The Main Holiday 2009.

May 2009 was a period of some uncertainty for me. At work we had been offered voluntary redundancy and I had expressed an interest. But the future looks turbulent for a time.

Nevertheless I am not one to ponder long on the “might be’s” and so I continued with my plans for a solo holiday which commenced on Sunday 3rd May with a train journey on Eurostar from Ashford to Paris.
Here it was a short walk to the Gare de L’Est where by connecting train down to Mulhouse was going to leave from. I had travelled first class in some comfort on the Eurostar but on the French railways (and the remainder of the trip) I travelled in standard class. The TGV train from Paris to Mulhouse was busy. In fact every seat was taken. Yje window seat that I had reserved was in fact a pillar between windows and because of the high back of the seats in front I did feel somewhat hemmed in and largely unable to view the countryside passing by. Therefore the TGV was a means to an end rather than an enjoyable experience. At Mulhouse I had booked a room in the Victoria Garden Suites Hotel which was a fair distance from the railway station. But it was a calm evening, not too hot but pleasant, and despite heavy bags I undertook the walk of a mile or so on foot. The hotel was modern but severely functional. The check-in was okay and the lift and especially the corridors to my room smelt extremely pleasant, as if just polished. The room itself was bland and overlooked a factory wall. It didn’t matter – it was a place to put my head down for the night.

I explored Mulhouse’s old centre on foot that Sunday evening. There was very little life in what I saw, especially bearing in mind that this is a student town. However, there seemed to be some “action” of a sort near an Irish pub and I had my tea at a nearby branch of “Subway”.

The next day it was raining heavily but a regular local transportation bus was able to whisk me to the railway station for one euro and thirty cents in less than ten minutes. I now caught the train to Basel where I was to change onto a Swiss railways service. I was stopped by the border police and briefly questioned before I was allowed on my way.

A train via Zurich to Chur, then a change onto the Rhatische Bahn, a narrow gauge system that traverses the Alps, were utlised to get me deep into the south east of that country in a very short time. Before I was fully aware my train was climbing and the air became cooler. Seeing snow and ice in patches soon became a case of seeing snow and ice predominate as my train crossed the Bernina Pass, near St. Moritz.

The train then descends in great loops and spirals into the green valleys in the vicinity of Poschiavo.

Finally my train reached my destination and base for the next seven nights, the town of Tirano. I spend days from here returning to those Alpine slopes on the train or else at Varenna on Lake Como where beautiful unspoilt waterfront houses make an attractive setting in comfortably warm weather against a backdrop of mountains.

The Swiss trains were generally on time and, of course, spotless. I was often the only occupant of the carriage which was great and enabled me to have the window down for photography purposes without worrying that any of my fellow passengers were going to be in a draught. This was especially important at such location as shown below (which is known as Bernina Lagalb).

When the trains were not running through snowfields they were running through green alpine valleys and calling at occasional villages. The light use of the railway at this time of year really makes it quite special and the hours passed quickly…..too quickly!

The Italian trains weren’t too bad. Quite comfortable although less immaculate than the Swiss trains and often unofficially decorated with graffiti. Their usage was much heavier. The Italian stations offered excellent bars where it was possible to buy local wine and snacks at reasonable prices. This is one of the main pleasures of travelling – to sit like one of the locals listening to chatter that you cannot understand while you sip very good local produce and eat fresh bread and some regional cheese or meat speciality. Never has waiting for a train been so pleasant and I repeated this on many occasions.

My hotel in Tirano was okay. A three star place with an efficient reception and restaurant. A narrow room opening out onto a communal terrace was comfortable enough but the accoustics due to paper thin walls were often unwelcome. This was a shame because it took the edge off of my pleasure in the place.

For my evening dinner which I had opted to take in the hotel I quickly became aware that my lack of knowledge of the Italian language was going to be a problem. They spoke no English and the menus were also purely in the local language. Oh well. I eat anything except goat products and plunged in at random every evening, choosing items because I liked the look of the words! It was fun, even if I did end up, one evening with three slices of cheese on my dinner plate accompanied by boiled potatoes and carrots. I still ate it.

After seven days of travelling from Tirano on day trips I decided to head on to Venice for my last two nights. The first train took me into Milan where I was surprised to find a big gap in the timetable for a Venice train. So rather than wait potentially at the mercy of petty thieves I decided to take a train to Bologna and a local train from there to Venice. It worked fine even if it was a long way round.

I stayed in a very comfortable four star hotel literally directly opposite the entrance to Venice Mestre station. This is not Venice itself but that delightful place can be reached on the train in ten minutes from Mestre and the trains run, it seems, every ten minutes or more.

I loved Venice. My only fear is that I can be so enchanted by photographic opportunities and the feel and look of the place that I could easily end up plunging into a canal. Not everyone seemed to be sharing by enjoyment, though. These four passengers in a gondola seem to have had a disagreement about something!

Venice was great for two evenings of strolling. On my free day I decided to visit a historical vintage tramway line that doubles as a funicular railway in Trieste, two hours away on the train. Here I found a real transportation gem and some very friendly people.

My holiday ended the following day with a flight from Marco Polo airport in Venice back to London Gatwick. It was fun and I can highly recommend it to others who may have similar tastes!

Fear of Flying.

Wednesday 13th May 2009. It is the last day of a holiday that I have conducted so far entirely by rail. From the UK I have travelled through France and Switzerland to Italy. My last two nights were in the town of Mestre which is just across the causeway from Venice.

When planning this trip I really didn’t want to spend two days getting home by train. I was travelling solo and certainly didn’t relish the idea of shelling out for a sleeping compartment on the train which I would have to share. So I had decided to book a flight. From Venice Marco Polo airport (the main one) to London Gatwick. Less than forty quid with easyJet.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I have flown before. Many times. To and from Moscow on Aeroflot, to and from Tokyo on Virgin, to and from the USA and Canada on a variety of carriers, to and from Goa in the most cramped plane I’ve ever done long haul in (Monarch) and various locations dotted around Europe. But flying does give me a feeling of suppressed anxiety. It always has. Whether long haul or short haul, jumbo or turboprop, fixed-wing or helicopter, there is always something that I perceive as high-risk about allowing yourself to be carried to a great height at great speed and to put yourself completely in the trust of trained professionals and maintenance staff and designers and builders and all those people who go back to the drawing board.

I have watched movies like “Final Destination” – fiction so that’s okay. But I’ve also seen “Seconds from Disaster” which are factual documentaries available on YouTube which unfortunately feature many aircraft disasters. So it’s this that plays on my mind. Not obtrusively; I don’t board the aircraft bolstered by brandy or sit in the cabin a gibbering wreck but I am aware of consciously acting casual as if I am totally at ease with flying.

On 12th May, the day before the flight, I had visited the railway station at Mestre and made one last enquiry about railway sleeping car accommodation back to the UK. The supplement was aggressively dear, over twice the price that I had paid for the flight. It would also take over twenty times longer. So I walked away from the station conscious that I had let my “last chance” go.

On the morning of the 13th I rose in time to partake of a hearty breakfast at the Hotel Plaza in Mestre. Then I undertook the brief three to four minute walk down to place in Mestre where the buses leave for both Marco Polo and Treviso airports (as well as to other locations). A bus came in. There was nothing on it to suggest the destination but I heard the driver mention “Marco Polo” in an otherwise unintelligible sentence. I boarded, having paid the three euros for a ticket. I validated it myself and hoped for the best. Yes, this turned out to be the right bus and within half an hour I was standing in the departures lounge at Marco Polo airport. My flight, easyJet 5264 for London Gatwick, due to depart at 12.35 hours was not yet announced.

This is good for me for a start. I find that to watch hundreds of people milling around about to start their journeys to destinations around the globe reassuring. The time seems to go quickly. Soon the check-in is open and after waiting in a queue for a relatively short time I am relieved of my hold luggage and am now able to proceed to security so that I can enter the inner sanctum of those who are checked in and ready to go.

To my horror, despite taking off my belt and removing coins from my pocket I am carrying something that alerts the security staff and I am stopped. Am I carrying water in my hand luggage? I must look completely vacant. Then the reason dawns on me. A friend had given me a bottle of vodka in Italy and I was taking it home in hand luggage to avoid it getting smashed if the case was roughly handled. NOT a good idea. Stupidly I had completely forgotten about liquids in hand luggage being forbidden and so the untasted vodka was confiscated.

Oh well. At least I was now properly checked in. I went to obtain a light lunch in the cafeteria and was now able to watch planes moving to and from the runway. Again this is good. The almost dull routine of planes taking off and landing is therapeutic. I remember once going to Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix AZ and just watching the planes for two hours on the day before I was due to fly home. The routine was so everyday, so normal. Why should my flight be any different?

Then I went to the gate for boarding and was bussed across to the aircraft. I was keen to get a window seat so I didn’t study the aircraft much as I hurried from the bus and up the steps. Another excellent distraction. I got a window seat in the very back row. I have long decided that I don’t care whether I’m at the front, middle or back of the aircraft, but I’d rather SEE what is going on outisde so I prefer a window seat (even though I might be the first to be sucked out in a structural crisis, haha!!).

Then there is the crew. They do this journey day in and day out. The cabin staff are there to give the safety information and then get on with the job of selling refreshments and finally perfumes and train tickets to London from Gatwick etc. Two blokes and two women. Cheerful and obviously unphased. They go through the emergency evacuation and “brace! brace!” information procedures looking slightly bored. I’m sure that this is rehearsed. I like cabin crew to look bored when they do this. If they looked serious/concerned I would be horrified.

Then there is a slight setback. The sealing of the doors. The sensible side of me is glad that we are now on our way. The supressed side whispers “you can’t get out now, even if you wanted to!”

The plane starts to move and, compared to the larger city airports, we taxi to the end of the runway extremely quickly. I am lucky to be seated behind a young couple from Essex who clearly enjoy flying. Their chirpy tones ease me. Because take-off is, for me, the worst bit. “We’re on time!” the sensible me thinks as the jets roar and we scud down the runway. “This is it. In another few seconds you could be enveloped in a ball of flame!” hisses the devil on my shoulder.

One, two, three, four………twelve, thirteen, fourteen…..we’re still on the runway. Shouldn’t we have taken off by now? Fleetingly I recall that a woman I work with lost two relatives in an early jetliner crash at Orly in Paris in the 1960’s when the plane failed to achieve take off…..but then we’re off the ground and climbing. To distract myself I reach down for the camera and start to take pictures while the ground is still distinct. We’re still climbing, everything seems good.

Suddenly a woman gets up and walks down the aisle to get to the toilet. She is obviously a hardened traveller and has no fears. But she is told to return to her seat at once and she does so grudgingly. I resent her brazen arrogance and envy it too!

Then comes that blissful moment when the cabin crew start moving around. Ah! Everything is normal. They have received the message that the take off has proceeded according to plan and they can start getting on with their duties.

Now this is a cheap flight so if I want coffee or food I have to pay for it. I find that when this kind of thing is included it is a wonderful distraction. Now, however, I got out a book and pretended to read. Occasional chimes sounded which I am used to but I always watch the cabin crew after each just to be sure. And I always check the seat belts sign too. Just now it is still on.

After a few minutes the seat belt sign goes off. Another excellent development. I look down out of the window and see that we are crossing the snow-capped peaks of the Alps.

The pilot makes an announcement. He too sounds slightly bored but informs us that we are flying at thirty eight thousand feet (”that’s a long way down!” hisses my inner voice of doom).

Everything continues normally for five, ten, twenty, thirty minutes. My seat belt is still securely on.

Then, bump, bump, bumpetty bump and BUMP! Turbulance. The seat belt signs remain off. The crew continue their rounds. We are now over Paris by my reckoning although cloud cover prevents me from seeing the ground. Then the bumping starts again in magnified form. The sign to fasten belts lights up. The crew return to their jump seats. Ah!

There then follows a period of probably no more than six or seven minutes of profound bumping and jerking. I decide to pick up my book and look (but am very far from feeling) placid and relaxed. I am thinking of auditioning for an acting school because I think that I have the talent, haha! I discreetly tug at the seatbelt to ensure that it is secure. Somebody near me remarks “I’ve never had it as bad as this!” Oh, thanks for that! My real fear is of a sudden drop like being in a lift when the cable is broken. I had it happen to me only once on an Icelandair flight in the mid-eighties. I hated that. Air-pockets! However, we were fine and the turbulence was confined to shaking us around rather than giving us the roller coaster effect.

Then the crisis is over and the crew resume their rounds. In a very few minutes we begin our descent.

Bizarrely I am completely as ease with landing. I actually enjoy it. On this occasion the cloud cover was so thick that by the time we could see the ground we were about twenty seconds from actually making contact with the runway. I was momentarily alarmed because I have only ever landed at Gatwick making an approach from the easterly direction. I didn’t even know that they landed the other way. So I was expecting to see the railway lines just before the tarmac. They did bot appear and we were virtually on the ground. Then the proper runway markings came into view and I realised. The Essex couple’s female member remarked “Oh, we’ve made a westerly approach this time!”. The landing was fine. The reverse thrust kicked in and then we were soon on our way to the gate.

The devil over my shoulder hissed grudgingly “Well, that’s another risk you’ve run!” while the sensible side of me reflected shamefacedly on my unwarranted concerns. Now….time to go and pick up the luggage……

“Did you come by train?” “No, I flu!”

An American friend who kindly comments on my flickr photos recently made the tongue-in-cheek observation that he “didn’t use the city buses because he didn’t want to travel with “the great unwashed”……

He has a car and the buses don’t offer the convenience that he wants for himself and his family. I don’t blame him. The “great unwashed” was a humourous flippancy. However, as I have no alternative other than to use public transportation I can, occasionally, be subjected to anti-social activities of my fellow travellers who may not actually smell or be picking their noses but whose behaviour betrays lack of basic social consideration skills (in other words they are a bleedin’ nuisance!).

Now, the media-hyped horror of the “imminent pandemic” – the swine flu – means that public transport users seem to be at greater risk than their car owning fellows. Indeed, there were even rumours that the Mexico City subway was to be closed in order to prevent the spread of infection and numerous news channels carried pictures of be-masked individuals travelling on said system. (Followed, closely, I might add, my some entrepeneur hoping to make a quick buck by offering for sale “designer face masks” with all sorts of styles to suit all pockets and facial structures!).

On my daily commute by rail to work the carriage chuckled about the mass-hysteria being whipped up by the press. Yet, if a fellow passenger boarded with a cold and proceeded to cough repeatedly or sneeze before being able to recourse to a tissue those chuckles and smiles took on a “frozen” quality (and we may have quietly wished for the availability of a medicated nosegay!).

Today I travelled by train and bus to make a weekly visit to a family member. I boarded the train at the start of its journey and was somewhat discomposed to find that the carriage that I had chosen to sit in was fast becoming the favourite of everyone else (it seemed) on the platform. People were sitting in front of me, next to me, and behind me. I am due to start a ten day travelling vacation tomorrow and the thought crossed my mind “if one of these buggers starts coughing and sneezing then I’m off!” The air-conditioning in the train seemed, to my mind, to be sucking in numerous viruses, treating them to moisture and then, after these germs had bathed and multiplied in deliciously perfect temperatures, had expelled them, refreshed, into the atmosphere. Sense told me to stop this nonsense. But then I considered that I should moved to a part of the train where I could spread out (purely for comfort purposes, OF COURSE!). I pretended that I had seen someone walk past on the platform who I recognised (as if, for heaven sake, anyone would CARE about me moving seats!!). I smiled and nodded at the non-existent person outside on the platform and jumped up to move. I walked into the next carriage to find it almost deserted except for a rather loud young family at the far end. I congratulated the alter-ego side of my personality that had encouraged the move and dismissed the chiding voices that admonished me for being “ridiculous”! The family at the far end were chattered away. The father coughed…..”You’ve got swine flu!” declared a junior school age child in the group. Everyone laughed.

Upon arriving at the city where I had to change onto a bus for the last forty minutes of my journey I walked through beautifully manicured public gardens to reach the bus station. Everything in my world looked lovely. The flowers were blooming, the grass was lush green and the birds sang with fervour. And tomorrow was the first day of my two week holiday. I reached the bus station and saw that the double-decker bus was already loading. I joined the queue and, once on board, chose a seat halfway down the upper deck and regarded with some surprise the number of people who were proposing to be my fellow passengers (normally I get this bus and can be one of, at most, a dozen people on a seventy-seater vehicle). Then – shock, horror!! A group of maybe twenty children with a scattering of their adult carers became the prospective passengers. Their Latin-American looks suggested that they might be, yes, WERE, MUST BE from Mexico, that cradle of media-hyped infection. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. They would stay downstairs of course. After all, the carers would not want these rampaging kids (sneezing and coughing, naturally) to be running amok on the upper deck. Then came the dreaded stampede and UP they came. One sneezed almost at once. My muscles tensed. They sat in front of me, behind me, next to me. I was effectively SEALED in a vacuum of pestilence. I listened anxiously for words like “Zapata” or “Amigo”. But my paranoia was instantly assuaged when I heard the sarf-east Ingerland intonations of children and carers alike. “Got enny sweets on yer?” The child who sneezed did so again. “Swine flu!” screamed the others in mock horror.

Needless to say I completed my journey without let or hindrance or air-borne pestilence. Like the time when I arrived in Japan for a week’s dream holiday and had a child sit behind me who demonstrated all the symptoms of whooping-cough on the bullet train to Himeji – there was no cause for alarm.

Tomorrow I set forth on a European tour, by rail, which will doubtless result in me using crowded Underground railways and busy overland trains in warm conditions. And to crown the cocktail I am flying back.
I do not expect to quarantined, nor exposed to anything more risky than usual either as regards infection or the activities of the anti-socials. I will continue to travel with the “Great Unwashed” and become part of them.

(My will is written)

Home Economics UK

The Ins and Outs!

This is the view that I enjoy from my two bedroom purpose built flat in the centre of Dover, a port town in the south-eastern corner of England. Calais in France is only 21 miles away, whereas my place of work, Ashford, is nearer 25.

My flat isn’t especially posh. It was built in 1976 and comprises twelve flats in the block. Nearly half of those are rented out, the owners showing little interest in anything other than the cheapest possible way to run the block in order to maximise their profits from rental. Nevertheless it is a convenient block. The railway station, with four trains an hour to London is literally a stones throw away. The town with its shops is five minutes. A convenience store is two minutes. There is off-street parking for those with vehicles. The beach and sea is ten minutes walk away, the cliffs twenty. The rolling hills of the North Downs as they reach the sea are also within easy reach on foot. It is a place where it is easy to enjoy comfort without cars.

For those who wonder what the lifestyle is like for a non-professional in the UK read on. I left school at sixteen, hating it. I drifted in and out of several jobs but for the past fourteen years have worked for a railway company and thus enjoy free rail travel to and from work and, to a limited extent, free travel throughout the UK and Europe too. This saves a lot of money. It is an extremely valuable perk.

The job doesn’t pay especially well. But the perk helps to offset that.
Here is a summary of my survival in the midst of the worst recession seen for many years.

Income: £20,064 per annum gross (just over twenty thousand quid).
Paid over thirteen four-weekly periods. This means that, after tax, I clear about £1,130 each four weekly period. Paid straight into the bank which charges £6.95 for the privilege each month!

Outgoings:

Mortgage: £259.90 per month. 13 years remaining. MUCH lower than this time last year when it was about £100 more per month.

Council Tax: (This is the rate levied to each householder for stuff like rubbish removal, street maintenance and lighting, police etc. £85.00 per month (ten months are charged out of twelve).

Gas/Electricity and Water Emergency Cover: £27.59 monthly

TV Licence (for the BBC and all its distortions) £9.95 monthly

Contents Insurance: £6.95 monthly

Maintenance fund for the block of flats: £250 annually

Block insurance, including terrorism cover: £135 annually

Mains Water supply and sewage: Approx £250 annually.

Mains Gas supply: Approx £400 annually

Mains Electricity supply: Approx £200 annually.

Broadband Internet Connection: £17.95 monthly.

Telephone: About £60 quarterly.

I do not have loans to pay or mobile telephone subscriptions because I regard both as extremely expensive and unnecessary. My one credit card it, wherever possible, paid off in full every month. I do not own or run a car and therefore there is no expense there.

However, I do enjoy to drink and eat and spend at least £250 per month on food and drink consumables.

That’s yer snapshot of a single bloke’s existence in the UK in the early months of 2009.

The New Domestic Appliance.

When I first viewed my current flat in January 2001 the (then) current encumbant, Dimos, was in dire insolvency and needed a quick sale. The place was already under offer to someone who was dragging their heels (and was apparently buying it to let out) so Dimos (and agent) encouraged me to make an offer and complete in four weeks. The view from the flat of Dover Castle at night persuaded me. I have not had cause for regret ever since.

But dear Dimos, in his anxiety to obtain cash from any source, tried to sell me the washing machine and fridge-freezer that were old but, as I considered, functional. However, he had already ticked the boxes on the legal documents that they were included in the sale. He tried it on but I was also desperate for cash and had to borrow the deposit on the flat so I was in no position to be “understanding”. He got his sale in four weeks and I moved into the flat with second hand furniture (except for the bed, which had to be new). The place stunk of cigarettes because D was a chain smoker. But I couldn’t afford to replace the carpets for three years.

The washing machine left behind by my reluctant benefactor lasted for precisely one wash (the fridge freezer survived for a couple of years). The hot water cylinder also developed a slow leak within weeks of moving in and the central heating suffered from major problems too. I was quickly piling up a whole load of debt on credit. So I decided on the cheapest possible washing machine as a replacement. I think it cost me about one hundred and ninety quid. A work colleague who was also in dire financial straits with a new family in the offing recommended it to me. It was a Servis model and although it won no prizes for beauty or “state of the art” technology it performed well and without trouble for all of eight years.

But in 2009 it was starting to complain about age. Clothes were retrieved from the drum with soapy residue on them. The rubber seal was retaining so much water that half a kitchen paper roll was needed to soak up the moisture. By early March the decision was taken. It would have to be retired to that great laundrette in the sky.

Now came the decision. What should I replace it with? A travelling companion on my daily commute is the type of guy who obsessively hates to be welched on anything he buys. Of course – we all do. But he will examine every possible option, pontificate and prevaricate and often he will end up with something “O.K” (but really not worth the fuss). So I went onto the website of “Comet” who retail all sorts of electrical stuff and chose a washing machine which fitted the price I wanted and then went to the payment screen. After a few seconds it crashed on me. This caused me to check the website of “Currys” which is another High Street electrical retailer. This time I saw a washer dryer (which as I live in a flat could be especially useful in the winter months) which was dearer than my previous choice but was reduced by one hundred quid from it’s original cost. I thought, “yeah, what the hell” and this time the transaction went through. The dark thoughts of “why is it reduced? Is it notoriously unreliable and they just want to clear the stock?” occurred to me but, hey, go with it. As I am notoriously disinterested in anything “Do it Yourself” I opted for the removal of the old machine, and connection of the new. Thank goodness that I’m single! Any partner of mine would probably despair at my lack of acumen as regards maintenance in the home. “Save up and pay someone to do it properly and with the proper tools” is my motto. However, I do change my own lightbulbs ……

To my amazement Currys offered the option of delivery on a Sunday without extra charge. This was excellent. Sunday March 22nd was the date chosen. I found that I could ring up after 21.00 hours the day before to discover was four hour time slot had been allocated for delivery. I did so and found that delivery would be between seven and eleven in the morning. Bang went my Sunday morning alarm-free repose!

I had an unsettled night. I recalled that when my Servis washing machine was delivered they had made a mistake and a jet of water shot across the kitchen when they activated it. I worry about things like that. I also wondered whether I should have disconnected the old machine but then thought, NO. This morning I got up at half past six and cleaned the kitchen top to bottom. Certainly the delivery men weren’t going to give two hoots about it but it made me feel better.

At nine twenty they arrived. The delivery lorry pulled up outside and I was downstairs in a flash. A cheeky young assistant opened the door and said “You a top floor flat mate?” I nodded. “Oh! Sorry, but yer washing machine’s been damaged. We can’t do nuffin, mate!”
Then he grinned. I tried to enter into the spirit of their humour. His mate, the driver was a burly bloke who had lost most of his front teeth. I asked where they had driven from and was I their first call. No, they had already delivered four items and had come down from “Eariff” which is Erith (for those who are not familiar with this south-east London suburb on the Thames, nor the local pronunciation of it). The cheeky youngster went upstairs and checked out the washing machine to be taken away. I remained downstairs holding the hall door open. “Yeah, s’alright!” he yelled down from an open window. The thought crossed my mind that I had allowed a guy access to my flat while I was two storeys down holding the door for his mate. Was he rummaging through my credit card statements? Of course he wasn’t. When I got upstairs he had disconnected the old machine and had pulled it away from it’s place of residence of eight years. Shock Horror!!!!!

When the average person cleans a kitchen they don’t pull away heavy electric goods. Do they? Please say not. Because I discovered that the space left by the washing machine exposed eight years of accummulated grime. A tea bag lay there. So did two items of cutlery. And about four decaying oven chips. Along with appalling discolouration and grime. I was immediately on my hands and knees with Co-op Multi-Purpose cleaner and a scourer to remove this residue of embarrassment. The cheeky one grinned.

“Don’t you worry mate!” he exclaimed kindly. “This is CLEAN compared to what we normally see!”

The new machine was depositited and was of a dark chrome colour.
” ‘Ere, this ain’t the right colour is it?” exclaimed the young guy. I explained that I had not specified a colour when ordering and that although the rest of the items in the kitchen were white it really did not bother me. They then proceeded to complete the connection and I signed the paper to say that it had been delivered according to requirements and then they removed my old Servis which cast me a reproachful look from it’s gaping drum loader as if to say “is this my reward? After all Ive done for you?” It was ignominiously slid down the two flights of stairs, dumped in the truck and was removed while its usurper sat there smugly, challenging me to work it and waiting for its first load……

Well, it’s two and a half hours on….I’ve done the first “empty wash” that the instruction manual advises and am now within ten minutes of the end of the first “working wash”. I am becoming accustomed to the new burps and gushes and smells of the new machine.

Incredibly (for in the UK in 2009 ordering things can be an ordeal of inefficiency) the product arrived correctly and on time. The thing seems to work. I think that I am quite happy. Yes!

December Ramblings

Not on foot, but verbally.

After my very enjoyable week off at the end of October (which followed immediately on from a visit from the police politely asking me to remove the “cops” section of the flickr account) the clocks went back and Mondays to Fridays meant leisure time darkness. Now I’m not depressed by this, I enjoy the change of seasons, but it does vastly curtail my opportunities for my basic “point and shoot” photography (which is all I am capable of, anyway).

November and December have been months of utilitarian routine. Up at 06.00 hrs on Mondays to Fridays to do the usual ablutions and have breakfast and a stint on the internet before catching the 07.35 train for my 32 minute trundle to work. Actually I enjoy a very civilised commute – usually on time – always get a seat – mostly travel with friends. Then follows at 7 hour and 36 minute stint of dealing with the general public on the telephone in a call centre (a job that I have done since March 1995) with no ambitions but a precious degree of freedom and valuable perks. Then the trundle home again on the 16.39 (in the dark) to turn on the tv and partly watch and listen to “The Weakest Link” while I make dinner. Then it’s the news and the regional news (or sometimes Eggheads) before nestling in front of the computer or settling down with maps or a book. Sometimes with music playing, sometimes not.

Noticed with some degree of horror this Autumn that clothes were starting to become tight around the girth. I have put on one and a half stone since the Spring. Excessive alcohol consumption (the routine of picking up a bottle of wine on the way home from work and drinking it before bedtime was, undoubtedly, to blame). Urgent measures, commencing on Monday 15th December have been introduced in order to break the cycle of drinking every evening and curtailing that activity to weekends only. We’ll have to see what happens but I can already report much better sleeping patterns (and notably fresher breath!). As far the the girth is concerned – well, that might take considerably longer to improve!

Wiltshire Day Trip – Part Four – Homeward Bound.

From Salisbury back to Dover, even by fast trains is approximately a four hour journey and although I was awash with a very large cup of tea purchased in the buffet at Salisbury station I knew that I would be needing a meal soon. So I alighted from the Salisbury to London train at Basingstoke, party to avoid a confrontation that I could see brewing between a guy who was playing his variety of music, at full volume, to a crowded carriage of unappreciative customers (yes, another moron who thinks that he has a human-right to make life a misery for others but who would undoubtedly have caused less misery if he had been flushed away on a Kleenex at sperm stage)!! Basingstoke was a town which, until now, I had always passed through en-route to somewhere else and now as I emerged into the town it struck me as even less inspiring than the first impressions of Swindon. And at least Swindon produced Diana Dors! Basingstoke, however, just wanted to suck me immediately into a vast shopping mall – there seemed to be no escape. Only later did I learn of actually very pleasant sounding options. However, now my stomach ruled and I reasoned that I shopping mall would very quickly produce a grub outlet. Wrong!!! There was, admittedly a Sainsbury’s supermarket right there at the entrance but I preferred somewhere where I could sit down. The further I penetrated into this vast complex the less likely it seemed that I would find one. Eventually however, instead of clothes and mobile phone shops I found a small restaurant mall and as I was by this time famished, I walked straight into a burger king and had one of their offerings. Not exactly comparable to my lamb-shank of earlier but it hit the spot.

Now to embark on that remaining few hours of rail travel to reach home feeling knackered but with memories of a good experience of Wiltshire and with a determination to return an explore in greater detail.

Wiltshire Day Trip – Part Three – On to Salisbury.

The bus was not as peaceful as the one that brought me there but it was a nippy ride along fairly minor country roads and soon we were in Marlborough, another well known town that, because it is not on the railway network, had previously eluded me. I believe that there is a famous public school here and certainly the place exuded wealth with a magnificent wide main street and several old and interesting buildings. Signposts here pointed to Hungerford, a market town on the River Kennet and the Kennet and Avon Canal and within the North Wessex Downs are of outstanding natural beauty. It has seen numerous events in history, the most recent being in August 1987 when a local resident went berserk with a gun and killed sixteen people at random. Our bus climbed out of Marlborough, once again affording magnificent views in this attractive countryside and we trundled through places with village pubs and churches standing amidst thatched cottages and barns and rolling hills.

We descended into the small town of Pewsey and here the bus terminated but with a connection to Salisbury expected within five minutes. Shame really because right opposite the bus stop was a bric-a-brac store that even advertised the sale of scarecrows! The bus to Salisbury was a double decker again and the front of the top deck afforded good views of more beautiful villages and hamlets – Manningford Bohune, Upavon, West Chisenbury, Enford, Netheravon, Figheldean but then the character of the villages changed and we arrived in Bulford. Bulford serves an army camp and to my amazement the schools were already turning out at quarter to three. Now, I am NOT a fan of travelling on buses with schoolkids and my heart sunk when the bus stopped outside a school where probably thirty kids were fighting to get on board. One girl decided that some perfume she had obtained was worth spraying over virtually every one of her friends and there was general mayhem with the driver stopped periodically to come up the stairs and to yell at them in his west-country accent – now, bloody sit down, the bleedin’ lorra yer!” to a response of jeers etc. But they weren’t a terrible lot really. More alarming was the way that residents here and in neighbouring Larkhill took their lives in their hands as they darted across the road without so much as a glimpse at oncoming traffic. Eventually the kids were left behind and we descended towards Salisbury. This bus journey (all the way from Swindon to Salisbury) covered approximately fifty miles of mostly glorious countryside and cost less than a fiver. Brilliant value by any standards. And your reward at the end is Salisbury. One of my favourite places on earth with its cathedral and water meadows and historic centre. The photo above was taken in a quiet backwater in the centre of town and so typifies the feel of the day with its beauty and colour.

Wiltshire Day Trip – Part Two – Avebury.

When I got off the bus at the tiny village of Avebury I was immediately transported back in my memory to a television series that I loved as a teen called “Children of the Stones”. Filmed on location here (and now on the YouTube website) I found myself alighting from the bus and standing in front of a building that was used as the village Post Office in the series (now an antiques shop). The evidence of the stone circle (or circles) was immediately apparent and a small huddle of people were listening to a guide nearby at one of these prehistoric monoliths.

A main road does run through the village on a sharp bend so the impact of the traffic, which is not especially heavy anyway, is further reduced by vehicles moved “respectfully slowly” through this modest but magnificent place. A larged thatched structure, the “Red Lion” pub stood prominently across the road from the bus stop (it can be glimpsed in the photo above) and this lured me in straight away for a lamb shank lunch washed down with a pint of ale. Both were priced, if not cheaply, at least realistically. There was no waste. Now it was out to explore the stones and the surrounding village. Absolutely the sort of place that a visitor would associate with the Britain of the “Avengers” series with Emma and Steed! I found myself, even as a Brit, soaking up the precious atmosphere of the place. But it was not too “chocolate boxy” and because I had visited in late October the place was not crowded.

This special rarified atmosphere was briefly interrupted by the arrival of a coachload of school-party children, probably aged around nine to eleven who errupted from their coach, scattered all over the main road (to the despair of those supposed to be in charge of them) and who then began to chase the sheep yelling at their maximum lung capacity. Well, you know what I am like for noise! This affront to my senses was soon put at some length away by my rapidly choosing another part of the village for exploration and within half an hour they had gone and tranquility returned. I contemplated staying overnight at a bed and breakfast facility visible in the photo to the left of the pub. It was called “The Lodge” and I thought that even if they charged fifty pounds a night for bed and breakfast it would be worth it. But then I remembered my transfer ticket and my sense of economy prevailed. I did not even walk up the path to that homely door. (When I got home I checked out the website for the place – two nights there would cost the same as a transatlantic flight! – not surprised though ‘cos it looked great!).

Plenty has been written about the stones, about how when Christianity arrived in Britain these stones were associated with devil-worship and were either broken up or buried as the centuries passed. It happened to be a marmalade heir who resurrected many of them in the nineteen-thirties and helped to make Avebury what it is today. A lovely place and almost criminal to by-pass if you are within reasonable distance. For me it was very rewarding for even this fairly lengthy day trip and I plan to return again next year for a more detailed and extensive exploration.

The tourist information office, located in an old chapel, was an attractive place but I scored them low marks on not having a railway timetable in the place that could have told me connections from Pewsey (a few miles distant to the south) to Paddington in case the weather forced me to curtail the day. As it was my bus was due and although the lady offered use of the internet I did not have time to go through the rigmarole of looking up on-line which could have been checked with the flick of a page or two.

The next 95 bus came on schedule and I boarded a minibus this time for my onward journey…..

Wiltshire Day Trip (Part One – Outbound)

 

 

 

This Autumn, with the utility companies announcing obscene rises in gas and electricity bills, my original plans for an overseas break were put on hold indefinitely and I decided to take a few day trips from Dover using public transportation and coming home each evening.  This meant VERY early starts and late finishes and a day afterwards to recover but were actually extremely enjoyable, not least because the expenditure was minimal.

The decision of where to go was tricky. I decided that I wanted to visit somewhere that I had never been to before and the prehistoric stone circle at Avebury, a few miles south of Swindon, came to mind. In the days before the internet I would not have been easily able to find out bus times, nor even if a bus actually went there although I assumed that it would. Now, however, it was a simple matter, my means of the search engine, to establish times, routes and connections with ease.

So I set my alarm for five in the morning of Wednesday 22nd October and set forth on a dark morning on a train from Dover to Tonbridge. An “across the platform” interchange here worked well and I was at Redhill about one hundred minutes after leaving Dover. Now it was time to change from the regular commuter electric trains onto one of the cramped cross-country services that run semi-fast to Reading. This routes, running in the shadow of the north-Downs offers some extremely attractive countryside views, some of the locations being a mere twenty miles from the centre of London. The bucolic nature of the scenery was further accentuated by the train having trouble on some of the steeper gradients due to wheelslip with leaves on the line. This latter problem was frequently used by the condescending and ignorant British media as “another excuse” for late trains. They did, of course, make no effort to establish whether it was factual. Anyone with half an ounce of common sense watching the mulch of fallen leaves being squashed onto the running rails and forming ice-rink conditions would understand the problem but, no, most journalists seem to either go by car or just yell like banshees about (a) the cost of their season ticket and (b) another delay (regardless of how it is caused). Here was a classic example of the driver doing his or her level best to keep the train going in very difficulty conditions but the efforts would certainly not be “seen” (much less recorded or reported by your average journalist). We lost about fifteen minutes of time on this stretch and then lost our path amongst other trains using the tracks we shared at the junctions. This reminded me of another correspondent in the media who scorned the reason for a train delay being “congestion”. He asked how trains can possibly encounter congestion on the tracks. It’s a funny thing, mate, but when trains from various locations reach a junction they often have to wait their turn to proceed. If a train is late it can miss a “slot” and that can cause as much congestion on the tracks as can be caused on any road or in the airways. Anyway we got to Reading in time for me to have five minutes to spare before my connection to Swindon.

This Inter City train to Swindon had something on board called a “quiet carriage”. This is a supposed haven from the interference caused by your fellow passengers who like to play ipods etc at a level which is definitely not “personal” or have their ringtones of their phones blaring out every minute or two. Too good to be true? Of course! The last time I tried using one of these carriages I thought that I had managed to obtain the peace I craved when, at the last minute, a large group of Chelsea supporters boarded. They were not especially obnoxious but they were certainly not quiet. Same on this train except that the phones that rang frequently belonged to what society would generally label as a “professional” class of person. The type who likes to travel in a quiet environment as long as nobody tells THEM to shut-up. To be honest it’s nowadays an impossibilty to doze when travelling by rail, and in the “quiet carriage” because it’s so irritating to be surrounded by ignorant plebs posing as people “of consequence”! Anyway, enough ranting. The train journey was punctual enough and I arrived at Swindon about four hours after leaving Dover.

Swindon is not a town which, upon arrival, inspires the senses. However, it was the birthplace and hometown of one of our much under-rated post-war beauty, Diana Dors. This blonde bombshell was a pale UK immitation of the Marilyn Monroe genre but she actually had a great deal of talent and her acting ability was only occasionally recognised for what it was. Before she was “discovered” her real name was Diana Fluck. Needless to say, it was far too potentially a shocking name for post-war Britain. Personally I think that Swindon, although famous for it’s railway works etc. should have a Diana Dors museum. Perhaps it already has one?

Here it was just a five minute walk between the railway station and the bus station. And it was here that I boarded a Route 95 Wilts and Dorset double decker bus and asked the driver if he was going to Avebury and what the best fare was if I decided to travel further on, later, to Salisbury. An old-ish man in his late fifties he was extremely helpful and sold me a “transfer ticket” for £4.90 which would take me all the way and would allow a break of journey up to four times. From the front of the top deck of this lightly loaded vehicle I enjoyed the scenery as we climbed into the hills to the south of Swindon and, within twenty five minutes, arrived at Avebury.