Don't I know you?

Events have got me doing quite a bit of thinking these past 24 hours.

Today I was visiting my aunt in the shop where she works, when someone who was my closest friend, my companion for two-years, walked past the window. I shamefully looked away. But the worst thing is that I know why.

Last night a group of us went out for dinner for Bryony's birthday/my birthday/Christmas/New Year and a good friend of mine from secondary school, someone who helped make it all a little more bearable and who I haven't seen in four-years, came along. And it was just like 'old times' with all of us. And again, I know why.

But what I can't figure out, no matter how hard I try, is why the people who we're closest to and care the most about, are the very people we don't stay in touch with when thing's go awry, no matter how much we might want to, and are the very people we're most awkward and uncomfortable around when our paths cross again, even years in the future.

And now I've sat here for 30 minutes wondering why I've written this entry, whether it's an attempt at some sort of redemption, while hovering over the 'publish post' button wondering whether I should push it.

A Birthday Casualty

A year ago I almost ended up spending my 21st birthday in Asterdam's Schipol airport after England rather inconveniently fog bound itself. Fast forward a year and I find myself having spent a portion of my 22nd birthday in the Casualty department of the local hospital.

The receptionist didn't seem to pick up on the significance of the occasion when she asked for my birthdate, and I replied "Today, but 22 years ago". Fortunately the nurse did and wished me a 'Happy Birthday' while bending my knee in all sorts of improbable directions. Unfortunately the end diagnosis was about as ambiguous as the reasons for me being there in the first place. After waking up in the middle of the night on Wednesday with a rather acute pain in my left knee, I woke up on Thursday morning unable to bend said knee. A whole day with a hot cushion on my knee made little difference, and walking on it, or bending it, produced a sensation which felt like what I would imagine stabbing the back of my knee cap with a hot knife would feel like. Unfortunately yesterday brought no improvement, and neither did this morning, so I had to concede defeat and follow my parents' advice to go to Casualty. Apparently I may have (a) a bit of cartilage/bone 'free floating' behind my knee cap, (b) a torn something, or (c) a random imflamation. I'm holding out for the latter, although a bit of keyhole surgery for the former would certainly be exciting.

Unfortunately the upshot of this was that I was ordered to rest and not put weight on my knee, which put paid to my plans to go ice-skating, karting or walking today, and instead meant I've had a rather quiet birthday at home - although I'm now suffering Strictly Come Dancing. Hopefully, after Schipol last year, and West Cornwall Hospital this year, it won't end up being Guantanamo Bay next year.

Thanks to everyone who's sent their birthday wishes today; it's been lovely to get them :).

School's Out for Winter

It's that time of year again. It hardly seems possible that a little over two months ago I started my final Michaelmas term, but true it is. Last night was Selwyn's SnowBall and this weekend almost everyone packs up to return to their other homes for Christmas. But not me. I'm staying around for another two weeks. The upshot of this is a very quiet College, the downside; the lack of people. Coming down the stairs earlier today I noticed a rather sad sight - everyone apart from me being marked as 'OUT'.


Obviously there was a party and I just wasn't invited, but at least it should mean that I get some work done these next two weeks - provided all the conference attendees and interview candidates don't prove too distracting. Which I imagine they will.

Last night though was the SnowBall and jolly good fun it was too.


This year with people who graduated last year coming back for it, and it being the last one while I'm still here, I had a change of heart and decided to go along. And I'm glad that I did. It's not a May Ball, but it's not meant to be either. There's something much more personal about the SnowBall, but having said that, the use of a strict one-way system meant that I actually saw shamefully few people to talk to properly. The only other one that I've been too in 2004 didn't really capture anyone's imagination and I'd been in no hurry to go back, but 2007 was certainly a much better affair. It's nice to be able to 'go out' with a better Ball.

It's just not Christmas

But you'd be forgiven for thinking otherwise. Today is the 18th November, a full 37 days before Christmas day (admittedly less if we use the more commercially popular measure of shopping days), but that hasn't stopped today being the chosen day for Cambridge's Christmas Lights Official Switch On Ceremony. Oh yes, apparently they've even gone and got someone from Neighbours in to flick the switch. Unfortunately, in the three years that I've been here I've never actually been to the switch on ceremony, and I didn't go today either, partly because it's belting down with rain and blowing a hooley, making my room a much more preferable place to be. However, I did venture into town this afternoon to do some shopping so I got a little taste of the Christmas spirit. There's was a stage outside the Guildhall on the market square which had an audience of about 50 cold-people being sprinkled with some fake snow. There was also a rather amusing pair of performers walking around to amuse the children, and big children like me.


Unfortunately I'm feeling a little 'bah humbug' about all of this. Perhaps it's partly to do with being at University while it's all going on, but I mean, it's still the middle of November. Yes, it's getting colder and the nights are drawing in, and it is starting to feel like winter, but it's not starting to feel like Christmas. I guess I'm partly comparing it to the Sinterklaas ceremony in Utrecht last year as well, which was miles ahead of what went on today. People just aren't in the Christmas mood at the moment, and won't be until at least December. I'm sure that if the lights went on in December, no-one would complain that it was too late, and people would be much more into the spirit of things at the time. I just feel sorry for the parents who have to tide their children over until the real Christmas.

Last night though was an altogether different affair with the annual Law Ball. It's the first time that I've been to one and hence I had no idea of what to expect. I've got a rather love-hate relationship with Balls. The SnowBall in the first-year put me off the very idea for quite a while, Sidney May Ball in the second-year was good but nothing that special, while Downing May Ball last year was a really lovely evening. So I shacked up with the other Selwyn lawyers for a 'night of sin' that was really anything but sinful. Personally I just wanted the opportunity to wear a tuxedo for the first time this term and spend 40 minutes cursing in front of my mirror trying to tie up my bowtie.


It was a nice evening, but I think I'm going to have to (a) learn to dance, and (b) drink alcohol to really appreciate such things. But more than anything it's about the people you go with, and that's something that I really learned to appreciate last year when I was travelling around. You can do something on your own and hate it, then do it with others, and love it. People can make the world of difference.

A Karting Calamity

Two years ago, I remember feeling faintly suspicious when our International Law lecturer started his lectures by justifying the study of the subject, and having to explain what the subject actually was. Come the end of the (very long) year my suspicions were eventually confirmed. So, imagine my horror when our Jurisprudence lecturer was asked what Jurisprudence actually was, and answered that there was no accepted answer! That's a whole big step beyond the International Law scenario, but thankfully I'm not feeling suspicious about it, it's oddly satisfying studying a subject with no accepted answers.

Yesterday I finally realised an ambition that I put on hold in the first year after baulking at its price - karting. Karting is one of those words that Microsoft's spell check refuses to accept, and most people seem to react slightly oddly when you say it's what you're doing. But its relative obscurity is part of its appeal, although the speed helps too. So yesterday 29 of us took off to a local indoor karting track for a bit of racing action. We each took part in two qualifying races to determine positions for one of the three finals. I haven't karted for at least two years, and not in a proper racing kart for closer to six or seven years. Nonetheless, after starting 6th in my first heat, I was 2nd by the first corner, and finally came home in 4th, which I thought quite respectable. Unfortunately things fell apart in my second heat. I started 2nd, and owing to having a kart with less than perfect acceleration, I was 10th and last by the first corner. Eventually I pitted to get it checked out before being sent on my way. Perhaps I was pushing a little too hard at this point, but unfortunately what happened next resulted in me leaving my seat, and my kart, and ending up sprawled across the track! I'm not entirely sure what happened, but I remember coming into a 180-degree corner, and finding a kart spun on the apex. Unfortunately I had no time to brake, leaving my inertia to disagree with the sudden deceleration, the result propelling me out of my kart. Fortunately the red flags were thrown straight away and no-one hit me. But everyone looked a little shocked, not least the staff who obviously had the inevitable insurance claim running through their minds. But I soldiered on and got back in, to finish 9th, which doesn't say much for the guy who came 10th. In my final I started 2nd and finished 1st, which seemed to make up for the events of the second heat.

Despite all that though it was tremendous fun, and I can't wait to get back behind the wheel and do it all over again, although I wouldn't mind staying in my kart next time. I've got an impressive bruise and scratch on my back, very sore shoulders, and a nice bruise on my derriere, which seemed to take most of my track-bound impact.

By comparison with all that today's five hours worth of lectures and one supervision has seemed pretty dull. Although I did meet the five Dutch students who've come over from Utrecht this year. I was sat in the lecture theatre a few rows behind them before thinking "I know that language!", so I trotted down for a chat. My Dutch lectures continue to amaze me - I didn't know how much about language I was completely ignorant about. I'm the only non-linguist, so perhaps it really shows, but I'm sticking my hand up every few minutes to check on the meaning of dipthongs, indirect objects, definite articles and personal pronouns. And I still can't speak Dutch.

A new perspective

So it's now been over two weeks since I came back up to University, and to be honest, the more time I spend here, the more it's beginning to feel like it always has. Last year in Holland there was the double whamey of being in a new place, with new people. But despite that, I settled in there in no time at all, so I guess it stands to reason that seeing how the only new aspect here are the new people (and the fact that library now has a toilet) I should feel right at home. Which I do.

But that doesn't stop me from seeing things a little differently than before. Take the Law Faculty, where I spent a sizeable portion of my afternoon today. There's a fading newspaper article outside my Director of Studies office reporting on the problems with the Faculty when it first opened. Primarily the architect thought it would be a good idea to have the three floors of the library all open to each other with each higher level being like a mezzanine. Not a bad idea in itself, apart from the fact that he went one further and made the whole library one giant mezzanine to the communal entrance area. Hence, all the noise from downstairs resonated up through the library. So new glass walls had to be built to make the library more like a library. But not only that. The whole Faculty has one normal sized entrance door for people to get in and out. There's another door inside to the lecture theatres which is similarly normally sized, and there are giant concrete pillars blocking the entrances to the individual theatres themselves. The door into the men's toilet hits anyone using the urinals. You can hear what's going on in one lecture theatre in the one next door. The swivel chairs will only go down, and not back up, so everyone has to sit with their knees at the same level as their chins. The automatic lights noisily shake their shades every time they come on. The stairs are too shallow to take comfortably one at a time, but slightly too deep to make it two a time all the way up. And the whole place is cold, apart from the lecture theatres which are roasting. In short, I hate it. But the best thing is that it's designed by none other than Norman Foster himself. It's enough to make you want to cry that someone so famous can get it so so wrong. People say that from the outside it looks like an airport terminal, but in that case, inside it can't be anything other than the baggage handling hanger at Heathrow.

Selwyn itself is thankfully much better. Although I returned to my room the other day to find the whole staircase decked out in rather institutional signs pointing to all of the rooms. An immediate thought crossed my mind. The College has been without these signs for the past 130 odd years, with apparently no ill effects, so what's happened in the past few days to make them put them up? Although at least there's no danger I'll walk into the kitchen expecting to find the shower in the morning any more.

Unfortunately while I was working in the library (read: analysing it's faults) little did I realise that a certain grouping had taken a liking to my room. The other day I woke up to find a rather large bee in my bedroom - he seemed just as annoyed at the inconvenience as I was. But today nature went one better, and while I was beavering away, a group of ladybirds apparently decided to take up residence behind my curtain rail.


This could well explain why I've been ushering out similar ladybirds for the past few days. Obviously someone's done the ladybird equivalent of posting an invitation to a party in C13 on MySpace or YouTube. I'm just waiting for the music to start.

A life in Post-it notes

Behind my desk there's a wonderfully empty expanse of magnolia wall - easily 3 metres long by about 1 high. Originally I planned to find a poster to fill the space, but couldn't find one that I could bear to stare at all day. So instead, I've filled it up with Post-it notes. This might be more original, but it has the unfortunate drawback that I'm constantly reminded of the things that I am, by definition, actually not doing. But it does make me look busy.

Today was the momentous day when lectures finally started. I've only been here a week, but it already feels about double that time, so it came as some sort of odd relief to be back in the lecture theatre. Although my wrist wouldn't have concurred after writing about as many notes in a one-hour lecture as I wrote for a whole subject in Holland. Although the fact that you're expected to speak out in lectures in Holland did mean that I did so today without really thinking about it, which I guess is a good thing - even if it did come as something of a shock after the event. I also met my Jurisprudence supervisor, and he successfully managed to note a category of jurisprudence students who'll survive by making comments such as "it's all about morality in the law". Barring some amazing foresight on his behalf I don't think he was addressing that to me specifically, but he might as well have been.

But today also saw a slightly new direction in my to-ings and fro-ings. I didn't think that I'd actually do it, but today I had my first Dutch lesson whereupon we learnt the alphabet. It's hard to convey just how shaming it is to have spent a year in a country and not be able to sing that country's alphabet song. I could manage the infamous Dutch 'g', but when it came to 'a', 'e' and 'i'... well, memories of year-6 German came flooding back - but without the in hindsight grotesque attempts to impress the exchange students. But still, I shall stick with it.

I met another returning-Erasmus student today who was having the same problem of not knowing anyone, so at least it's not entirely down to my social ineptness. There was a lawyerly bonding session in the (now gloriously smoke free) Bar the other night, where I impressed myself by managing to converse properly with one Fresher. I feel torn between the part of me that wants to get to know who all these unfamiliar faces are, and the other part that just feels slightly removed from the whole process. The lecture theatre was an oddly lonely place, which is slightly ridiculous considering how before, although I recognised people, I had no more of idea who they were.

Of course, throughout the year more people will become familiar, but it's already time to be thinking of next year. I've already missed a couple of deadlines for things I was thinking of doing through a combination of ill-planning and laziness, so it's time to get focused. And that's where the Post-it notes are intended to come in.

Room with a View

And so it begins. Or should that be ends? I've now moved back into Selwyn to start my final year as an undergraduate by taking up my role as an elderly fourth year - a mark of distinction highlighted by my possession of a yellow coloured pigeon hole, and hopefully not grey hairs.

Things have been pretty quiet so far, with a few people coming and going, but things really got properly started today with the Freshers arriving. Luckily my room has a fantastic vantage point from which to spy on the comings and going in College - and to gauge how big the queue for Hall is before venturing down the three flights of stairs that lead to my abode.



So far I can tell a Fresher from the fact that they follow a pattern. Usually they emerge from the arch over the Porters' Lodge either in front of, or behind of (never to the side of) their parents. One parent then takes a photo of the Chapel while the fresher looks away, then said fresher is coaxed by the same parent to pose for a photograph in front of the Chapel. True, I did exactly the same thing three years ago, but it doesn't stop it being faintly amusing, it also allows me to feel a little God like in looking down on people milling around, and it's certainly a more entertaining way to pass the time than by reading a 'Constitutional History of the United Kingdom'.

So what should this year hold? I'm down to take courses entitled; Equity, European Union Law, the Conflict of Laws (allowing me to answer questions such as: what happens when an Irishman, driving a Japanese car in France, hits a German driving a faulty Swedish car, causing an accident killing a Norwegian?), Jurisprudence, European Human Rights Law, and the Historical Foundations of the British Constitution. But if that isn't enough I've put out tentative feelers towards signing up for learning Dutch at the languages faculty. A bit late perhaps, but something that I'm oddly keen to do.

And I think that sums up my attitude to this year. So far things do feel different to the first and second years here. I don't know whether it's because I'm a year older, or wiser, but the year abroad really seems to have helped my approach and there's no feeling of apprehension about what lies ahead. I guess that my final year here is just going to be the first year on the road to something else, and I can't wait to find out what that something else will be.

A short Scilly island hop

It's commonly thought that Cornwall is the last place in Britain, hence it being home to Land's End. Anyone watching the BBC weather forecast would agree. However down in the bottom left corner, always hiding behind the weather forecaster, forever hidden from public view, are the Isles of Scilly - truly the last place in the British Isles before New Foundland, which is quite a long way away.


The Scilly Isles are a perfect example of the sort of place that so close, yet so far. You can just about see them from Land's End on a clear day, but they only merit one page in the local newspaper, and aside from the constant whir of the helicopter blades, it would be easy to forget that they were there. In fact, the largest island, St Mary's, only has a population of 1,666 and the smallest, little more than 70. Alarmingly though, despite their diminutive size, the Isles were officially at war with the Netherlands as recently as 1986!

So in keeping with my obsession with following the compass points, two weeks ago (I know, it's a shamefully late entry this one) I boarded an absurdly small plane at Land's End and took off for St. Mary's for four days of exploring.


I've been to the Scilly Isles before - once when I was a lot younger for an extended stay, and twice more recently for day trips - but I've only ever really known St. Mary's, so this time I resolved to get to know the other islands; St. Agnes, St. Martin's, Tresco and Bryher. This primarily involved getting a launch from St. Mary's each morning to a different island, and then spending the rest of the day walking that island's coastal path.

On the first day after settling in I donned my oh-so fetching shorts and set off for St. Agnes via quite a few seal colonies, and the Bishop's Rock Lighthouse, the most south-westerly outpost of the British Isles.



Leaving aside my odd obsession with lighthouses, there's something quite inspiring about Bishop's Rock and the real sense of isolation there - even from St. Agnes it's little more than a speck out to sea. In fact, it's this sense of isolation that makes the Scilly Isles such a wonderful place. When the weather's bad the islands can be cut off from the mainland for weeks at a time. I've commented before on how I've grown tired about visiting places on my own, but I never felt that way on Scilly, instead, it almost felt like the right way to experience the islands. Sitting on the top of Bryher, looking over the archipelago to Tresco, Samson, St. Mary's, St. Agnes, Gugh and Annet, and not being able to hear or see another soul apart from the boats cruising between the islands was a fantastic experience and one that I'd have happily sat for the whole day enjoying.


This isolation goes beyond setting the islands apart from the mainland, and it even contributes to each island putting forward its own unique character. It's hard to convey just how different each of the islands feels. St. Mary's is the busiest, but even there, most of the hustle is concentrated around the main town and quay with the rest of the island feeling deserted at times.



St. Agnes was the first island I visited that I hadn't been too before, and seemed to be the most celtic, and remote, of all the islands. It's connected to the island of Gugh (population: 3) via a sandbar that's only crossable at low tide, and it's separated from the rest of the islands by a deep water channel.


There was a real feel of a different world walking around the Atlantic coast, no more so than when I came upon a truly beautiful beach that had been filled by people creating structures of standing stones.


There must have been thousands, and it has hard not to marvel that people had bothered to make them in the first place, and that someone hadn't come along and knocked them down in the name of fun. But aside from the atmosphere, the scenery didn't seem that different to the ordinary Cornish coast. So onto Tresco.

Tresco has something of a bad press on the islands. It's the only private island and is rather exclusive, and that seems to lead to quite a lot of resentment among the other islands. It's a shame, because Tresco is really a stunning island with a sub-tropical garden that I'm told has even made its way into the Dutch geography curriculum! But there is an air of pretentiousness there which does detract from what could be called the most beautiful island.



Bryher had to be the island that took me most by surprise. Stuck out to the north, only one side is visible from the other islands, and it's the bit that's hidden that's the most remarkable. Constantly battered by the Atlantic waves, Bryher acts as a sea wall for the rest of the islands and has the feeling of a remote headland. The coast itself can only be described as barren and rugged, but that's what's so wonderful. Compared to the managed beauty of Tresco, Bryher's a perfect example of how beautiful nature can be when it's left to do it's own thing. The fact that the north of the island shelters the rest of the island leaves the middle of the island a little tranquil oasis, and probably leaves Bryher as my personal favourite of the islands.

On the fourth day I set off for St. Martins, little aware of what to expect, other than that the fact that it's home to the Rough Guide to Britain's Best Beach. St Martin's is quite accurately described as one big beach home to an island, and the whole coast is practically covered by white sands.


But despite their beauty, they're all almost without fail, deserted. And that's just it with the Scilly Isles. The majority of visitors to the islands come on a day trip, and then tend to stay on St. Mary's, or perhaps visit Tresco. It's unusual to spend longer, or to take a day trip to another island, so so much of what's on offer gets missed. Admittedly, the fact that the island's aren't overrun lends a great deal to their appeal, but I can't help wishing that more people took the time to really appreciate the place. In fact, in the end, some people did. The weather closed in on the final day such Land's End became fog bound and grounded my flight. Luckily I was staying with a friend, but the other's on my flight were day trippers who hadn't packed for an overnight stay, nor had banked on having to pay for accommodation. I really had to sympathise with them, but at the end of the day there's a little part of me that thinks any reason to spend a little longer on the islands has to be good.

Before this trip I had little idea of what the islands held. Ironically on leaving I noticed the following sign on the walkway over the runway:


Funny, loitering on the Scilly Isles is just what I want to do more of.

The way of the Camel

Cycling was something of a past time of mine in Holland, but it's not something that I often do back home - too many hills for one, access to a car for another. But the other day I decided to take my bike to the most Dutch part of Cornwall - the Camel trail. The Camel trail follows a disused railway line from Padstein (nee, Padstow) to Bodmin, and is therefore wonderfully flat.

That does not however mean that it wasn't hard work. It took four hours to go from Padstow to Bodmin, onto Wenford Bridge, then back to Padstow, by which time placing my leg in a fully straight position resulted in an awkward locking problem, and sudden movements resulted in uncontrollable stumbling. Clearly something has happened in the two months I've been back from Holland, but I'd dread to think what I'd have been like on the hills slightly closer to home.

But cycling, even when I'm cycling, does seem to be a slightly more consistent and reliable way of travelling than the trains do. Yesterday I was on my way back from Truro after visiting Jess when my train, one of those little sprinters, amazingly stalled after leaving St. Erth station and coasted down the track before stopping. I'd never really thought about trains stalling, but then the driver obviously turned the key before it spluttered back into life and continued spluttering all the way into Penzance. Kind of sums up First Great Western.

The Yorkshire Tales

After spending time in both Cheshire and Wales we embarked on a brief visit to York, a city I visited when I was about eight and from where my main memory is of taking a rather embarrassing horse-drawn carriage ride around the town.


York is comfortably north of my comfort zone, in fact, prior to this weekend it was the most northerly place I'd visited in the UK, but that didn't stop me loving it. At the risk of sounding like a broken record, York is yet another city that feels like Bath - probably because they're both Roman. And this similarity means that it also takes up a position on my 'would like to live there' list. A list that's now getting scarily long and wide.

It was great to find old streets that weren't filled with chain shops and department stores, even the StarBucks was so understated as to look like a little independent coffee house. It's actually a real pleasure to shop in a shop that you haven't been in elsewhere and I for one feel more likely to buy something in a place like that knowing I can't get it somewhere else, even if it does cost a little more.

But York really is beautiful, full of genuinely old buildings and a general sense that the people who live there appreciate it for what it is. Perhaps it helps that the whole city is dominated over by the impressive Minster, a constant reminder of the city's heritage, but there were plenty of signs about 'taking pride in York' which I can't remember seeing in any other comparably city. The fact that the old city walls are still largely intact is wonderful too. I'd take city walls over a ring road any day.



Beyond this though, York is just a tremendously atmospheric place, something that I can only guess comes with the age of many of the buildings and the history they know. It's a shame that there's always a tendancy to compare cities to other cities, but with the exception of Bath I can't really think of another city that comes close in terms of the intimacy of the atmosphere in York, and even Bath falls short here as in a way, it's just too big and spread out. York feels much smaller and there's a genuine sense of friendliness amongst the people there.





In fact, the steam train gave rise to one of the more bizarre conversations had in York. We discovered that the train went to Scarborough, a place we hadn't visited, and so we considered going for a ride. Until we found that it was £30pp. We then questioned why we didn't just drive to Scarborough, before asking why we even wanted to go to Scarborough in the first place. Realising that we would only be going because it was a steam train, we came to the decision that when you're on a steam train it feels much like any other train and that its best to see it from the outside - which we had when it steamed past out B&B window. So we abandoned both the steam train ride, and Scarborough. Next time perhaps.

York is just the sort of place that it's great to wander around without a purpose, so it was a little unfortunate that one evening, devoid of anything to do, we went to see a play at the theatre advertised on the basis that it starred the actress who played Sue Ellen in Dallas (an actress primarily famous for not shooting JR). This turned out to be a bad decision (the lady next to us commented that, not being able to hear anything Sue Ellen said, she thought she'd gone deaf since entering), and rather than killing time, it seemed instead to flog it, then kick it while it was already quite far down and out. York could do better.

But for a city with such heritage there wasn't any of the grandeur that can be a little overwhelming at times, as there can be in Cambridge. In fact, sometimes you'd see something that could only suggest a little mischievous on the part of the people living there that nicely stood out.


After spending two days admiring York we detoured via Castle Howard, about 30 minutes north-east of York in doing so took myself further north within the British Isles than I've ever been before. I don't usually go a bundle on these country estate type places, but Castle Howard was actually something else. For starters it's absolutely huge, I imagine it would take at least a day to walk around all the grounds open to public (it does have four lakes), but it's also quite a captivating place.



Unfortunately time constraints preventing speeding more time there, but it is a place that I would recommend a visit to should you ever be in the area. On the way back to Cheshire we decided to have a further stop over in Harrogate, a place that I knew little of other than it sounded like a nice place - primarily because I seem to remember knowing someone from there who said so - and so it proved. Almost. It's a little hard to describe, it had a certain Llandudno quality to it in the Victorian adornments abound, but it didn't have the same 'pride' that York had. York seemed to be a smart town proud to be so. Harrogate seemed to be a smart town trying not to realise, or at least, promote it. But nonetheless it was still a nice place to spend a few hours with some really outstanding gardens around.

And so came to end two weeks of travel and visitations around Cheshire, Wales and Yorkshire, and perhaps the busiest August I think I've ever had.

Bala, Bread and Baking in Bethesda

In a world where it's strictly forbidden to even think about meeting up with people you've met on the Internet, getting into a car and driving to Bethesda, a remote village in northern Wales, to do just that might seem just a little bit silly.

But that didn't stop me and a number of other intrepid people from doing just that, and I think I speak for everyone when I say that we all had a fantastic time baking bread, having fun and exploring a truly beautiful area of the country at event dubbed Bethesdabakin'.



The history of the event and how it was set up is quite long, so I'll spare you all the details, but it came about through an Internet forum and was the idea of a Bethesda local, Mick. The idea gathered steam and unusually for things like this, actually took place last weekend with 17 people descending from all walks of life and all sorts of places. People came from Denmark, Switzerland, France and even Australia and America as well as places closer to home to make friends and bake bread. And that's exactly what happened. The event was organised via the forums on a baker called Dan Lepard's website, and he himself came along to join in and give some invaluable advice and encouragement.


Highlights had to be the building of a wood fired brick oven on the patio outside the rugby club kitchen where the event was held which, courtesy of its 500C plus heat managed to turn out pizzas in around four minutes, Otto, Alex and Kathy's dog who quickly became our mascot, and the innumerable trips to the local Tesco to shop for the five-thousand.




Unfortunately I wasn't up to the standard of the others and had to take a more backseat role for the weekend, although one of my contributions, a barley flour soda bread, turned out to be the one disaster of the weekend, burning on the top, not cooking in the middle and sticking to the pan on the bottom. But what can you do? I even burned my elbow taking it out raising the number of cooking related scars I currently sport to four.

But despite the bread-related theme, there was more to the weekend than dough and flour. I was quite taken aback by how ignorant I was about the whole area. Not only did I fail to appreciate how widely Welsh was spoken by everyone from the people in the Rugby Club to the teenagers working in the Londis store, but I never realised just how beautiful Snowdonia was, nor indeed that places like it even existed in this country. Welsh is quite unlike any language I've heard this year, not even that similar to the little bits of Cornish I know, and it's no wonder that the Welsh parts of the bi-lingual road signs seem unpronounceable to English speakers. But the odd thing is that this wasn't so even 50 years ago when Welsh wasn't that widely spoken, even my great-grandfather who was Welsh born-and-bred didn't speak the language, so to hear little children conversing in it with their parents was really ear-opening and really did make me feel like a stranger in my own land. But I thought it was great, so why stop at Welsh? It stands to reason that people in Scotland, Ireland and even Cornwall should be able to speak the 'local' language, especially when people note how beneficial it is for people to be able to speak a second language.

The Youth Hostel where I stayed has to be located in one of the most scenic places I've ever stayed in. Located at the top of the valley with a lake on one side it was a truly stunning location to wake up and in and retire to, so much so that I'd love to go back and explore the area properly.




It's odd that when you're in the mountains the only thing you have to judge scale to are the other mountains, so it doesn't matter if they're all 1000m or 3000m high, they all look equally impressive, so for a time it really felt like being back in the Alps, and that's something I didn't realise this country could offer. Even seeing things on TV doesn't quite bring it home, and it's made me wonder just what the Scottish Highlights are like in the flesh.

So here's saying a huge thankyou to Mick and Sue, and to everyone else who came along and made the weekend the huge success that it was. Here's looking forward to next year.

Life in the slow lane

My auntie's house in Cheshire is pretty unconventional in the transport connections it sports. In one direction there's a railway line about two metres beyond the garden boundary, and in the other there's a canal about one minute away. Unfortunately there's no way to board the former without some serious acrobatics, but fortunately the canal is punctuated by a lock, so when the weather looked good we hired Rosie for the day and set off on a long slow cruise along the Cheshire waterways.



Unfortunately the fact that it was such a lovely day resulted in me ending the day with a rather red nose and that burning feeling, but it was worth it. It's hard to describe just how tranquil canal-boating is. We did it when I was younger, but I wasn't really old enough to steer the boat, so this was the first time that I had a chance to pilot for myself, affording some good opportunities for some rather embarrassing photos of yours truly.


Apart from one scrape along the bank, one bang when attempting a three point turn, and one beaching incident when hit by another boat's wash, the day went off without a hitch (although the last one did threaten disaster and took about ten minutes of heaving and shoving to get us free).

Everyone's so friendly as well. All of the boats you pass say hello and exchange pleasantries and so do the people on the bank. In fact, often you're motoring no faster than they're walking, so on one occasion I had a conversation with a couple of walkers lasting several minutes. Unfortunately though some are so engrossed in what they're doing that they don't notice as you motor on past.


Thankfully our boat was only about 30 feet long, and I'm filled with tremendous respect for those who pilot the normal 70 feet behemoths and who manage to make them so nimble. At times it felt like I was driving a barge without brakes and with a mind of its own, and the whole 'left to go right' mentality took a great deal of getting used to, but it was tremendous fun. I didn't appreciate quite how extensive the British waterway network was and how well connected the various canals are so I'm now filled with a desire to charter a boat for longer and make a proper go of it. Anyone keen?

The Connah Conundrum

Genealogy has always interested me, perhaps because Connah is an unusual surname, so it's always intrigued me that there's a town in North Wales called "Connah's Quay". A little internet research suggested that it might have been named after the local inn-keeper, part time smuggler and suspected murderer, James Connah. So buoyed on by the prospect of having someone so exciting in my past, and the thought of visiting my 'homeplace’ and having some sort of revelation, that's exactly what I did.

I was warned before I left, and I should have guessed from the rather lackadaisical use of the apostrophe in the name in the various signs around, but my undisguised optimism clouded rational thought. What I found was pretty grim, even the local Somerfield had an air of deep seated resentment about it. I’d hesitate to say that it was a northern version of Camborne, but Redruth would be a good and sadly valid comparison. But the town did at least provide a number of good opportunities for passing motorists to wonder why on earth some bloke was posing to have his photo taken next to the sign of the place they were getting out of.


So while Connah's Quay might well be in my family’s past, a rather large part of me has trouble thinking of it as being part of my future, which is a shame really.

Fortunately the same is not true of all of northern Wales. Admittedly, after the disappointment of Connah’s Quay we lurched straight into another at Colwyn Bay where, after walking a mile in search of a place to eat, I practically suffered from a near-life experience of rigor mortis waiting for perhaps the greasiest toasted sandwich I’ve ever had the fortune to consume. But things looked up afterwards when we motored on to Llandudno, a not-seaside town on the seaside. It’s a place that we used to visit each time we went up to Cheshire when I was younger, but one that seemed to give an entirely different impression to my ten-odd year older eyes. Unfortunately having squandered time in Connah’s Quay and Colwyn Bay we only had time to drive through the lovely Victorian town centre complete with old awnings and paved streets, and drive up the best bit about the place – the Great Orme. When I was younger, the best bit about this rather large hill (or maybe mountain) was that you could take a cable car or tram up it. Now, the best bit is the staggering view from the top where you can see right across the bay to Anglesea, or inland beyond the town to the mountains beyond. It was just a shame that there wasn’t more time to appreciate it all properly.



Just have to go back one-day I guess.

A trip up memory lane (aka the M6)

When I was younger, every Summer a trip up to the little village of Bunbury in Cheshire was practically guaranteed to spend some time with my Gran and the rest of my mother's family. Unfortunately in 2001 my Gran died, and so did the tradition. But this year I decided that it was time to go back and so embarked upon a rather tortuous 10 hour journey with an average speed of about 36mph to revisit (note, don't try and drive out of Cornwall on a Saturday in August).


I've always had something of a fascination with the family, and I think living close to everyone in my dad's family, along with having an unusual surname helps that, but I've also felt a little neglectful of my mother's side of the tree.

Going back to a place you haven't been too for a while is always a little odd, but it can be fascinating what you remember. Obviously I wasn't that young the last time I went up, but six years is enough time to see things differently. For me, it was the little white metal fences around the fields, the signs designating the different cattle herds, and rather peculiarly (and a little scarily) my aunt's TV remote control that triggered memories.

But Cheshire really is a lovely place, full of rolling hills and lovely little towns. It really does feel a world away from the place I live in down here, and I guess with it being so far away, it could be. Chester for instance is a really beautiful city, and Tarporley is such a tranquil and friendly little village that I wonder why I'm not living there now.



In fact, even the wildlife in Cheshire seems tame. I drew open the curtains on the first morning to be greeted by a family of rabbits looking at me from the garden, all of whom seemed entirely unmoved by my appearence in my boxer shorts. Squirrels would have eaten out of my hand had I had anything to feed them with, and even flies posed for their photo to be taken. A far cry from the seagulls in Cornwall.


There's one sentiment that seems ubiquitous when meeting people you haven't seen for some time, namely "Oh, haven't you grown!" And there's no proper answer, but an encounter with my 43 year old cousin got me thinking. While he remarked that he wouldn't have recognised me, I spotted him from some distance off. This leads to the worrying conclusion that at some point in the next 22 years I'll reach the stage where I won't have grown and altered when people see me again, which also means that I'm approaching the stage where my adult features are set - leaving precious little time for the bits I don't like to ebb away!

In fact, while I was there I felt oddly compelled to engage in the sort of activities that my younger self would have done - from visiting the local ice cream parlour, to buying gingerbreadmen from the bakery, and waving to passing trains. In fact, I did engage in such activities in what I can only assume was some sort of nostalgic desire to regress to my childhood for I think that I will forever associate Cheshire with childhood holidays, no matter how long ago they were.