North, South, East, West E-Book

Geoffrey Peyton

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

In 2012, I visited Norfolk, Cumbria, Cornwall, Ayrshire, and the Cotswold's. Normally I would write each of these rambling holidays in segments for quicker reading, but elected instead to write them all down as one complete diary. These are the memoirs of the walks that I under took, not to mention a lot of history of each of the towns that I visited.

Leseprobe

Geoffrey Peyton

North, South, East, West

and one in the middle

To all the good people of the small communities that I visited this year. you are all most gracious with us tourists, and we accept the invite to your world of beauty. 'Cover photo; The River Clyde, Ayr. BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

North, South, East, West, and one in the middle

A few years ago I paid several visits to all manner of rural towns and villages of immutable beauty. These environed enclosures from urban Britain are a disjunction from a seemingly non transparent world where the local becomes a yokel. The serious inflictions of suburban crime are immaterial to country folk who abrogate any metropolitan rules that are more than non applicable to their clever deaf ears. After a while, and many tours of these lustful havens, I began to realize that even pressing the electronic locking system on the car door for practical security reasons was more than unnecessary, and actually embarrassing. Mountain bikes were placed against the dry limestone walls overnight, because the owner knew that it would still be there come the following morning. In Birmingham where I unfortunately live, you only have to be sitting on the saddle, and your prize Tour de France replica would be stripped of any knowledge of its former existence in worth before you could yell “Oh goolies”.

The tourists who visit these small villages and towns are as obvious to pick out as I would be if I were doing a tribal dance in East Africa with the local Djibouti tribesmen. But that is what make these communities unique, they really do segregate themselves from the rat race, and how I envy them.

I have now become a serial visitor to these seemingly disclaiming outskirts of modern development, where I have to earn my crust just so I can find the corn to vacate a hell hole of industrial power and find a momentary exchange to these gracious pastures of hidden Britain.

Those mini breaks of 2010 gave me thought to scribble a few memoirs of those tranquil and humorous moments, just so I could share the experience with others, that’s of course if anyone ever reads them. So rather than formulate them in a short story detail as I usually do, I decided to put them into one volume, thus becoming an author of book, so to speak, rather than a diarist. The following year, I once again wrote my travels in ink, but segregated them individually into affectionate chapter modes. But because my journeys of 2012 will take me in relation to the four compass points of Britain, I thought it would be a good idea to write them down in one complete capacity of five chapters. I shall not only take in the coastlines, but also central England’s Cotswold’s. That would seem as if I had made a deliberate ploy to visit the North, South, East, West and heart of Britain. But I have to hold my hands up and admit that they were all inadvertent and coincidental choices.

I sharnt spoil it all by announcing has to where I am travelling, hopefully you shall find that out in the due course of reading. But one thing is for certain, it will not involve ASBO infested concrete societies. Oh no, It will involve country lanes, crystal seas, vast landscapes, naked hills, tea & scones, other local delicacies, and not to mention an immense amount of trodden cow shit.

P.S. I shall not always be on my own during these trips, so do beware. Also I would like to thank you for at least reading the opening folio.

The West

I watched as Pam went through the usual procedure of over compensating the week ahead with enough clothing to last not only a few months, but also sufficient enough to fully stock a small charity outlet. This was all thanks to her packing of a suitcase full of accoutrements of which fifty per cent will be returned home and unmolested by human sweat. But I of course placed the two hundred weight package into the boot of our Vauxhall Astra which immediately sunk enough to concern the car’s rear suspension. There were also other items of non applicable usage that were to be contorted somehow onto the back seats too, forcing the exhaust pipe to make its acquaintance with the tarmac road before alas, we were ready to set off for the Lakes once again.

Whether it is a man thing, I do not know. But when I took my birthday break at Cleethorpes a few months earlier, I was accompanied by a medium sized holdall containing what I class as sufficient needs in clothing, and let me tell you that that included my laptop. Okay, I may have smelt a little less ‘Au de toilette’ by the end of the weekend, but at least nobody sat by me on any of the three trains on my journey home, so I guess it is a man thing.

I sharnt bore one with the trip up the M6, except to say that it is now habitual for us to stop off at the 100 mile gage that is the Charnock & Richard Service Station, where also the compulsory acquirements of complimentary condiments are stashed contortedly into my pockets, i.e. sachets of sugar, salt, pepper, vinegar, mustard and a fine selection of miniature jam’s and marmalade’s. This act of inconsequent theft is done more out of animosity, due to the extortionate prices that are charged for a simple meal. I mean, a cup of tea at two pounds plus.

The main objective of this umpteen visit to Cumbria is for another day at Cartmel Races. It is also good reason to visit my real home in England, that being Grange-Over-Sands. We fluttered a few quid here two years ago, loved the day so much that we had to come again, and it seems now to be an annual date. I absolutely adore ambulating about the local public country walkways in the early morning and late evenings, respecting the grounds of the more refined yokel. But more importantly, it is a needed getaway from metropolitan England.

There was a tight armament presence at the entrance to Lakeland Holiday Park. Checkpoint Charlie held up his right hand as a motion for me to slam on the anchors. I pressed the electronic window winder button, quickly placing both hands back onto the steering wheel whilst the passenger window was still in motion. This was in the hope that he would be impressed by the fact that we had at least one gadget on the vehicle that does not require man or woman to do anything manually stressful.

“High there, are you booking in or just visiting?" he asked, no doubt for the hundredth plus time today.

“Booking in”, I replied.

He was about to direct us to reception, but I held up the hand that talks.

“It’s ok mate, we have been here dozens of times, and we know where it is”.

I am sure that he was mightily impressed, not only by the electronic window winder, but the fact that I knew this place like the back of my hand. And with that, the barrier was raised for us to continue over the border without the fear of being shot at from the rear. I glanced into the rear view mirror, giggling at the car behind us and wondering if Charlie was giving them the second degree.

The sun was generous and forced tropical conditions inside the car. After circuiting the car park about a dozen times, accompanied by Pam pointing at impossible gaps to reverse into, I decided to park in a no parking area.

“You can’t park there”, she insisted.

But I was very hot and extremely bothered with the heat that had been generated inside the car due to the penetrating orange ball in the sky, so I had to retort “Pam, I am parking here – period”.

Just as I pulled on the handbrake, a car moved from its spot. I quickly started the engine and filled the vacant space, all to the disgust of the line of traffic that was now in my previous predicament.

“You shouldn’t have done that?" groaned Pam.

I was taken aback momentarily, and restrained myself from delivering abusive expletives hitherto.

We were ninety minutes early for booking in. But we had paid full whack for our accommodation, electing not to book via ‘The Sun’ newspaper, so we more than expected the red carpet treatment. But we were treated the same as the peasants who had booked a cheaper holiday via the newspaper, yes, honestly. This of course was well below the belt, so I was forced, yes forced into visiting the entertainment centre for a pint of Guinness. Because I had not had a beer of any sort for over a month, the Guinness had barely touched my throat, and all I killed in time was about two minutes.

“Have another one”, insisted Pam.

“No, I replied. “I don’t want to be pissed before we get the keys”.

The truth was, was that I would have loved to have gotten pissed, but I don’t do that anymore.

We had been handed a rather divine caravan that was situated at the most extreme of Lakeland Holiday Park. It even had a personal garden of our very own, and furthermore, it overlooked an airfield that was once military but is now used for skydiving activities. The garden is recluse to the prying eye, so the comfort of knowing one can dine incognito was an unexpected delight. We did however pay a high price for the home, rather than go through the Sun’s newspaper offer, so I gather this is why we were given a two toileted base that also contained HDTV, a DVD and even a DAB radio (and a carriage clock).

Once Pam had unpacked everything from the car and packed the caravan up to the ceiling, we decided to take stroll, possibly toward the coast. I was disappointed that she accepted my request to accompany me on this walk, not through being nasty you understand, but the mere fact that she will only walk for a few hundred metres and then declare that she is too knackered to continue. But we are here together as a couple, and it was only fair that she comes along to be an interfering laggard.

Well would you Adam & Eve it, not a few yards from our caravan did a speck of dust whip up from the ground and blew into Pam’s eye. This forced her to abandon any attempt to conquer a third of a mile walk. There was no alternative but to furrow my brow and let her return solo, leaving me to continue a walk that can last as long as I ruddy well wish; and it was indeed a delightful meander of the coastline on the northern banks of Morecambe Bay.

I was back at the caravan for 6.00pm after my two hours stroll. Pam was well involved in TV’s Eggheads, so I read a line or two from Simon Rae’s biographical account of the life of the cricket legend W.G. Grace. I took an early night and kipped until around 1.00am where I was awakened courtesy of near Arctic conditions inside my bed. The forecast did alert me that we had finished with the mini heatwave that the whole of Great Britain had endured in the previous two weeks, and also to be prepared for a more autumnal like week or so ahead. I redressed myself with track bottoms, socks and t-shirt, and slept comfortably for four more hours.

Flookburgh is famous for making the famous Cartmel Sticky Toffee Pudding, of which I can say is a rather non dietary moment of bliss. The Cark Airfield is host to the North West Parachute Centre, and daredevils alike were a rather scary experience on the eyes, but all came down safely of course. The town name of Flookburgh came from the flatfish the Fluke, more commonly found off the coasts of Nova Scotia, Florida and Massachusetts, where it is known as the Summer Flounder. But they had found their way into the waters of Morecambe Bay, and are being sold as a delicacy here in Cumbria. As history goes, Flookburgh is steeped in very little on the quiz scale, but I am sure that the yokel will contradict those theories in a story or two, at the cost of a pint of course.

I had no idea on which route to challenge on my first real tread quest. I left with a small thermos of tea but decided against a snack for later. I intended solely on an hour’s trek, but my feet got carried away and I ended up traipsing half of Cumbria’s Southern Coastline.

Apparently there is a trodden track that starts at the cute village of Silverdale which overlooks Morecambe Bay, and makes its way right round to Solway near Carlisle, totaling 182 miles. Well I am not venturing that far of course, but it has certainly given me thought for a challenge in the future. So why not give it an introductory feel by attempting at least 9 miles of it.

After about 3 miles, I felt that I had made a commitment to find the next village that I hit and return to Lakeland via other pastoral means, because I find it rather off putting when walking many miles and boringly retreading its route back home. My orienteering of foreign landscapes is usually pretty spot on, so with a little common sense and an element of luck, I should be able to find my way back within a couple of hours. There were no visible footpath inlets available for those 3 miles, nor were there any for the next couple. I was becoming a little agitated on bridging each blind turn that revealed zero pathways toward home. I had travelled a good 5 miles in the ‘apparent’ 2 hours that I had been walking.

Because of all the sheep that wonder the marshes freely, my eyes were more concerned with the abundance of fresh faeces that obstructed my line of path, making it rather difficult to view the mountainous scenery. When I did finally breach the land of no lambs, I was confronted with a boulder path. But the sight of a small town not a mile away settled my worried time schedule in returning home.

A narrow road that seemingly ended on the sands of the estuary looked like my way off this natural obstacle course. But just as I was preparing the last 100 metres of beach hopping, I was met with the first public footpath that would hopefully take me back to Lakeland. I was more than happy at traipsing open fields rather than pavement trekking, and a delightful walk it was. A few curious cows gorped suspiciously at me, but were satisfied that I was of little threat to them as I waltzed on by.

At last I made it to a very narrow tractor lane that was protected on either side by a fine selection of infant fruiting brambles that had grown to their zenith in height. It did worry me that on the odd occasion that a tractor may come towards me, whether it is from my rear or head on, and I would be up the creek of shit. Also there were no pull-in’s available, so I would have no alternative but to get thorn splinters or become rural road-kill. But fortune favoured the brave, and I was unhindered nether.

My first human contact of the morning came as I was at last exiting the farm track. A very butch woman walking an equally butch hound greeted me with a masculine, “Hello, you’re out walking early this morning?"

I did reply that I had been traipsing her neighbourhood for more than two hours, of which she replied, “Oh my goodness”, and off she went.