The oldest member of our happy band is 92, and he took part in the Korean War campaign. He also has a son, who was in a punk band in the seventies. Unfortunately, when I asked him yesterday he couldn’t remember the name (of the band, not his son). Today he’d taken his pills and remembered it was The Partisans (The group, not his army section). The rest of the tourist group range from early fifties to eighties, so we feel fairly sprightly,
We drove into Valkenburg last night and settled in, before taking a walk from our hotel to the heart of the town, where dozens of bars lined the streets. It seemed such a sleepy place until we found a throng of people lounging along the pedestrian area. We’ll come back for more if we find the time.
Next morning, we drive another 2 hours to Koblenz and onto Boppard for a river trip on the Rhine. On the way, we had passed the sign to Knapsack in Germany, but we can’t assume that it created the backpack of renown. I hope that song gets in your head….
Boppard is where we boarded the river cruiser for an hour and a half moving up and back down the very busy and fast flowing Rhine, with container ships and tourist boats being the main transports today. Nothing exceptional happened, and on the river, that in itself is good news. Here are some views from aboard the boat.
New Years Eve in Valkenburg.
The centre of town is overlooked by the castle and everywhere is beautifully, but subtly, illuminated, with outside street bars packed as long as you have paid for your ticket. Beers cost about 8 euros which is par for the course, but probably more expensive in the private clubs.
Early evening and we wandered into town. The railway station is lit, but almost everything there was closed for private parties, so we returned to our own event at the hotel, where the temptation to dance the night away to Viva Espana, Robbie Williams and I Just Called To Say I Love You was just too easy to avoid. The locals, we are joined by Dutch and Germans, just love the sound of Europop, and bop along to it all night, similar to the oompah music of Austria, but with a disco beat.
Come midnight, the band played Silent Natch, the local new year anthem, being the popular Germanic holiday lullaby. After that, the exceptional firework displays continued for a good hour, until it its absence lulled us off to sleep. A damn good show!
New Year’s Day is fairly quiet, as we drive back into Germany and visit the valley town of Monschau, which is open for tourists today.
Near Aachen, we pass part of the Siegfried Line, where there remain several large areas of Dragon’s Teeth, a deterrent to moving armaments, during the 1930s.
Our final meal is taken at Latino’s in Valkenburg, and is indisputably the best one on the tour, Spare Ribs and Spaghetti with truffle oil and beef, we can’t afford to indulge that every day. We ate outside, like many others, enjoying the cool night air, with some overhead heat, and the small town ambience. Nice if we could do that in England in January. So why can’t we?
I can’t say that we are looking forward to the ferry crossing, with 50 mph winds tomorrow. But we survived….
Our final day in Prague finds us up late. Unfortunately, everyone else had the same idea, and the breakfast hall is packed, much to Eleanor’s annoyance. We grab something simple from the shortest queue and head out to catch the metro into the old town area, that we visited yesterday. We have discovered that senior citizens (hey that’s us!) travel for free, however the ticket machines show no indication for this, but the cost is minimal so there’s no problem with that. We discover we only have to present our passports to get free travel. Too late! We leave the train seven stations later at Mustek.
We head down Narodni and take the side streets crammed with classic architecture and statues from the different centuries, beautiful facades, with solid wooden doors, and colourful fronts, towards Charles Bridge and cross over. We resist the offer from some fake sailors for a trip on the river boat. Who knows, they may be a press gang. A superannuated four piece jazz band is playing on the bridge, in this very popular area. They sound great but shortly after stop playing, not doubt to warm themselves up. We turn off the bridge close to the Pedal Car Museum (yes, every type of museum is represented in town, including The Sex Machines Museum, not fronted by James Brown), but check out some tasty hot chocolate and a very happy gingerbread man, anxious for us to devour him. We obliged. Yum Yum!
It’s a beautiful morning, with a cool breeze but plenty of sunshine hitting us as we drink. Outside the Franz Kafka Museum, we spotted a very popular installation, which hastened our need to find the toilets as quickly as possible. We waited for 10 minutes for the tourist party in front of us, to clear the area, but one fellow still seemed fascinated. Honestly, the strange things that amuse the public. Hee hee!
Down by the river close by, there was a commotion and we spotted what at first appeared to be a group of beavers swanning around, begging for food. People were obliging them. But it appears these creatures which resemble water voles (Eleanor prefers calling them rats) are actually called Nutria, which can spread diseases (Nutria Itch), so they are best avoided, despite looking cute. They are very popular, but not with the local swans.
We have been searching for The Lennon Wall, which may have been moved away, due to unwelcome graffiti. It was originally constructed to celebrate John Lennon’s career with personal art works by fans. We do find The Wall Bar, with the usual commercialised painted offerings to the Fab Four. So we stop to drink their health (too late for half of them) with a couple of beers. The guy serving us gives us 20 minutes to drink up, as we are not eating. Cheers pal!
This area just on the western ridge of the river has some interesting installations, some of which may have to be explained to us, but these faceless babies were charming and frightening at the same time. The Kampa Museum is at the heart of this strangeness and there were plenty more interesting works to investigate here.
Although there are weirs along the river, there is also a couple of locks for tourist boats to enter and a series of penguins with no particular use. But it makes for a particular talking point. We decide not to visit The Castle which overlooks the town, which is normally the place for tourists to take in. But we’re having fun here and don’t want some old musty castle to ruin it for us. Besides we’d already seen it on YouTube, the true travellers’ guide! I may be jesting here.
I hope that brings you up to date.Here I am, a still life study, holding his breath. What a work of art!
We recross the river at The Legion Bridge. By then the beer has started to take effect, and I spy a WC by the Bridge Steps. I follow the signs down to it and notice the 2 WCs, but in front of them there’s a family sitting eating lunch at a table within the room. I wonder whether I should leave them a crown for use of their facilities, but decide it would not be worthy of me. It’s quite often hard to understand local traditions. We have just got used to the Czech currency of the crown, there being about 28 to the pound, as they are not yet ready to accept the Euro, like the UK.
We have now circled back to Narodni, and renew our fascination with the buildings that line the street. Just past the Opera House is one such building. We did not notice at first, but the windows on the top floor are ornate and surrounded by lettering which spells out the name of the city, PRAHA. What a jolly jape, as we say. The city is full of such beauty. We get some extra food and drink from Lidl, next to the hotel. They are rampant throughout Austria, Czechia and Germany naturally. For all you supermarket fanatics, in Austria, Aldi appears to be called Hofer.
The day ends with the mad rush to get food. It certainly is not the kind of place to come for a relaxing meal, the antithesis of our time in Oberau. Next morning sees us leave early for a few hundred mile drive back through Germany, stopping once again at Coffee Fellows Service Station for our favourite Bagel Pastrami. The route north flows smoothly, even when it slows, as Saturday seems to be just as mad on the autobahns. I reckon that this is a one off tour for us by coach, as it takes us until 7 pm to reach Valkenburg. Tiring but interesting.
So, I’ll leave you to ponder on this installation from Prague. Good luck.
We arrived in Prague late afternoon, at our hotel a mile or so east of the heart of the city. The Clarion is a huge new build, the complete antithesis of our comfortable Austrian mountain hotel. Intimacy has flown out the window. Dinner was in a huge room where we were advised to get to the buffet sharpish, but there is a large kitchen staff preparing really good food. Sadly, in the bar, of the four draft beers, two of which were Budweisers, not recommended for anyone with any remaining tastebuds. But Eleanor grabbed a margarita from the rather surly guy behind the bar. We’ll have to watch what and how much these guys serve us.
Breakfast in the morning is again every man/person for him/pronoun self with a couple of hundred people giving it the feel of a youth hostel due to the age of the others that rolled in. Eleanor would prefer breakfast in bed, but that won’t happen. By ten, the coach deposits us in the heart of the city.
We get a good five hours to ourselves in the city centre today, which will be more than we need, considering the crowds that have gathered by lunchtime. There are some nice vintage cars available for hire, which would be fine if the roads were less busy. Smart or even Posh would be the words that describe the shops on the road, Parizska, down from the river bridge. Such famous names, that they have security guards who look like CIA Operatives on the door, both sides. Diamonds and other precious stones are ostensively on display for those who need them. Further along we find some homeless people almost prostate, eyes closed looking at the ground, with begging cup stretched out before them, feigning religious poses.
We fight our way through the market area, with its shining huge Christmas Tree and stalls, in the shadow of the church building, when we spy The Dali, Mucha and Warhol Exhibition, on the edge of the Square. We decide this will be a great diversion, away from the masses.
The Exhibition is spread over three floors. The work of Alfonse Mucha is quite separate from the larger Museum close by, but even so it tells his life story and shows plenty of lithographs, and Eleanor felt quite at home. In fact the second floor covered half a dozen rooms featuring some of his best known and many more little publicised works. I recall his work was famous in the seventies, even we had a large portrait, mounted on wood, in the house.
Then we spent a good 45 minutes wandering around the first floor display, with Salvador Dali watching over us. The intricacy of his painting and pencil portraits was stunning. In fact, we were quite bowled over by the quality of what we unexpectedly found in the display rooms, some bathed in near darkness to catch the light on his three dimensional metal work, which I don’t have the space to show here. Believe me it was impressive.
We planned to see the Warhol section after a hot chocolate and Koko break at the Grand Cafe Orient, in the old Cubist Building, close by, watching the crowds look admiringly at their edible window display. the chocolate drink literally stuck to our spoons and then our throats. Ten out of ten…and then some.
Close to the Opera House, there was a more restrained display of candles, flowers and offerings to the students that were slain by the gunmen a little over a week ago. This poignant area was the quietest spot in town, and the picture just speaks for itself, outside the Carolina University building. We then returned to the Andy Warhol section on the top two floors of the Exhibition.
This expansive floor told the story of his life, younger years and his family who had moved from the Slovakian district of Eastern Europe. He just dropped the A from his name, Warhola, to get the American acceptance he craved. there are hundreds of original works plus copies and even an area where you can get T Shirts printed, which appeared to be closed today. Plenty of family photographs and memorabilia for his work with The Velvet Underground and The Rolling Stones. There is even a room showing film of The Velvets and Lou Reed playing in the Factory during the mid sixties. If you find the time, this Exhibition is a must. You can choose to visit one or all the exhibitions.
For lunch we decided to indulge in a little rustic Czech meal, at Ovocnem Irhu, with dumplings and cabbage, and were ready to return to the fields and dig potatoes afterwards. It would certainly put on the pounds eating that every day. A dark lager and coffee finished it off nicely, thank you. The 600 year old mechanical clock is close by, but even at ten past the hour there is barely room to move, so we pass on.
A final walk along the river towards the Charles Bridge, which seemed to be choked with visitors. One look at it and we turned round and headed back to the coach, as the afternoon closed out. Maybe tomorrow. A lovely city Prague and according to our guide, it is changing rapidly, with more hotels and businesses going up monthly. Some areas unrecognisable from 5 years ago.
We are off again up to where skiers and would-be skiers love to congregate. Mayrhofen, higher up in the mountains is such a place. As you see, I have found my vocation, posing with feet firmly planted on the soil, close to a cafe. Outside the cafe, skis are resting vertically, while inside their admittedly young owners share videos of their recent escapades. It all seems fun, so how can we deny that, when so much preparation and money goes into looking the part. In fact the first sight we caught driving into town were kite surfers landing perfectly in the designated landing area. It’s refreshingly human to see some skiers hobbling back holding skis and recently obtained leg injuries.
A few of our coach party even managed to take the cable car up to the summit, while we more sentient land lubbers are content to share an order of hot chocolate and strudel, and feign surprise at the cost.
The town is an odd mixture of high class stores and cheaper tourist gift fodder, the latter being right up our strasse. The snow-covered mountains create a wonderful backdrop to the colourfully painted hotels and classic Austrian architecture. Graffiti too is kept to an absolute minimum, which is a fantastic contrast to what we saw while travelling through Germany.
Eleanor’s look says ‘not more food?’, but you have to eat.
After lunch, we drive back to Rattenberg, a town famed for its glass making. As it’s still a holiday, (Zweiter Weihnachtsfeiertag or correctly ‘the second holiday’) not every shop is open. The strange thing about the village is that it was built in the shadow of the towering mountain, and the sun barely shines on the place. It certainly felt that way, and colder too. We leave just the sun was going down and starting to bathe that part of the riverside with the first light probably since early morning. We were told that at one time, the Government planned to build a series of mirrors on the other bank to light up the town and consequently its citizens. It never happened, probably for good reason.
The Road to Prague.
The temperature has dropped to a degree or two below zero when we get up the next morning, ensuring the snow and ice remain mostly in situ. The breakfast room is now nearly full, being expanded by families from nearer afield than us, probably German or Austrian. As we wait to leave, mum, dad and three kids limp out in full ski regalia, one shoe off so that they can walk in that peculiarly awkward fashion to the bus stop, to take them to the slopes. The sun shining on the white mountains is impressive enough to forget the cold.
Our route to Czechia takes us through the outskirts of Germany and it’s odd to note that the only time we stop in that country is for coffee at Service Stations. We deserve better than that, especially on this beautiful morning. After Munich, the temperature reaches a dizzy 10 degrees, as we pass through the Hallertau region, which produces hops for the still growing brewing industry, mostly for IPAs, which are sent throughout Europe. I must admit I was rather harsh about the German countryside on our first rainy day, but this area is certainly more impressive on a sunny day. Forgive me, but the rain that day was persistent. It will take about seven hours, with stops, to finally reach Prague.
At Regensburg we pass over the Danube, which is not looking too blue today. In fact it looks less than classic under the encroaching clouds this afternoon. Many fields further along are waterlogged in this part of the country too. We reach Czechia at about 3:00, as the evening starts to close in again. The Mayday hotel, by the service station, closed long ago, without sending out any message, and does not give a welcoming greeting to new arrivals in the country. And now there’s a new currency to get to grips with.
We are advised by the tour guide that there’s a Czech phrase without any vowels, that means the sound of vomit in the throat. We know how that sounds, without any words. Anyway, I just found it in Wikipedia.
Don’t be fooled by the blue skies in the morning. When we arrived in Oberau, last night, we couldn’t judge if there had been much snow. The snow that remains is the result of a storm at the beginning of December, that is slowly melting, but it’s more than we have seen down home in a couple of years. The journey up the mountain had negotiated several hairpin turns and overlooked deep crevasses, which Eleanor luckily could not see, but today our trip to Salzburg, reintroduced her to them. Fortunately, the accompanying views were spectacular, even if the weather deteriorated with some expected rain by the time we got to our destination. Our first job is to find a coffee shop worthy of Austria. Luckily, Cafe Tomaselli fitted the bill. The building dates from 1700, and as far as we know, it has been serving customers all that time. Never say no to a classic Austrian cream cake, it would be futile to resist. Our muffled attempts at using German curtail shortly after Guten Morgen, but as usual the servers speak the language we understand most.
The crowds steadily increase in the market area during the morning and it becomes a struggle to find a quiet place. Today is Christmas Eve and it is their day (or evening) of maximum family celebrations. We have noticed that Austrians understate their Christmas Eve decorations. No houses violently screaming with a million led lights or inflatable snowmen, mouthing horrid versions of Jingle Bells. Their subtlety is something that I can happily go along with.
Much food is bought in the market, but not many cafes or pubs are yet open for revels. So we were glad to eat when we did, and we only had to wait 2 minutes for a table. Additionally, the market traders sell generally higher quality merchandise than you find in other countries closer to home.
Here at the edge of the market, under the Castle, was the quietest area in town. How the boy got to the top of the golden sphere is a mystery to me. There may be a story to this, of which I am unaware. Once the crowds start to close in, we drift back to coach, after about 2 hours. We indulge in some ‘gluhwein’, or mulled wine, which sounds more attractive in English. But this, in addition to my later two pints (or uninspiringly translated as 0.7 litres), of Jipfer Lager (the major one it town), ensures that sleep comes easy to me that night, with or without snoring.
The thing about Christmas Eve in Austria is that most families will get together in the evening to feast, and we start to feel sorry for the guy left serving behind the bar, but we do notice that most of the staff are having their own party in the lounge, so we are less concerned as the evening passes. I am pretty well done after my few drinks, so after a game of cards with some of the other guests, we retreat to our room, at the unearthly hour of 9:00. Oberau may be a one horse town, and there’s nothing at all open at this time on Christmas Eve, by way of tradition. Luckily, not even thigh slapping Tyrollean dancing.
Christmas Day.
In the morning this one horse town seems to have come to life. Cars start arriving and park up by the ski slopes, where families emerge to send their kids happily screaming around on toboggans. While some juveniles unintentionally do splits on skis the way. And the more experienced visitors take the ski lift up to the learners stage while the most avid regulars disappear further up the mountainside, to come serpentining down. That’s enough viewing for me, as we need to get the coach to Kitzbuhel.
Kitzbuhel is one of the more famous and richer Austrian resorts, both in winter and summer. We are dropped not far from the town centre, which is approached by way of a number of narrow and sometime steep cobbled streets. The main shopping area is a classic thoroughfare enclosed by centuries old buildings, all colourfully and artfully painted. Naturally they enclose stores like Dior, which attract the kind of customer who walk the streets in ostentatious furs, walking silly little dogs. They know what they are and want us to see them.
We break for lunch at Rosshimel, which has an equine theme, but doesn’t serve horses. We follow the coach drivers to it, reasoning that they should know the best places to eat in town. It turns out they are a good judge of food and drink. Today we indulge in some Austrian tapas, if that is possible, without stepping on any Spanish feelings. Wine is red but of the Austrian variety, which is promoted by restaurants everywhere, and is fair enough. There’s salmon, bacon, spinach and other interesting combinations. Yes, we liked it.
The town is surrounded by ski slopes, and if you can’t do that, you can always pose with the best of them. Window shopping will suffice for us this afternoon. In fact house viewing is probably the best option. The character of these centuries old buildings is all too obvious, defining the richness of the time and the continuing wealth of the area.
In the evening we return to Oberau for our Christmas Turkey Dinner, which on the menu is marked as a Thurkey Buffet, which sounds more like a country singer. Instead we get music from a trio of local musicians, (accordion, guitar and double bass/trombone) playing a selection of oom-pah songs. We engage in friendly banter and they translate the songs as sad stories of a cat’s love for a mouse, a horses’ yellow teeth and much unrequited love involving the tallest mountain Austria. As I said, you had to be there.
We did pass through Arundel on the way out, where many houses have Christmas trees, secured to the first floor wall. I imagine it looks great when lit up and is perhaps the best display around. The highly imaginatively named Stop 24, where we transfer to our international coach. Here Eleanor swigs her way through some whisky, although she claims it was something less intoxicating.
Hic!
By the time we arrive at the port of Dover, we enter the realm of mystery. The nature of the port means that tourist vehicles have to serpentine to get through customs. I mean, it would be so much easier if they just demolished the white cliffs. Calais is a breeze in comparison. Eleanor’s two travel tablets ensure that she has a good sleep on the ferry, while people sway into each other as the boat cruises the Channel. It’s a beautiful evening as we leave, but the weather deteriorates as we drive out of Calais.
On the coach we have option of several drinks, but hot chocolate with Baileys is likely to be the primary choice and here we see one of the drivers, the cheeky Scotsman, preparing it for most the travellers.
Since one of drivers has brought his family with him, he employs the child (possibly as slave labour) to prepare the drinks and work out the cost, which is deducted from the amount we paid, and since the drink of choice is only £2.50, we plan to polish off quite a few of these over the next few days. At the rear of the coach is a rest area for quote relaxation, a great idea, but they’ll have to be a rota for relaxation. Note the Christmas lights around the coach adding to our festive cheer!!
After asking for 2 half litres, we get 2 different sized glasses!
Since we get off the ferry just after dark, and lose an hour accordingly, we don’t get to see any of France. In fact all we see lit up are the distant churches scattered on the horizon. It is noticeably however that as we enter Belgium, the signage is much better and we have at least some idea of where we are and where we’re going. There’s more Road lighting too.
We end the day at our hotel with a glass of Leffe, but we are told a glass of ‘Waterloo’ is stronger. Wa-wa-wa-wa, finally drinking my Waterloo. Maybe next time.
December 23rd Brussels to Austria.
Prudence. That is the message that we see flashing on the main road out of Brussels, as we head towards Liege. Prudence is a fine word, that I imagine, even most averagely educated English children wouldn’t comprehend, without googling. But it was wonderful to see the continentals demand it from drivers, as the rain starts to fall. This weather is due to follow us throughout Belgium and Germany. Prudence, indeed, will be essential.
Mistletoe. I never thought I’d be pleased to see it. Throughout the journey, the autobahn is flanked by naked winter trees and sad looking pines, but catching sight of what many might think of as nests, adds that little piece of interest to nature during the 600 mile drive. Whether they use mistletoe as the English do, is a moot point, but I imagine it may be falling out of fashion, but not the trees.
This photo probably best sums up our drive through Germany today.
Yes, today our driving dynamic duo mange to drive us 600 miles, which is twice as far as I have ever driven in a day, and that was in the States, on relatively empty Dakotan roads.
After all these years this is our first time for visiting Germany. We arrive at 9:00 am and leave about 9 hours later, none the wiser for the intervening hours. The driver gives a brief history of Germany, that takes me back to lessons at school, prior to unification. I remember talk of the Ruhr valley industry, in Geography and it seemed to remote even in those days. Indeed the area is still very industrial, without the coal mines, but with acres of biomass factories, solar panels, electricity pylons and wind turbines. This route could be the Turbine Highway of Germany. And the rain just adds to the sad feeling of the area. Future proofing but dull.
As the journey unfolds, we discover two mildly interesting facts. Firstly, the rain never stops here and so much land is now overwhelmed by the water. I mean, we think Britain has it bad, but the water levels here have taken over so many river valleys and fields, it seems quite frightening. Secondly, after driving through the beautiful English countryside yesterday, filled with grazing sheep and cattle, we realise that we never see a single sheep or cow during those nine hours, despite the last two being in darkness. Maybe they all drowned.
We pass by Cologne, or Koln, which should have a couple of dots above the ‘o’, but I can’t find them on my keyboard. And there are so many barriers separating the autobahn from the villages behind it. In fact just as soon as we see some interesting building or feature in the village, bang, it has disappeared behind these graffiti ridden barriers, and all the way through to Munich, it never changes. Their fast rail link shadows the autobahn for much of its route, over graffiti covered concrete viaducts. Mostly it’s not a pretty sight.
The Rhine in full flow and more near Koln
We pass by Frankfurt airport at 12:00 and there’s still 400km to Munich. By now, I call this ‘the land of ten thousand lakes’, just like in Minnesota, but here most of them have appeared with the recent weather, by the force of nature over the months. There’s a big extension being undertaken on the Route 3, which appears to be elevating the road by three feet, or a metre as they say here. I’m sure it’s because the existing road is threatened by this rising water table.
Lunch with Eleanor, apple pie and a friend in the coach’s relaxation area.
We hit Nurnberg or Nurenberg by 3:30. At 4 o’clock, we pass the outskirts of Gogglesbuch which might translate as an infuriating TV show in English. It gets dark earlier than in Dover yesterday, and they supposedly have an extra hour of evening light now. We pass a wet Munich or Munchen. And then within an hour we arrive in Austria, and it seems almost magical, with snow covered high mountains peering through the dark but now dry evening light. The wonderful bright festive town of Worgl, pronounced with a V, looks a great place to visit. Of course, we are now off the autobahn, where life feels more intimate.
As we drive up the slopes to our hotel, we see the snow which laid quite heavily at the start of December is now starting to fade, but there is still enough to get a southerner excited about. The temperature drops from 10 to 5 degrees, so there may be a snowball fight in the morning.
I have arrived at the conclusion that driving at night is now my least enjoyable necessity. The major roads are not well lit, the road paint poor and the lack of lighting and cats eyes has really made it a challenge to drive comfortably. It’s not often that we travel any distance after dark and last night’s journey back from Southwell compounded the feeling that everyone else had to be home half an hour ago. That’s purely paranoid, obviously. I love to drive under the speed limit, but that seems an anathema to many others. But most drivers our age start to feel speed is not as important as it was when we were 20 or even 40.
Eleanor’s cousins, Karen and Cindy, were over from Australia last month, and we were talking about their native birds, and today during our visit to the Owl Centre in Spalding, we stumbled across a couple of Kookaburras cooped up. Fortunately, they do get to fly. Beautiful birds but obviously homesick.
This beaky feller had a cameo on Peaky Blinders last year. Although I was an avid viewer of the early series, I must admit that I haven’t yet seen the latest. But I will keep my eyes out for him.
He looks like a star, doesn’t he?
Right next to the Wildlife Centre is Uptown Records, which has expanded exponentially over the last couple of years, to cover several large rooms. This one below also included comics and associated dark ephemera. The heavy rock music that accompanies the atmosphere here, man, is de rigueur obviously, but frightening after the third song about self mutilation or running for the hills. It didn’t put me off my trawling however.
The shop, or I’d probably call it a Supershop now, has in excess of 200,000 vinyl records for sale, plus the odd 25,000 CDs. That’s bigger than my collection, I assure you. They cover every style that has ever been created. And that’s more than enough for me. I was happy to depart with a couple of dozen of various genres myself. Prices are very reasonable, and that’s why there’s a pretty good turnover.
Spotting that I was constantly bending to look at some of the racks, the comic guy provided a chair for the old fellow, which was most welcome. A ploy to get me to buy more. The ‘guys’ (generally guys, but all genders are welcome. How modern of me!) here are easy to talk with and I promised to be back, probably next year. Now if only there was a Quilting shop for Eleanor nearby.
I never got the chance or need to rummage the singles.
During my two hour stay, I reckon I got to speed-browse about 1% of the stock, which is why some collectors book into the local hotels for a weekend. What a terrific idea, Eleanor! Here’s the store link….
We head out to Surfleet Seas End for a drink but find the pub has just closed for the afternoon. Our planning is as good as ever.
Back at the Lodge, we are currently lording over a view of fair weather golfers, tramping around in twos or fours, white gloves in hand like magicians, when into view hoves a solitary figure, working to improve his game. I can understand the methods of a solitary musician, songwriter or novelist, but not the golfer or perhaps any golfer. There is little encouragement, competition or enthusiasm to be gained from this endeavour, as far as I can ascertain. Maybe it could improve, or more likely ruin, your game, but if I ever took it up, which is reassuringly unlikely, I’d demand that someone else was there to complain to, and blame for my woeful efforts. That’s something I don’t have to do in the studio at home.
Someone just shouted ‘Fore’, but I just think it was out of boredom.
We British think we invented rain. After all, conversations seem to flow incessantly from it. But we’re just fooling ourselves. I recall being in South Dakota, five years ago, when it rained nearly continuously for nigh on four days. Very apocalyptical. So a day’s rain after six days of a Mediterranean heatwave seems a small price to pay. Perhaps sightseeing through South Dakota was a shade more interesting than four hours on the A1, which effectively has not a single distinguishing feature, natural or otherwise, even while the spray of a thousand container lorries flies constantly around you.
He’ll never fit in an XL shirt again.
In order to negate this effect, we invoke a little slice of Route 66. I can’t remember too much rain on that particular road, outside of Illinois, at least. We’ve eaten at the OK Diner before, somewhere up here, and it is mainly due to the lack of competition, apart from those sterile bustling Service Stations, that we stop for a mid morning break.
It’s about the only time I can sit and listen to rock and roll, while eating a meal, which shows the power of music in your life. I was a few years too young to appreciate late fifties rock, and I have never really taken a shine to it. But I have taken to free refills of coffee and Eleanor has taken to French toast again.
We’ve come up to Yorkshire to collect Eleanor’s late dad’s possessions. There aren’t a great many, but such things are vitally important to close family members and we have certainly missed David this year, on our annual visit.
As is usual, the next day is beautiful. We spend lunch with friends and members of Eleanor’s family. Last week, we had considered a visit to Stratford Racecourse, but the hottest day of the year precluded that. By chance we noticed there would be evening racing at Southwell, so it seemed a good time to give it a visit.
Southwell is a small but we’ll attended Course, and we arrived mid afternoon queueing at the entrance, when a couple of guys asked “Psst Wanna ticket?”, to which we replied “Rather”. Armed with our complimentary access, we felt rather pleased, which meant that we could have a few free bets with extra cash in our pockets. It seems that the tickets were complimentary anyway, and the original recipients could not attend. So no shenanigans here. Indeed not!
Eleanor watches tractors cross the winning line.
Today at Southwell, would be the final day of The Racing League, featuring races from all over England during the “summer”, consisting of teams representing different areas of Britain and Ireland, competing for the crown. It turns out to be a great few hours, during which my faith in picking winners was sharply jolted, and money flowed swiftly from my wallet. But as they say, you got to know when you’re beat.
These beasts, the horses, look wonderful close up, but I remember the only time I tried to ride a horse, I slipped round 180 degrees, when the girth wasn’t tightened. Today however I don’t have to get that close, but leave it to the professionals, who are generally a fraction of my weight. I tend to choose and back the horse by the way it winks at me as it passes, which is a sure sign of being in the know. Or pure madness! I recall a time when Mr Ed would do the same.
The ITV Racing Team, including the controversially outspoken Matt (love me or loath me) Chapman, together with the knowledgable Luke Harvey and Jason Weaver, above, are in attendance, but we didn’t get any assistance from them in our choices. Later, we decide to drown our poor luck with ice cream, which was all we could afford once our pockets were mostly emptied.
The Main Man and soon to be retiring, verbose, Wonder Jockey, Frankie Dettori, turned up for one race, as Manager of his team, but it made no difference to his team’s or our fortunes, as he only managed third place, as Eleanor’s pockets further emptied. Altogether a few hours totally well spent, and we promised ourselves to return next year if things work out.
Dettori will go on to race in the St Leger this coming Saturday, while I will go on to find a hat that actually suits me.
Each evening the clouds roll in, blotting out what should have been a glorious night sky. But it doesn’t get much cooler here in the countryside outside Stratford at night. The owner of the property sets off early in his big van, trailing what appears to be a big pod. Our best guess is a motor bike or two. No horses would survive that journey.
We start early too, following cars out to Wellesbourne Airfield Market, where they hold a huge weekly market, the type of which has been around for years. This is my first in a very long time. By ten o’clock we arrive, but many a bargain hunter have already left with satisfied grins on their faces and empty wallets. The overwhelming accent is Brummie, and the Delboy citizens are out in force, looking to either sell or buy wicked new baseball caps. Our 60 minutes of wandering sees me grabbing a few bargains, including a couple of comfortably 2XL mod shirts. I blame the daily croissants. Eleanor buys more sensibly, of course. No baseball caps were purchased. We then wind our way up to Warwick.
The park by the river is starting to fill up, with parents unloading grannies and cars, blowing up inflatables, ready to set loose their kids on the Avon, in plastic Dragon boats, kayaks or paddle boards. It all looks too energetic.
We are well past that kind of stuff and walk into a piece of Merrie Olde England, at the base of Warwick Castle, where maidens and serfs still roam the streets unsuccessfully looking for walls to graffiti. Visitors at the base of the Castle look enviously our way and wonder why they can’t enjoy the same views of us, shading under a giant rhubarb.
We are taken captive by a Gunster, not rhubarb.
We get the best view of Warwick Castle from the gardens in Mill Road, before going in search of lunch at Piccolino’s, where long cold mock-tails are consumed to fight the heat of the day. Unfortunately, the owners believe that best way to keep the punters happy is to play turgid Oasis songs constantly. It’s been a long time since I suffered in this way. The food was fine though.
The guy at the Mill Street Gardens gave us the wrong directions into town so we miss close ups of the beautiful Tudor buildings hanging precariously over the road stretching through the Main Street. Eleanor stumbles across a Quilting shop and she’s glad it’s not a record shop. Shattered, we return to the car, and the grass car park by the Avon has barely a space left to fill, and more inflatables are being readied for launching, gazebos being erected, and children crying for attention. It’s time to leave this blissful scene. Believe me!
By the time we get back the temperature reaches a record of….oooh let’s say 33 degrees, and there’s nothing left to do but find the coolest spot in the place, which obviously doesn’t exist. The day slowly winds down 10 degrees before a restless night, boosting the fan and drinking as much water as is humanly conceivable, without spending the whole night in the bathroom.
There seems an infinite number of British towns with strange names and St Neots may well be one of them. We decide to head there for lunch. The original plan was to swallow my pride and take a handful of Motorways, but I overrode my own wishes at the last minute and avoided them again. Eleanor regularly chided me for writing the incorrect Road numbers. This is true. GPS is still foreign to me, and quite often laughably so, as we have seen the results. All very well until you try to take the bypass through Northampton. It suffers from the usual British blight of constant roadworks, bad signage and pointless traffic lights. But we survived, after a last second change of direction, not rejoining the M1, and I’d like to think that we even saved time taking these A roads. Of course we did.
Welcome to St Neots, another riverside town, but blessed with plenty of restaurants open for business this Sunday. Bohemia Bistro is dark inside, but offers a good range of food at exceptionally competitive price. Hope I sold that there. There is a much younger clientele here today as there is a marathon of cycling and running around town, although we never see any actual athletes, only yellow dressed Marshall’s. I think they were all in the Bistro with us, talking about their past successes and future aims. Everyone looked skinnier and younger than us. As ever it were. Iron Man? Maybe next year!
Meanwhile the older folk were outside, at the riverbank, sheltering from the midday sun, under the willow trees waiting for the jazz band to start playing. People would turn up with their portable chairs and tables, picnic baskets and picnics, while we ploughed through our post meal cornettos. The boys and girls in the band were between 70 and 80 and were preparing to play some wild jazz melodies, when we noticed the black clouds hovering behind us. Please notice that the lake in front of us was completely green with weeds and even the ducks look disgusted that they had to live this way. Time to move on.
So, within minutes we were heading north away from this idyllic scene, realising that soon, the field would be saturated with the rainfall that inevitably follows 6 days of English heat. I imagine the jazz would have flowed away too, delicious hot, soggy damp. The black clouds that followed us for the next 60 miles regularly overtook us, dropping blissfully cool rain on the car. Summer was over or at least soon would be. Cheers. We’ll drink to that.
The onset of late summer heat sees temperatures rising into the low 30s (Celsius or possibly centigrade, depending on how, if or when you were educated) or high 80s Fahrenheit, by Thursday when we set out for an early September tour. I still rely on Fahrenheit for its accuracy, but often even I or others of a younger generation, can’t relate to 32 degrees as freezing, but I’ve learnt to deal with it. As I say about anything younger people can’t grasp.
As we drive through the beautiful countryside along the A272 from Petersfield, it makes us wonder why drivers stick to the major roads. As we approach the outskirts of Winchester and the views, slightly misted, by the wonderfully named Cheesefoot Head, the geometric shape of Winchester Planetarium comes into view. It’s always a fascinating vista overlooking Temple Valley. One day we will find the time to stop at both of these places.
After a quick stop for coffee in Hungerford, with only three records bought at the Antiques Centre, we drive north into Wantage, a new destination for us. It seems that I gravitate like a magnet to whatever Vinyl shop is in the neighbourhood, and this time is no different. We walk through from the car park and there it is. Mike at Play It Again Records is very chatty and helpful, as are 99% of all guys who run such shops. I should tell you the name of the 1% but that would be too bitchy of me. Something to do with pachyderms is all I can say. Prices of new vinyl seem to have doubled in the last five years, something that we could also blame on Covid, popular as is it to do. After 15 minutes of talk about retiree’s medical problems and gigs seen, we go looking for lunch and strangely enough find a statue of King Alfred.
If, like me, you believed that the old king was born and tethered to Winchester, think again. For it appears that the regal cake burner was actually born here in Wantage, as this sign confirms. And opposite, he opened his first pub.
It might be a stretch to believe that, but like any good tale, it’s always a good commercial proposition. By now the heat is well into the eighties and the usual journey out of town finds us on the wrong road, despite my careful attention to written pre-tour detail, which is misunderstood by my navigator. We end up back on the busy A34, ten miles too early, before getting onto the A44 and then to Stratford on the A3400. Luckily we haven’t yet had to take any motorway, which is a blessing as far as I’m concerned, but I’m sure this won’t last.
After stocking up food for a few days, we reach our bed and breakfast for the next few days.
The place is large, convenient, well stocked and airy, and we swiftly put the electric fan into action, which we’re sure won’t be turned off until we leave. It’s now in the high 80’s and it looks like it will last until Sunday at least. Behind us and attached to the property are a group of riding stables, which although looking quite new are not filled by any equine occupiers. It appears that the riding business is not now running. Possibly this would have put off potential renters, by Mr Ed putting his head through the open window every morning.
Friday morning, we head out towards Edstone Aqueduct, which is the longest canal aqueduct in the country. and as is typical, the road leading to it is closed for construction work, and we divert three miles, but only get lost before ignoring the road signs and finding the workmen telling us that it should be open tomorrow. But as it’s Friday, we reckon they should be finished by lunchtime. We shall return.
After driving into town on the busy main road, we park up for four hours, free at the bland Business Park, and decide to take the canal walk into the Stratford Basin on the Avon. Once we leave the busy Birmingham Road, we drop down passed the lock at the Premier Inn, and enter a totally different world, quiet and countrified. Another couple tell us the walk into town here along the canal is quick, convenient and only travelled by a handful of similar souls. It’s as if we have suddenly turned up to Stratford, a hundred years ago.
Even the swans here (as seen) are not too keen on our bread, probably preferring brioche or croissants. We emerge 20 minutes later at Bancroft Basin, where all the other tourist have come out of the woodwork and are congregating behind tour guides and clutching fans to cool themselves in the heat of the late morning, waiting for the sun to emerge from behind the low clouds.
The sun does appear as we sit down for coffee at the Telephone Kiosk, converted conveniently into a pop up cafe. Immediately the mercury climbs and within an hour, we are in unfamiliar territory to Englishmen at home. (I make no apologies for the term ‘Englishmen’ as a catch-all phrase for anyone of any persuasion these days). We comment that the fans he has by the food, don’t seem to be that effective, but apparently they’re good for keeping the wasps away.
Although we like this part of the city by the RSC, we feel duty bound to visit some shops, but are happy just to spend 30 minutes on this task, before getting some lunch. Having confused the waitress, she overcharges us, but we manage to get a refund which is more than it should have been. That’s the price they have to pay for dealing with older people. We are not always as dumb as we look.
The walk back along the canal is just as beautiful but there is a young couple, “getting down” to some hip hop, if that’s the right phrase, and moving in a way that a hundred years ago would have seen them admitted to a hospital for care and attention. Oh the generation gap. I’m glad it’s there. Further along a canal boat is having problems moving forward, as it appears that the water level is too low for him to proceed. He waits shouting messages to his companions up by the lock, waiting for the water beyond the lock to be funnelled down so he can continue the journey up river. Now is the hottest part of the day, sweltering at 88 degrees or 31 if you prefer. I’d prefer 22, but we have little option.
Onwards and upwards,,,,,,.
In the early evening, we drive out to Edstone again and find the road diversion signs have magically disappeared, so we park up and walk the 39 steps up to the aqueduct.
We watch, as unexpectedly, a host of swallows come in and start flying down to the water to feed, skim the top and fly off again. We notice the waters are starting to flow fast and then a narrowboat appears at the far end. It seems that the disturbance has activated the flies for the birds. With a couple of minutes the boat has arrived midway in this bath on a bridge. It really is a marvel of its age.
The guys steering are wearing sailors hats, but I’m sure the intimation that they are regular seamen won’t improve their navigation. No doubt drink will be consumed, like us, as the evening progresses.
The bridge is now over 200 years old and held together as sturdily as the day it was constructed. You can’t really steer a boat that size over the edge of an aqueduct. Even after half a dozen Fosters have been consumed. Meanwhile, us landlubbers returned to finish off a chicken korma and lamb rogan Josh. The safer option.
the lardner ring 