit like her feline familiar rather than a husbank (oops sorry - Freudian slip there) husband!
And Mr Closs, yes indeed, we'll be visiting the auld fowk in the last 2 weeks of September aroon Edinburgh, Perth, Pitlochry, Dundee etc. (aw on the east coast - nane ae yer Glescae rubbish noo) ;-)
My sister, Norma arrives from South Africa via Portugal around 18th and we're hooking up with her to do the Scottish leg.
Some of our relatives are getting very long in the tooth now so this may be our last opportunity to see them - kinda bittersweet visit in that sense but cathartic in a way as well.
And Lana, my green-eyed sister - we'll have to revisit Glastonbury as we arrived late following an eye-opening visit to the shallowest of gene-ponds in Weston-Super-Mare (sounds like a gender-confused equine superhero) to buy myself a local mobile package for the month.
It is affectionately (or not) known as Weston-Super-Mud given the silty nature of the tidal flow in the estuary there. Some of the residents looked like they'd recently crawled amphibiously from the slime that very morning and bipedal locomotion was altogether new to them...but I digress.
Glastonbury needs a relook and we wanted to spend a little more time visiting the chalice well and the tor which we didn't get to and frankly want to see more privately to get the most from the experience. So we'll make a plan next week.
Today off to Wells (I can only ever hear the immortal line from Blackadder II) - "It's the baby-eating bishop of Bath and Wells..." as he bursts in on Edmund who is snugged up with a strumpet whom he introduces as "...a very dear friend of his..." and to which she replies: "I'm not dear at all actually considering all the weird, kinky..."
Edmund interrupts timeously - well you get the picture.
It's a beautiful part of the world I must confess and we half expected to see knights on horseback thundering across the meadows or pox-ridden serfs wailing at the roadside but truth be told - just aging hippies with interesting aromas and even more interesting tonsorial arrangements...Ah England - so civilised. (I wonder when we'll see that bit...?)
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