I DON'T KNOW...

Last bit of music for a while - I just love this girl's natural talent and dead sexy husky voice!

UPLIFTING STUFF FROM CAMBRIDGE

No - It's not your local housebreaker.

Take a listen and be swept away with me.

RUFTY TUFTY TENTY NIGHT: Part Two

I am not sure how many times I have walked up the head of Borrowdale, but it must be more times than I have fingers and toes to count with. So how we went through the gate marked "not through here, please, please sod off and go the right way" in large friendly letters, I just cannot fathom. I shall put it down to Shirl - her navigational howlers must be contagious.

Having said that, once on the correct path once more (having watched a big butch guy wearing camouflage and a very dodgy moustache show a slight girl with beads in her hair how to defend herself against naked police aggression by hurling her to the ground a few times) I did admit to her to sending Lord Elpus and Obbsy 180 degrees in the wrong direction only a few weeks ago on the South Downs.

Note to Phil: This was only to impress Shirl with my New-Mannish Ways of Vulnerability, you understand and to make her feel far less guilty about taking me the wrong way. Really it was all YOUR Fault on the South Downs. I am glad that that is all settled then. Now we can move on.

It felt good to be walking against the tide of walkers all leaving the hills. It struck me that they all looked quite knackered and tanned after what must have been a beautiful big day out on the hill for them all, whereas we were as fresh as Spring lambs bouncing up the track. That is, until I got to the uphill bit.

I did alright as first. Its an excellent well made path but soon all I could see was Shirl's bottom slowly getting away from me as Piglet scampered off on the stretchy lead ahead of her. Now I am sure that Shirl does indeed have a very fine bottom, but it was slightly depressing to realise that this slip of a girl, who was carrying a heavier tent, dog food and all the other totally unnecessary stuff that girls carry about with them (dressing gowns, bottles of perfume, nail varnish hair curlers etc etc etc, you know the stuff; you don't need me to tell you) was getting further and further away. Before too long all I could see were the soles of her new waterproof Plimsolls (Salomon Fastpackers - chosen to avoid 'trench foot') as she was so far ahead and therefore above me.

Eventually she relented. Phew. We had a brief stop before strolling once more alongside Styhead Gill and on to the Stretcher Box. There were a few tents scattered hereabouts (not a good place to choose for a lonely wildcamp) so Shirl asked me to re-girdle my loins for one last big heave; a quick ten minute jaunt along the 'Corridor Route' to an ace spot she knew about. Seemed like a plan.

Make mental note: When walking with a fit young woman it might be ten minutes to her but it will seem like ten miles to me. I am sure she realised that she might well be needing to pop back down to make use of the stretcher for me as she slowed her pace right down and took lengthy rests when she realised that my heart was bouncing through my chest and that the horrid wheezing sound wasn't the sound of her new squeaky boots; it was me, far back in the distance, struggling uphill in the fast approaching gloaming.

She was wonderful though and helped the old geezer finally make it to the admittedly very fine camping spot just big enough for our little Wendy Houses.

If you had been looking out of your kitchen windows at that moment, loading up the dishwasher after a fine feast of roast lamb and a nice bottle of Fleurie, you would have thought it was pitch black out there in the garden. You would have been more or less right. But we did have just enough light, just, to see what we were doing and get the Akto and Wanda pitched side by side in a cleverly protected little gully alongside one of Scafell's magnificent gorges. I was just about 'all in' at this point and so 'Nurse' nipped off first to go and fetch water for us both and then to her tent to make the old sod a wonderful restorative cup of hot chocolate whilst I cuddled Piglet and lay in a very knackered almost dead-like state on my NeoAir - the inflating of which almost finished me off...

To be continued in, yes , you have guessed it, "Part Three"...

RUFTY TUFTY TENTY NIGHT: Part One

This time last week, in the black darkness of a Cumbrian night, Shirl & I were parked up on the side of Scafell Pike with a grandstand view of the Wasdale Mountain Rescue Team helping some poor soul off the side of Great Gable by torchlight. It seemed to be a lengthy process. Behind us lights were slowly descending from Scafell. We seemed to be at a busy spot.

The day had started the night before in the Langstrath Inn in Stonethwaite with a wonderful time spent sampling their real ales and fine bar meals and some cracking company (Simon & Cassie, who I am sure we will all be bumping into again). A short stroll down the road on the way to Rosthwaite to buy some essential smoking supplies had us bumping into a wonderful lady with a small black spaniel who headed us off at the pass by donating enough smokes to allay the cravings to get the girl through the night! We planned to pass by Rosthwaite the next morning to replenish the wonderfully kind local stranger's generosity.

So, with fresh smokes it was back to the Inn to meet up with Simon & Cassie again. Whilst Shirl was at the bar, the wonderful smokes benefactor appeared once more with another box of supplies for Shirl, just in case those already supplied ran out!

Stonethwaite: What a wonderful spot - a great Inn and wonderful villagers.

To be fair, Saturday morning was a bit of a struggle but after a gentle morning admiring fellow camper Bill's ultralight approach (Shirl will deal with the kit side of things; gear monster that she is...) we struggled our way down the track to the Langstrath Inn once more for a spot of exquisite lunch and some essential rehydration with a couple of beers that hadn't been sampled the previous night.

It was warm with dappled sunshine on our shoulders and there seemed no need for any unnecessary hurrying and so we strolled off once more in the direction of Rosthwaite letting Piglet off the leash to tear about the bank of Stonethwaite Beck with occasional plunges into the water. An amazing little pup.

After a second stab at rehydration at the Scafell Hotel, we finally hoisted the packs to set off up Borrowdale. It was still a cracking afternoon and so we slipped over the bridge over the Derwent to stroll through the soft coolness of the trees and little rocky knolls to head up to Seatoller.

Nipping up the valley we chanced upon the cafe at Seathwaite - well - it would have been rude not to stop - just before they were to close for the day. A good filter coffee and then a whole smoked trout to add to my already colossal food bag. There was a bit of an event going on in the old campsite but we were tickled to see chalked on the blackboard "10:30, Workshop Space 5: A short History of Anarchism."

I am sure all Anarchists believe that it's imperative to understand the history.

Well, as you can gather, time was moving on and it was still warm and sunshine was sloshing about all over the shop and we finally set off up to Stockley Bridge at twenty to seven. This is the way to do it! None of this tear-arsing stuff here. Oh no! This was a classic Daunder. The girl had taken to it like a duck to water...

OLIVER & NICOLE'S BIG DAY

Oli & Nicole

Rachael & Rod (They're next!)

Oli, Amanda & Felix

Me, finally smiling!

It was a wonderful day, after a pretty despairing year.

A PROUD DAY

This is a very proud day for me. I am just off out to my son, Oli's wedding to Nicole. He is absolutely everything that a father could wish his son to be:

Caring, loving, enthusiastic, hard working and tremendously good fun to be with. This picture was taken at the start of the Challenge in 2003, when I suppose Oli passed from being my son to being a best friend.

He is marrying a girl who loves him to distraction and I wish them all the very best in their lives together.

STONETHWAITE

This hamlet is a little haven set amongst the central Cumbrian fells. I found myself there last weekend, bathed in warmth and sunshine with Shirl.

These are just a few pictures taken when I could remember to record the loveliness of it all.

 

SIMPLY SUBLIME

Last one for tonight. This one's for Rachael's big day in October.

AS GOOD AS IT GETS

Never tried putting a clip in here before - Will be amazed if it works.

Anyway - if it has worked - Enjoy!

PASSPORT TO PIMLICO

'That will be seventy two pounds sir'.

"SEVENTY TWO POUNDS???"

'Yes sir. Seventy two pounds, plus of course, our administration and checking fee.'

I was in my local post office, having just taken a very po-faced photo of myself in the booth. I was not allowed to smile. My head was to remain within the oval and my eyes were to remain at the level indicated on the screen. The swivel seat was a bit small, unsteady and mildly uncomfortable.

Compared to the picture taken ten years ago this one looked, how shall we say, slightly more distinguished? The hair was the same length, perhaps with a few more 'highlights'? The beard also had the same highlights - it must have been an expensive make-over.

Very smiley picture

The renewal form had been completed on-line and was now being checked by the good lady behind the bullet proof glass. "When did the bullet proof glass arrive, then?" I wondered. But I let her continue her painstaking checking, applying a grid over my photograph to check that my face fitted their requirements. It's an odd shaped head and I must admit to being concerned at this point.

But, this time around, my head and form-filling had all passed muster and I meekly handed over four crisp twenty pound notes and received a few coppers in return.

I have had a pretty stressful time of late but now find myself in a more care-free frame of mind. I have finally washed out of my head the cause of the stress and am able to move on. There is still a lot for the lawyers to sort out but that is just process. Perhaps when my right ear exploded a month or so back I started on the mend! So - now that my ear is better, I can fly again.

The Challenge was a good break and I suppose, really, the start of the healing process of my up until then woefully miserable life. So now I need a cheap break somewhere to continue the healing. With the return of my updated passport in a few weeks time I will have the world at my feet - wether it's Pimlico (Burgundy), the Alps, the Pyrenees or the Yorkshire Dales, it doesn't matter.

But I am determined to have a bloody good time.

A MILESTONE

A mile. That takes me between a quarter of an hour or perhaps an hour and a half, depending on the terrain.

In the sludgy bogs of the Balmacaan Forest it's the longer time. Skipping along from The Monadhliath Hotel to Garve Bridge, fuelled by an afternoon's entertainment; the quicker time.

But this afternoon, our colonial cousin, Mark Alvarez, finally fulfilled an ambition: Today he did his mile in 7 Mins and 21 seconds on perhaps the most famous running track on the planet; Iffley Road, Oxford. It was here that Roger Bannister broke the 4 minute mile barrier for a new world record.

You really must, right now this minute, nip over to Mark's wonderfully written blog to read all about it. HERE

Let him know how he did. Lord Elpus, Weird Darren & I will be seeing him for a celebratory drink on Saturday.

TALKING TROUSERS

My Mum always said that things run in threes. And so it is with trousers.

Saturday saw me in Bristol with the 'favourite, wonderful' daughter (she's also the 'very worst, shockingly awful' daughter and the 'pretty good' daughter as she is the only daughter I have - well, in fact, only step daughter I have) and her fiancé, trying on trousers for their wedding. I might add that she won't be wearing trousers; no, she will be the one in the long beautiful dress.

This trial fitting needed to be attended to as I was a mad four inches out in my waist measurement. As Lord Elpus has once mentioned, I think there are a lot of these Chinese tape-measures out there these days. That was my first Trouser experience. The trousers will be in a fetching bright grey. Happiness.

My second trouserly tousle was this afternoon; this time trying on a dark grey stripy pair, interestingly two inches nearer my correct tummy measurement but intriguingly one inch shorter in the leg department, but seemingly a perfect length. It's an age thing. I am the incredible shrinking man. These trousers are intended for my eldest, most wonderful son's wedding (you have guessed it already; he is also the eldest incorrigible rogue of a son, and the pretty okay bloke eldest son). Unsurprisingly he won't be wearing a long beautiful dress and neither will his younger brother, the best man: We will all be wearing the same trousers. Well not exactly the same trousers, but you get the idea.

This takes us inevitably, yes you have guessed, it to the third trouser tribulation.

I received a call on my telephone that, after my customary greeting, consisted of swishing and gurgling noises from the caller. I talked to the mystery caller's trouser pocket for a little while. It should be said that this type of conversation will not be uncommon to anyone who has a name starting with 'A' as mobile telephones in trouser pockets have a habit of dialling the first name on the caller's list. I went through my normal procedure of first of all talking reasonably and then raising my voice and then whistling loudly into my phone.

The cat just laughed.

Eventually I talked to an apologetic chap out walking with his terriers, taking time out from the tyranny of his office. He was delighted the trouser pixies had decided to call me. This gentleman is the Coffee Connoisseur, the Beau Brummel, the Literary Leviathan of the TGO Challenge.

With all his literary low-down, he offered me a cookbook to partner my new wok purchase. The China Town Chinese supermarket basement room had come up trumps yesterday and supplied me with a wonderful wok for the princely sum of £6.33 Tonight's meal was a culinary masterpiece, even if I say so myself.

If this goes on, I might soon need to be fitted for larger trousers.

I ALMOST BOUGHT A WOK

I almost bought a wok today. That was on account of having mucked up my arrangements for the weekend. And being in Cambridge. And not finding my baking dishes.

That all makes perfect sense to me, so why you don't follow it beats me.

After finishing my LEJOG (over two years ago now; time has flown...) I quite surprised myself at how I had changed and actually now look forward to meeting new people, whereas before I had always bided my time and tried to get the measure of someone before I committed to any form of friendship. In my 'other life,' I organise people who need help with their businesses in times of crisis - and indeed I think I am quite good at it. I am almost ruthlessly organised at work - I love sorting out the chaos and stepping up and straightening things out.

The trouble is, when I get home, shut the door and sink into my settee (did you know that the settee is my friend?) I seem to abandon all those admirable qualities of transparency, communication and organisation.

I had planned on making a fish pie and a lamb hot-pot this weekend for a friend who I thought I had invited down. I was convinced that I had no large square baking dishes and so this was not going to be possible in the time I had available - as I had no time to go out and buy new dishes. I settled on a simpler menu.

Well, it looks like the personal management of my life went a bit awry: My friend didn't show and so I had two lovely trout in paper bag suppers in a row. All quite delicious with a gorgeous bottle of Sancerre. Instead of wild socialising, yesterday was spent sorting out shrubs in the garden, and general patio weeding after giving the place a damn good late Spring-clean.

So today I had as spare and so took a trip to Don's In Cambridge to read the Sundays and have an espresso and Peroni whilst watching the tourists. I sat there wondering about the Welsh lamb I had in the fridge and resolved to go and buy a wok. Cambridge isn't good for Woks.

Having strolled about the available Cambridge cook shops, inspecting every conceivable brand, size and shape of wok on the shelves, I decided that there was nothing that my amateur cook's eye fancied. I am a very picky amateur. I need a trip to London to buy my wok.

I trundled home and found that in fact I did have a beautiful square baking dish that was hiding in the plastic bag cupboard, buried beneath myriad Waitrose plastic bags. So there is now a rather nice aroma drifting around the cottage of a wonderful Lamb hot-pot slowly turning to a golden brown in the oven.

I will now try to sort out my life at home - I must be more organised. I shall write myself a stern note. That should do it. And go to London to buy a wok.