The Dog That Didn’t Turn Up

When we plan things, we imagine how they will turn out.

I didn’t have much of a plan for this adventure beyond: set off from Land’s End, head east, then head north, and see what happens. But I did imagine how my story might pan out.

In the film version of my adventure, I’d be played by Helen McCrory (Aunt Poll in Peaky Blinders); I’d be climbing mountains so that the camera could fly round me on mountaintops as I sink to my knees and yell ‘Why?! Why am I doing this?!’

And on another mountain (probably in Scotland) I’d be like Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music, arms open, twirling , singing, because I was deliriously happy for some reason or other.

Helen McCrory as me would reach John O’Groats looking fit and fabulous, with my shoes almost falling apart, there would be a crowd of people waiting to greet me, cheering as I walk round the cliff and see them there, tears streaming down my face, people playing tunes, dancing singing, some incredible revelation happens, my life turns round, demons faced and conquered, sun shining, ruddy-faced fishermen waving at me…

…people leaving the cinema feeling that they have been on the journey with me, and determining to read the book. (Not that I’d spent much time thinking about the film version… Chris Prat or Tom Hardy would play The Lovely John..)

In another world, where I’d have got the funding to create a musical snapshot on my crazy pilgrimge, I might have booked more B&Bs, I might have been more certain about my route, and known exactly when and where I would be.

But I would have missed out on so much excitement, thrills, worries, and entering into the unknown.

In my imagined version of the journey, I would arrange to meet musicians en route, literally. They would walk to some pre-arranged crossroads, and we would spend an hour or two enjoying sharing tunes and a picnic, then we would both hug and go our separate ways.

In my imaginary journey, there was a little dog that started walking along beside me, and even though I tried my best to get rid of it, it just kept following me, and we ended up best of friends and almost inseparable. I was probably going to call the dog Groaty, or something like that. Boots maybe. But the dog would be well-behaved and devoted.

In my imaginary journey, I turn up at the John O’Groats hotel and spend the £50 note that I have kept in my hat (actual, not imaginary) on a drink, a meal or a room for the night. People cheer and pat me on the back.

In fairness, some people had said they would walk with me for a while, an hour, a day a weekend, but weather, commitments and time never quite coincided.

The dog didn’t turn up. But Naked Actionman did.

The hotel at John O’Groats has been turned into self-catering flats. So I saved my money.

I was looking forward to walking the entire length of the Pennine Way, the Great Glen Way and the West Highland Way.

Didn’t do any of them in their entirety.

I even decided to treat myself to the West Highland railway journey, and have a day climbing Ben Nevis.

Rain and fog put a stop to all that milarkey. Who wants to sit on a train for five hours and see nothing but fog? Not I. Who wants to climb uphill for five hours in thick rain clouds? Nah.

There were a lot of things I didn’t do, and it doesn’t matter in the slightest. I met the most amazing people, I have seen some incredible places, heard wonderful music, i have been constantly reassured that people are kind, friendly, good-natured, we smile, we laugh, we are interested and interesting. Everyone has a tale to tell, and everyone loves to hear a tale well told.

People aren’t obsessed with politics, they don’t talk about Brexit; there is much more to this world of ours, this tiny country of mine, than the media would ever admit to.

Life is full of magic, amazing co-incidences, places so delicious they make you want to cry.

These things can’t be imagined, they can’t be captured and recreated in a film. Helen McCrory, marvelous actress that she is, would never be able to show the gradual realisation that my knees aren’t hurting anymore.

Or how good it felt to climb my first long hill without thinking I was going to collapse. Or what it felt to be knocking on someone’s door who I’d never met before, because they had heard about my adventure and invited me to stay and hear them play music.

Or how, when I was travelling through Scotland, I didn’t feel like some Amazonian adventurer, I felt like Jimmy Crankie.

I felt like Jimmy Crankie because I was loving every minute, smiling at the rain, the mists, stealthcamping in harbours, beaches, lochs and lakesides, heading North, on my way to John O’Groats. I even went to visit Glenmorangie whiskey distillery, something I’ve always wanted to do.

Glenmorangie distillery

Naked Actionman posing like a pro

Could this be the best bar in the world?

If anyone is wondering what to buy me for Christmas – glenmorangie please x

I didn’t stop smiling when I got to John O’Groats, even though we’d driven all day in thick fog, and you couldn’t see a thing when we got there.

We did the obligatory photos, and were similarly underwhelmed by John O’Groats as we were by Land’s End.

The destination isn’t the adventure. It never was.

There is a phrase that often came into my head during the adventure: ‘The map isn’t the territory’. It was a phrase that was often trotted out during NLP training, and this summer, I totally understood it. It’s 874 miles to Land’s End, you can plot the route on a map, but the journey is so much more than a line on a map.

Somewhere behind Naked Actionman, there’s Orkney

It’s a bleak, bleak place is John O’Groats.

Pulling out all the stops for the tourists.

Here we are, Jimmy Crankie and the Lovely John at J O’G

Two Months earlier… equally bleak, but sunnier, 874 miles away….

Well Folks, it’s been a blast. But it’s not the end of the blast. No siree. I’ve got a hundred tunes and songs and stories to turn into something. Watch this space, give me a week or two to get used to being back in my homelands, then see what I start cooking.

In the meantime, I’ve got to get used to not being an adventurer, I’ve got to decide where I’m living and I’ve got to get me a job.

Eek.

Rain, rain, lovely rain…

After the excitement of the Devil’s Pulpit, we headed north to Loch Lomond.

It was way beyond teatime (that’s dinner time to you southerners), and we were hungry, so set up camp at the first place we saw, which happened to be the bottom end of Loch Lomond at a place called Duck Bay.

It seemed an appropriate place to teach the Lovely John a tune called Duck River, so that’s what we did until rain stopped play.

The rain didn’t stop for days. Days and days of rain, cloud and fog.

Loch Lomond – view from the van. Still raining. Still beautiful

I’m sure the highlands were spectacular, if only we could have seen them…

We’d made plans as part of my ‘holiday’ section of the adventure, to head to Fort William and climb Ben Nevis. We’d climbed Scarfell Pike a couple of years ago in thick mist and a howling gale, and last year we did Snowden, and the clouds descended as we got to the top.

The top of Snowden is a funny place – there’s a cafe and a train station, and I was desperate to have a wee as I neared the top, so decided I would hold out for the toilets in the cafe. The cafe, of course, was closed, so as soon as we’d had the obligatory photo at the summit, I found a little crevice to crouch in, not that I needed one because it was thick fog. Until I started peeing. Then miraculously the fog lifted, a train-load of people appeared from nowhere, and I was crouched with my knickers round my ankles peeing like a horse saying ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t stop. Watch your step, it’s flowing over the path.’

But I digress – being an expert on mountaintops where you can’t see anything, we decided to give Ben Nevis a miss, as you could barely see one end of the street from the other in Fort William, so I wasn’t expecting a view from the mountains, especially as there weren’t any to be seen. But next time I’ll conquer Ben Nevis. Here’s a helpful site that will get me there: https://bennevis.co.uk/

There were a lot of hiker types in Fort William, unsurprisingly as it’s where you set off for BN and other mountains, and two of the paths I had planned to walk on (The Great Glen Way and The West Highland Way) began and ended in the town.

Astute readers may have noticed the change in tense there from ‘I’ll be walking on’ to ‘I had planned to walk on’.

Yes, it’s true. I am no longer going to walk through Scotland to John O’Groats.

Neither am I collecting tunes and meeting musicians in Scotland.

And I’m not chickening out; I have realised that Scotland is a vast and glorious country that needs a bit of research in order to do it justice. And hell yes, I want to walk the Great Glen Way ad the West Highland Way, but I want to do it when I’m feeling fresh and ready for it and even though I’m time rich right now, I’m cash poor, so I want to do my research, save up, and do it in B&B style, not hiking tent cheap. A girl has certain standards, you know.

I know that it takes about twenty minutes to drive what would take me a day to walk, so I figured that I could enjoy the holiday, still get to John O’Groats, but in The Stealth Campervan rather than on foot, and still have the most wonderful adventure.

And still it rained…

Loch Ness – we had our own little beach and campfire, and the rain didn’t dampen our spirits

No – that wasn’t Nessie, it was the Loch Ness pleasure boat. We waved, but I think the red monster on the outside ate all the passengers

This is perhaps the tackiest place in all of Scotland…Nessieland. Even Naked Actionman was unimpressed.

The Loch Ness camping was wonderful – we had a tiny beach to ourselves, and wood to make a fire and a big umbrella so we were warm and dry, and we just sat under that big old umbrella, stoking up the fire, watching the rain clouds rolling in, drinking whiskey and playing music.

Tomorrow – I’m doing it – I’m going to tell you about reaching John O’Groats, seeing seals, stealthcamping in harbours and beaches in mists so thick that we couldn’t see the castle on the beach, and how much I love Scotland.

But for now, I’m writing this part of the blog at my mother’s, and I hear the kettle going on again…

Glasgow And Grown-up Grace

My modus operandi with the Stealth Campervan is to look at google maps and work out where we’re heading then find somewhere that looks interesting on the way and stop there for a while.

I can’t do this when I’m walking.

On foot, I find a route, preferably a well-maintained footpath, and by well-maintained, I mean well-signposted, a clear path or bridlepath or cycle route, and heading North. On a day walk, or walking holiday, I’m happy to ramble anywhere, if I see a sign that points out an interesting-looking path, I’ll deviate and take it. If there’s somewhere unexpected that’s nearby and looks like it may be worth sniffing out, I’ll have a sniff. If there’s a pub and I’m thirsty, I’ll pop in and have a pint.

When you’ve got a heavy rucksack and you’re on a mission, it’s a different sort of walking. You rarely deviate from the chosen path, you take a wrong turn and you feel your soul shrivelling slightly because you’ve got to back track and you know you’ve only got so many miles in you and your feet are hurting. If the grass is long and it’s been raining, your legs and boots are going to get wet, which isn’t a problem for a while, but is for consecutive days.

You see a delightful looking pub or cafe and you walk on by even though you might be thirsty or peckish; you’ve got your bottle of water and your emergency biscuits, so you don’t need to stop, and besides the beer would make you feel drowsy. And it would eat unnecessarily into your limited budget.

I love walking, hiking, striding out into nature. If I didn’t have to worry about money, I could quite happily spend my life on the road.

What I didn’t anticipate on this adventure was the stress that would be caused by worrying about where to stop for the night. I don’t mind pitching my tiny tent up. I’m happy sleeping anywhere, me, but I hate being cold and I hate even more waking up in a tiny tent and it be raining. So when the weather looks like it might get a bit moist, I always make sure I’m not in a tent. It’s wonderful and magical when people invite you to stay over, and for the last couple of weeks I’ve been royally spoiled.

Trouble is, I’ve had an awful lot of rainy nights. But it’s not a problem when the Stealth Campervan joins the adventure. There is always a warm dry bed, food to cook and drink to be drunk, no matter where you are. So the next nine days are sorted, as The Lovely John is here on holiday with me.

And I want to treat the next nine days like a holiday. I’ve got enough unblogged blogging to last for quite a while, and I’ve had two months of pretty much non-stop adventure.

So – holidays, we’re heading to Glasgow to visit Grace and I’ve consulted my google maps oracle, and it says ‘go to Falls of Clyde, New Lanark’, it’s on the way, and it’s very lovely.

So we did, and it was.

Falls of Clyde

Next stop Glasgow, and Grace’s.

I’ve known Grace since she was a gangly teenager; she’s the daughter of my friend Janet, who I play with in the band Shiznitz, also the same Janet who loaned me her brother and his wife in Devon earlier in this adventure.

Grace is now all grown up – she’s done her degree, she’s got a proper job and she’s living in a flat in Glasgow with Ewan. I’ve been threatening to visit Grace for a year or so, because I’ve still to climb Ben Nevis, and I can’t climb Ben Nevis without first popping in to see Grace.

Ewan got home an hour or so after we arrived – he’s Scottish and it was Sunday, so he’d been out with his mates climbing Munros, like it was the most natural thing in the world. That’s what you do on a Sunday, when you’re young, fit, and Scottish.

Grown-up Grace cooked us a grown up meal, we went out for a drink and had a whiskey nightcap. We might have looked like we were their mam and dad, but we didn’t care, we were out with friends and it was lovely.

Me, Ewan, Grown-up Grace and The Lovely John

I even got a tune or two from Grace and Ewan. Ewan, being Scottish, not only climbs Munros for fun, he’s also an excellent piper. I bet he’s got a kilt somewhere as well. They all have, these Scotsmen. So I’m told.

Ewan Convery:

‘These are Scottish small pipes in the key of D – there’s also border pipes but they sound more like traditional bagpipes. There’s also highland pipes, but everyone knows them, and they’re too loud to play in the flat.

‘I’ve shut the drones off, so you’re just hearing the chanter.

‘I’ll play a tune called ‘John Keith Lang’, it’s a reel from Caithness, originally a fiddle tune, because most tunes up there are fiddle tunes, originally.’

‘Cheery Groove – I got this tune from the a concept album ‘The Railway’ written by Hamlisch Napier. It’s a slip jig – named after someone’s house. Musicians around Strathspey were commissioned to write songs around the steam railway line.

Quite a lot of people play this tune in sessions in Glasgow. Hamlisch Napier writes a lot of good tunes that you can pick up easily.

Grace Worrell:

I’ll play you ‘Seanamhac Tube Station’ written by John Carly. It’s a popular one in sessions up here. It’s in Gm.

https://youtu.be/5rtEnferQA0

Next morning, Grown-up Grace and Ewan were up early for work, so we headed into Glasgow to be sightseers for the morning, and with a recommendation from Grown-up Grace to go and see the Devil’s Pulpit (not in any of the books, not really signposted but well worth a visit), we headed off.

Found this little gem in Glasgow’s Kelvingrove museum. If only I’d had my little travel fiddle with me we could have played spot the difference…

I look round the whole museum and this is the only thing i take a photo of. Nerd or what?

…and here’s the Devil’s Pulpit – it’s a deep and narrow canyon that’s you can climb into via a set of well hidden Victorian steps. We found them eventually, and got to see the Devil’s Pulpit, which is, I believe a stone in the middle of the canyon. Thankyou, Grown-up Grace. For the food and the bed, and the tunes and the tourist tips.

Arty shot. Where’s Naked Actionman when you need him?

That mound of rock is, I believe the Devil’s Pulpit. But I could be wrong.

Tomorrow there’ll be tales of not climbing Ben Nevis, not hiking anywhere, Loch Lomond, fabulous wild camping, and how we found Nessie at Loch Ness, and what a bitter disappointment that was…

Gretna Green and Gussets

The magical power that is Google Maps had hinted that there might be a good stealth camping place just outside of Gretna, on the banks of the River Esk. That’s where we headed in The Stealth Campervan, because The Lovely John had driven all the way up from Scunthorpe, and it was getting late.

Turned out to be a perfect little spot. Right on the Esk estuary, miles away from anywhere, only the occasional dogwalker and we even had time for a stroll along the banks before settling down for the night.

We always position the van so that we get a view from the back doors. Saturday morning, early, this was the view:

Early morning River Esk. Yes, it’s cows.

I thought the river was deep, and you know those mornings when you wake up and can’t quite believe what you are seeing – well, this was one of those mornings.

Cattle – having an early morning paddle in the middle of the River Esk, heading out to sea.

They took a slow leisurely walk for a mile or so, then circled back, tiny dots on the other side of the bank (the side that is England, not the side that is Scotland, which we were on).

Yes, we were in Scotland. Gretna, to be precise, and there’s only one thing to do when it’s Saturday morning in Gretna Green…

…Laugh at the tacky tourism. Lordy Lordy, what a place Gretna Green is. Busloads of Chinese tourists (who knew it was such a popular tourist destination with the Chinese?), and The Original Smithies, and The Original Anvils – lots of them. Being a true professional, I let Naked Actionman get in on the scene:

Just hanging round, waiting for love. Trying too hard perhaps?

Not one person batted an eyelid at me laying on the floor getting this shot. Love, as they say, is blind. And batshit crazy.

The Lovely John and I were approached by a very nice Chinese lady who had an official Gretna Green lanyard. She was taking photographs of couples for ‘National Kissing Day‘ or something like that, and would we mind being photographed having a kiss at one of the Gretna Green photo places. My ‘just say yes’ philosophy kicked in and we said yes, and duly stood under the horseshoe love arch and puckered up, as the very nice Chinese lady took several shots of us. She even crouched on the round to get a good angle of us and the horseshoe love arch.

Here’s a salutary lesson for any photographers wearing short skirts who are crouching down getting arty angles with their camera: you, photographer, can get everything in, the couple, the kiss, the horseshoe love arch, but we can see right up your skirt. You could kneel, you could stand further back you could just go for a close up with your viewfinder, but when you crouch, legs wide part, and you’re wearing stripey knickers, we are going to notice your gusset. Notice? Madam, you were all but winking at us.

It may have been a deliberate ploy to get people to grin, and I did want to mention it to her, but she was off looking for another couple before I could have my quiet word.

‘Thank you so much’, she said, as she left us.

‘No, thank YOU’, said The Lovely John.

I couldn’t help it, I had my tourist head on, and we had the Stealth Campervan at our disposal, so we headed up the A75 to Dumfries and an afternoon of unabashed Rabbielove. I love Robbie Burns, and Dumfries is to Burns what Liverpool is to the Beatles. Like you can’t move for references to Burns. Like his face is on everything. Like you can’t move for tea towels and tam o shanters and tartan.

Dumfries is a gorgeous town, we did the Robert Burns walk round, and yes, I love The Rabster, but after a couple of hours, I’d had enough Aye fond kisses and Best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men to last til next January 25th.

Three of my favourite men all trying to look cool

The Lovely John wanted to throw Actionman in the River Nith, but luckily I saw this sign.

We called into a pop up shop – I can’t remember what drew us in, but the shop was Pensioners for Independance. Their tactic seemed to be: draw them in and ask them if they think Scotland should be an independent country. And when I say ‘ask’, read as ‘demand to know’.

Me, I just said ‘yes’ straight away, don’t know whether it was fear, conviction, or witnessing the withering looks and scathing remarks that followed a woman who said ‘absolutely not’. The Lovely John, never one to shy away from words, answered, ‘I don’t care, I’m happy right now.’

This seemed to melt the stoic, granite hearts of the two pensioners/potential inquisitioners and they ended up sending us away with armfuls of buns, fudge, a cd and a top tip on where to head to stay for the night.

I’l give you the top tip, if you’re ever in Scotland and want a night of wild camping, after a Rabbie Burns overload. Go up the A76, turn off for Wanlock Head, and it’s magnificent. Mountain pass, with a small river running through, and you can camp there. Lots of people do. It’s like party valley.

However, we drove on, waiting for the next place, and the next one until we came out the other side of the pass, and realised that we’d missed our chance. Note to self: if there’s a perfect looking place, stop, don’t wait for the next one, cos sooner or later you’ll run out.

So we challenged ourselves to find a lovely place near water, and to be honest we were sailing a bit close to the wind, thought we’d end up in a lay-by, but this is Scotland, if you miss the perfect place to stop, carry on, cos the next perfect place is near. We drove on to a place called Douglas, cos there was a lake showing on google maps and when we saw a sign for ‘Dangerous Castle’, it sealed the deal. It wasn’t a wild mountain pass, it was a beautiful peaceful land with a lake and a Dangerous Castle. Perfect.

Tomorrow, I’ll tell you about how Grace is all grown up now, and the Devil’s pulpit, and I can’t remember which road we took, the high or the low, but we got to Loch Lomond…

And you may have noticed I’m not doing much walking at the moment. Therein lies a tale to be told….

Ilkley Moor with hat, Crackety Jack, and Wild Camping.

There was no overnight parking at Golden Acres, so we headed off to the second of my good friend Chill’s recommendations: Otley Chevin car park. And wow. The view.

The place we found was right at the edge of the ‘surprise view’ – so we kind of had to take a bottle of wine and a bag of crisps and watch the sun set over the valley below us, marvelling at the glories of nature, and how I don’t particularly like crisps, but sometimes they are absolutely perfect.

Otley Chevins is a popular spot with runners, walkers, dog walkers and lads who are learning to smoke. Eventually they all go away and you’re left in the carpark all alone with nowt but a magnificent view for company.

It just so happened that there was a dry stone wall event happening next morning so there were lots of cars arrived by 9am. But we didn’t care. We had taken our breakfast and eaten it looking out over the views and were heading onwards and upwards. Today was Saturday, and apparently it was going to be the heatiest heatwave ever, so we decided to head for the hills, and Malham seemed like a hilly enough place to head for.

On the way there, we passed Ilkley moor. I’d sung the song often enough but never been there, and the sight of the Cow and Calf towering above us lured us in, and we spent a glorious few hours wandering round the moor. I had a hat on though, cos I didn’t want sunstroke.

The not so Lovely John lobbing Naked Actionman as far as he could

Naked Actionman posing like a pro on Ilkley Moor

Time for a spot of geocaching on Ilkley Moor

They don’t do graffiti like they used to. It just isn’t as lyrical nowadays

We remembered after a couple of hours on t’moor that we were on a mission to head to Malham and set off again. Unbeknown to us, everyone in the area had the same idea, Malham turned out to be one massive carpark with ne’er a place left for parking. Undeterred, we headed out for the hills – there’s a tarn up there somewhere, so if it got too hot, we could launch ourselves in the water.

It’s scary driving up the hills around Malham, but well worth it, cos it felt like we had the place to ourselves. We found a spot to park up for the night, and went for a walk. It wasn’t a heatwave. Nowhere near. Warm, but no picnic.

Stealth Campervan in situ for Saturday night camping on Malham moor.

Feeling very smug to be up in the hills where it was cool and breezy

We had a couple of neighbours where we parked, people who have been parking up here for years, so had no worries about being in the middle of nowhere. Woke next morning (Sunday) in the clouds.

I had an invite to stay with a dulcimer player, Ian Hatwell and his wife Carol, who live in Kendal, and the Lovely John had the Stealth Campervan, so I absolutely had to get a lift there before he went home that night.

On the way to Kendal, we passed by Kirby Moorside, stopping to have breakfast at the Devil’s Bridge with all the bikers. That’s motorbikes, to the uninitiated. Apart from one man in a tight lime green Lycra cycling suit that left nothing to the imagination. You could see veins and everything. And he stood there amongst all the leather-clad bikers with his hands on his hips. I don’t shock easily, but i couldn’t even get my camera out. Cyclists take note – lime green is an unforgiving and see-through colour. Never wear it. Never.

Further on by Kirby Moorside and there was signs for the town Fleadh. I’m not sure I’ve spelt it correctly, but it’s a competitive festival of Irish music, so we just had to call in, and managed to miss everything except for the tiniest sniff of atmosphere. It was happening all over the town, but quite evaded us.

I’ve got a lot of music to fit in while I’m here (I’m in Kendal now, almost caught up with my blogging), so I figured my time would be better spent musicing rather than walking. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking with it.

So tomorrow’s blog will be treating you to more Nyckelharpas, harps, dulcimers, and whatever I happen upon tonight.

Royal Traditions

Royal Traditions is a folk club at the The Royal Hotel pub in Dungworth run by Jon Boden and Fay Hield. The club is an acoustic evening with house songs and a bit of a session at the end – you can just turn up without ticket and they pass a hat round for the artist. The music starts from 8pm. There are different people every time, and it’s a singer’s club. Singing is not only encouraged, it’s expected.

Despite me being a bit of a folkie, I’d not been to a pub where there’s house tunes and guests enjoy it when the audience join in heartily and lustily in full harmony.

We’d parked up in the pub carpark, been out walking for the day and the landlord let us run up a bar tab for food drink and breakfast.

So we had our food, nipped out for a nap, and went to watch the club in action.

Rowan and Rosie were called on at last minute, as the main act for the night had taken poorly,

https://youtu.be/13u111gwBBQ

Rowan Piggott and Rosie Hodgson are based in Sheffield, which is fast becoming the Folk capitol of the North, attracting many young and amazingly talented performers.

http://www.rosiehodgeson.com http://www.rowanpiggott.com

After the performances, the club settled down to a singaround – here’s Rowan and Rosie again, joining the singaround in a more relaaxed and informal style:

https://youtu.be/zraz5gt334o

The next morning at breakfast, I was talking to another guest who had been at the evening club, and I asked her if she had a song for me. She had a song and a story.

Corinne Male at the Royal Hotel Dungworth

Here’s Corinne Male:

‘The song I’m going to sing is from County Clare, but I think the origins of it is an American music hall piece. In County Clare, West Clare, one of the great singers was Tom Lanahan, whom I never knew, he died some years ago. The second time I was over there at a singing festival, I was in the hotel on the first night of the festival where there was a big singing session going on with some lovely people there, and a group of women sitting by the fireplace and one of them turned to the other and said ‘sing the poker song’, and she sang the song I’m going to give you. It really got my imagination.

I’ve wanted this song for years but I don’t have the nerve to be a collector, to go knocking on people’s doors and say ‘sing me a song’.

I went back to the festival every year and I was back one year and had stayed over for a couple of days fishing. The weather was awful, blowey wind, fish were’t rising, coudn’t cast out, and I finally had the nerve to phone up Tom and Annette Monolly – Tom was a great collector – and ask for Noni Lynch’s phone number – she was the woman who sang the song.

So I rang her up, saying ‘you don’t know me but…’ and I went over bearing a fruitcake and a recorder and she sang me the song. I went back to visit her several times, she didn’t have aa lot of songs, but this was her party piece.

I’m told she was up on stage at the Willy Clancey Festival singing it when she was 92. The song is called ‘My Good Looking Man’.

When i was down at the Bodmin festival and I first met Viv Leg, Vick Leg’s sister and she has a cut down version of this song from her aunt, called ‘Good For Nothing Man’. She was from the Orchard family of Devon Gypsies.

Noni had learnt the song from Tom Lanahan. There is no record of Tom ever singing the song, But Noni learnt it from him, they were first cousins, their mothers were sisters.

‘My Good Looking Man’ (learnt from Noni Lynch)

And yes we did settle up the bar tab, we did have a lovely time and would never have seen that gorgeous part of the country and met such talented singers had we not been going to the Royal Traditions.

Tomorrow’s blog – The Lovely John returns home again, and I head to Glossop to visit old friends and a legendary tune collector…

Naked Action Man gets in on the action.

I am still amazed at how near Sheffield is to the Peak District. Like just over the hill near. Like a £2 thirty minute bus ride near. Like twenty minutes in the Stealth Campervan near.

So after leaving my Firstborn to his afternoon of Nyckelharpa and Dulcimer music, myself and the Lovely John headed over the hill in the Stealth Campervan, back to the gorgeous Peak District.

We parked up in the carpark of the Ladybower Inn, and went for a walk. It was 5pm but it also was the Longest Day (21st/22nd June), so we had a good old trot along a valley to somewhere that was supposed to be having a beer festival, but it was just a few pumps of one brewery (naming no names, but I had a pint of Jaipur, thank you very much), and quickly realised that we’d need a bank loan if we were to buy any more drinks. Puh. Overpriced drinks. Puh.

Who knew Ladybower Reservoir had an ampitheatre?

Got back to the Ladybower Inn just in time to sit outside and watch the traffic snarl to a standstill due to a road accident just around the corner, out of sight. Police cars and ambulances arrived after an hour, and they didn’t leave the scene til just after 3am, by which time we’d been tucked up in bed for hours. Makes you appreciate the preciousness of life, and value every moment, cos you never know what’s just round the corner.

But you don’t want to know about road accidents and evening walks, do you? You want to know about Naked Actionman.

Saturday, we parked up at a pub, The Royal Hotel, Dungworth, as we had heard about an event there – a song folkclub, run by an organisation called Soundpost https://soundpost.org.uk/royal-traditions.

As the event wasn’t on til 8pm, we had all day to go out for a walk and enjoy the hills, valleys and reservoirs. A mile or two into the walk The Lovely John spots Naked Actionman, lying in the undergrowth, looking all forlorn. Now anyone who knows me knows that I always take pity on a muscley naked man, so I decided that he should join us in our journey.

I’m not even going to tell you about the walk. I’ll let Naked Actionman do the telling.

Here I am in the woods. They were going to leave me here up the tree, but The Woman decided to take me along with them.

The Woman has found a place for me to enjoy the walk. She’s even found me a stick to fend off any potential attackers. The Man is a little worried about my presence.

Yeah! I’m naked and I’m proud!. It’s a sunny day and life is good. Wooo.

This is a fine place to marvel at a big pipe. It really is. A big pipe and a fine place. Marvelous.

Here’s a group of walkers who wanted in on the action. Everyone wants a piece of me now, and I can’t say I blame them.

The Woman let me have some of her beer. I think she fancies me.

I felt an uncontrollable urge to climb this treacherous rock face. It must have been the beer that gave me the courage I needed. I lived to tell the tale.

Even managed to find a village green that was playing cricket. They didn’t want me to field for them.

Yeay! More beers! More Views! Sunshine! Could this day get any better?

It got better! I got Morrised by the Wath on Dearne Morris Team. Yes, that’s me in the middle

Me and The Man and The Woman. I don’t think The Man realises I’m muscling in. Heh heh heh

It’s my intense army training. If you see a difficult but interesting rock face, you gotta try and conquer that baby. Just gotta do it. Clothes or no clothes. All I need is a rope. Try and stop me…

The Lovely John, (as I believe he’s called), really wishing he never picked me up and just left me in the undergrowth

Yes, we happened upon the Wath-on-Dearne Morris troupe on our walk, and I caught them on video, which fo some reason refuses to upload. Grrrrr.

The Wath Morris were on a ‘Pretty Villages Tour’, something which they have done every year for the past 20 years. Bert Cleaver – once the Squire of the Morris Ring was with them. The team have been going for nearly 50 years – look the up on t’internet, find out where they are dancing and go see them. A fine bunch of northern Morris folk.

Tomorrow I’ll write about my evening and next morning at the Royal Hotel, Dungworth, where I watched some wonderful singers of all ages keeping the folk tradition alive…but for now, The Lovely John has gone home, and I’ve got to decide whether to keep Naked Actionman…

I don’t think she’s spotted me yet….

Inner Yoda

Relentless rain all night – the old boys at the bar last night were forecasting at least a week’s worth of rain and floods and half of it landed on the roof of the Stealth Campervan overnight.

I had been silently congratulating myself all weekend on the inspired decision to hop on a bus to Gloucester to dry out last Friday, knowing that I’d be meeting up with The Lovely John and The Stealth Campervan, my boots would have somewhere to dry out, and that we could head back to the Cotswolds to meet up with people. ‘Learn to trust your instincts, Amanda’, my little inner Yoda keeps intoning.

Lovely John was due to head back home later this afternoon, after dropping me off in Redditch to stay with Sally Whytehead – a dulcimer player and president of the Nonesuch Dulcimer Society.

We dropped in at Evesham on the way to Redditch, mainly because neither of us had been there before, it was raining and Sally wasn’t in until the afternoon. Evesham is lovely. It’s a little bit frayed at the edges, but I reckon if a town can make me smile for a couple of hours on a rainy tuesday morning, it’s worth getting a thumbs up. It had a huge cathedral and monastic buildings, now only hints of what was once there, and a park alongside a river where you can have boat rides. There’s lots of pubs and cafes in Evesham and a curious shopping centre with practically nothing in. I paid £3 and bought a waterproof coat from a charity shop – ‘we’ve just put a load out this morning, it’s going to be rainy for a couple of weeks,’ said the lady in the shop, ominously.

Rainy morning in Evesham with clock tower

Gwilym had given me a couple of names of people whom I really should meet, and one of them, Alex, lived near Birmingham, about 20 miles north of Sally.

Alex was free tuesday afternoon, so I revised my constantly revising plans, and decided to visit Sally, but not stay the night, and head on (while i still had the luxury of wheels) to see Alex in Mosley.

I have known Sally for more years than I care to imagine; we met through dulcimer gatherings, and have crossed paths several times over the years, always with dulcimers. Sally was one of the driving forces behind the first International Dulcimer Gathering (cimbalon world association) to be held in the UK, where the best players from all over the world descended on the tiny town of Malvern for a week in 2015 and had the best time ever.

So I was really pleased to be able to co-ordinate our diaries for a meet up and catch up.

Sally had a special bitter-sweet tune for my blog that she had written some years before:

Sally whytehead: this is a tune i wrote for Gillian Alcock’s wedding in 2007

Gillian was one of the foremost dulcimer experts in Australia – primarily a dulcimer maker but also a player and composer. It’s called ‘Gillian and Tim’s delight’. Gill had MS, Tim had cancer, so it was always going to be a short-lived delight. Tim died of terminal cancer two years after the wedding and Gillian died last November.

We were due to be at Alex’s by 4pm, so said farewells and thanks to Sally, then headed north to Mosley.

I had never met Alex before, only spoken with him and his wife Susan that morning on the phone. Gwilym told me that Alex was one of the finest singers of songs and I had to meet him.

I’m always a little nervous when I’m meeting new people, (what will they be like? Will they be difficult? Will they be terrible? Will I get an uncontrollable urge to giggle?) but from the moment he opened his front door and welcomed us in, Alex McClure was a complete delight. Here is a man who had been to the hospital that morning for tests on his lungs, so might not be able to sing or talk for long without getting tired. Alex sang, told stories and yarns, entertained us like a king; his wife Susan joined us and being a musician also, played some tunes for us.

I was invited to see Susan’s studio – she is a wonderful painter, and by the time we’d had a good natter and look at her paintings and joined the men in the front room, Alex offered to take us all out for an Indian meal – his treat. We didn’t stop talking and laughing all evening, and it was extremely difficult to leave the McClures and their fabulous hospitality (who can resist a single malt in crystal glasses?).

But The Lovely John had work in the morning, the rain had set in and my inner yoda was telling me to bunker down for a few days until the rain passes – this is an adventure, not a endurance event. I have had the most amazing few days, so I’m hungry to get back to my adventure, but for the next few days, I’ll be in Scunthorpe, writing my blog and drying out.

Alex:
A good song is one that can stand the test of time – being sung again and again and you never tire of. (I quite like the maudlin ones)

‘The Over Gate’ – the Beef Can Close was a knocked down area of Dundee. People would back in the day pawn their pans for money, and they would get the huge corn beef cans and use them as cooking pots. This song tells of a man who went to the big city with £5 in his pocket – a years wages at the time.

https://youtu.be/B3rTgn4WAbA

Susan – this is my mothers fiddle – it was in bits I wasn’t able to play it at home, so I got it fixed learnt fiddle when I left. ‘Rakes of Marlow a/my love she is but a lassie yet’ – my dad taught me these – one of the first sets of tunes I ever learnt, and I’ve loved them ever since.

https://youtu.be/kk6ItywknJA

It’s Saturday today, even though I’ve been writing about last Tuesday. I’ve been bunkered down in Scunthorpe – I haven’t even been to see my family over the river, because I know that if i see them, I might just not get back on the road. So sorry kids, friends and momma, I didn’t want to take the risk. I’m posting this then I’m back on the road. I’ve got my lodgings booked for Sunday, Stealth Campervan tonight, and a whole new chapter on my adventures about to begin…

Rain stops dancing, but it didn’t stop the playing.

Monday and the weather is still a bit on the moist side. I had been invited to meet up with Gwilym Davies and two Morris teams who were having a dance out Monday night at a pub called The House in the Tree (https://www.houseinthetree.co.uk/) at Hayden, west of Cheltenham.

Gwilym is well-known around the Cotswolds and Gloucestershire area for his work collecting local folk songs and tunes, and most people I’d met in the area had mentioned his name, so I was looking forward to meeting him, but first we had the daytime to take care of.

We went to visit Sudely Castle, which was recovering from a cancelled drowned out weekend of concerts, and the entrance fee was far too expensive for my meagre budget. So looking on the map, Bela’s Knapp (an iron-age burial mound) was nearby, and free, so we went there instead. Admittedly it was smaller than it looked on the photos, and once we’d gone round, up and over it, we were pretty much done, but it was an interesting visit. Got back to The Stealth Campervan just in time to avoid the next round of rain.

Bela’s Knapp – in one of the tiny chambers

Bela’s Knapp – trying to make it look like tutenkamoun’s tomb

I quite fancied an afternoon in Cheltenham. It was on the way to our evening meet up and I’d visited Cheltenham many years ago, but never looked round the centre. I now know why. Spending an hour or two in cheltenham caused me to ruminate on the question: ‘what makes a city centre a good/vibrant/pleasurable place to be?’ Cheltenham has all the potential building blocks, (nice regency architecture, plenty of posh shops, leafy greenness, interesting streets) but they’re teetering precariously on the verge of becoming run down.

We even visited the art gallery, and the people in reception watched us go up the open plan stairs to the top floor, which was closed, as was the next floor down, as was all the gallery apart from the shop.

We had a little picnic by Imperial Square, watching workmen dismantling a big exhibition with marquees and things. Which, I’m sad to report, was probably the highlight of my visit to Cheltenham.

By 2pm we had exhausted all possibilities for a fun time in Cheltenham, the rain was starting and we had a few hours to kill before our evening’s meet up. So we drove to the pub, parked up, and had a nana nap for the afternoon, waking up to torrential rain and the prospect of a lovely pub dinner.

House in the Tree, Hayden nr cheltenham. Our home for the night.

May I recommend The House in the Tree public house for food, and hospitality. There’s a notice on one of the walls that tells about the pub’s history and legends, and it bears repeating:

The House in the Tree, Hayden, near Cheltenham is some 500 years old and the interior is still original.

Legend tells how a beautiful girl named Maud Bowen, living nearby, was abducted by her uncle and followed by Walter the Archer who killed the uncle.

Unfortunately, while attempting to return home, Maude fell into a stream and was drowned. Court ruled that she had committed suicide, so her body was buried at the nearest crossroads with an elm stake driven through it.

Meanwhile Walter fled to Hayden, taking up residence in The House in the Tree. Maud’s mother spent much time at her grave, where in due course, the stake grew into a beautiful elm tree.

As a result, the mother was accused of witchcraft, taken to Maude’s Elm tree and burned. As the Lord of the Manor, the villain of the piece, watched, he too fell victim to Walter’s deadly marksmanship.

Maude’s Elm remained a district landmark for many years afterwards.

Crikey – they don’t write ’em like that anymore do they?

After we’d eaten, we went through to the bar to see if anyone would turn up in the pouring rain. It was obvious there would be no dancing outside, but it was rumoured that there would still be some music happening. Gwilym turned up, and within an hour, the bar was filled with members of the Gloucestershire Morris Men and the England’s Glory Ladies Morris all set for a right good night of playing music.

Before the music started, Gwilym gave me a brief introduction to himself:

GWILYM DAVIES

Hampshire boy – welsh father – hence the name – studied languages lived abroad, in early 70s ended up in Cheltenham. Got interested in folk in the days of skiffle, had a banjo – could only play one string, learnt chords, and used to play Lonnie Donegan stuff with some friends. We used to go to folksong clubs and discovered English folk. Went to school with Tony Engel of Topic Records . Discovered the Copper family. Thought ‘this is it – this is English music’.

I live now in Winchcome, north of Cheltenham – I play a bit together with my wife.

Branched out into Tudor and medieval music.

A Gypsy singer called Wiggy Smith used to play round this area. I used to pick him up from his campsite, bring him to this pub, fill him full of drink and record his songs.

Gypsies drank in this pub quite regularly once upon a time. I got friendly with a few of them and was invited to the funeral of one of them. I went to funeral and during the wake, I asked if any of the families knew his songs. Noooo. Nobody sings the old songs. Dying tradition, gypsy songs and tunes. I love them, I love to hear them, love to sing them, and I’ve collected a lot of them in the hope that they won’t die out.

I could have just left my camera rolling all night – the tunes and tales were many, led by Gwilym and also Christine of England’s Glory playing some wonderful tunes on her fiddle and Richard from Gloucestershire Morris on the box, but here’s a choice few for your delectation and delight:

Twin sisters: played by Gloucestershire Morris Men and the England’s Glory Ladies Morris

Here’s Gwilym playing ‘The Carter’, a Gloucestershire song he learnt from Bob Arnold, an actor from the Archers:

And here he is playing two polkas learnt from Lemmie Brazil (pronounced brezzle), who came from a family of gypsy musicians.

The full ensemble playing ‘Durham Rangers’ and Gloucester, (or Gloucester, two different tunes, but no-one could remember which was which) hornpipe:

Gwilym singing ‘When I took My Nance to Church’:

The Sloe – everyone plays this tune around these parts, so here’s another version:

Game Of All Fours – another song from the Brazil family – lots of songs around here from the Brazil family

The music and drinks flowed sweetly all night, and the rain outside barely paused for breath. We were sleeping in The Stealth Campervan in the pub carpark and the landlord Ady, offered to open up in the morning so we could have breakfast. The rain was torrential all night, but we were warm and dry snug as little bugs in a rug, with two more port of calls to visit on tuesday whilst I still had transport, before The Lovely John had to head back home.

Tomorrow’s blog: I meet an old friend and also meet a legendary singer recommended by Gwilym …

Little England – the real one, not the TV programme

Saturday started in Gloucester (me n’ Doctor Foster both ended up there in a shower of rain…), and ended back in the Cotswolds with people to see, and Lovely John and The Stealth Campervan making sure I was able to see them all.

After visiting Jeff and Elaine Gillet in Stroud, we drove to Broadwell, near Stowe-on-the-Wold. I had no idea how big the Cotswolds are. Despite the knowledge that the Cotswold Way takes a good five days to walk, I’m still thinking that everywhere is about half an hour away if you’re driving. Stroud to Broadwell takes an hour in a car, so by the time we got there, we’d missed the Campden Morris Team doing their dancing at the village fete.

Broadwell Village Fete was little England at it’s finest – I don’t mean the TV programme, I mean the England I associate with bunting, little stalls, WI tea and cakes, village green, pastel colours, iffy weather and a jolly voice on the crackly tannoy.

You can’t call it a village fete if it ain’t got one of these…

Campden Morris at the Fox Inn, Broadwell

The Morris dancers, despite having finished their scheduled set, were still assembled by the Fox Inn, and played some music and danced some dances just for me and The Lovely John. Their entertainment was also appreciated by other assembled drinkers, including half a wedding party, who thought it was entertainment laid on especially for them.

Here’s Paul Bryan (melodion) and Andrew Doran (Low whistle) playing a tune called The Sloe – a native tune to Stow-on-the-Wolds:

And here’s the full ensemble: The Chipping Campden Morris dancing a dance called ‘Hathaway’:

I must confess a guilty pleasure: I do love watching a good Morris troupe. There’s something very reassuring and comforting about watching them dancing. They make it look easy and effortless, and I know ‘cos I used to be a morriswomandancer, it all takes a lot of practice and a degree of fitness. So, because they were so very good, and stayed to dance for me, here’s another dance from the Chipping Campden Morris dancers:

Paul and Andrew from the team also recommended somewhere to stay with The Stealth Campervan – there’s a little carpark next to Snowshill Manor where you can park overnight, it’s out of the way, but five minutes walk from the pub in the village of Snowshill. And apparently it’s the village were Bridget Jones’ parents live in the film. Yes, it is a gorgeous little place – honey coloured cottages snuggled into wooded hillsides – our only neighbours in the carpark were a German couple who were electrobiking round The Cotswolds, and it was a perfect place to stay for a couple of nights. It was nice having neighbours for a day or two. We shared stories on what we’d been up to each day, and compared favourite whiskies, I practised my rudimentary German, and they are going home with a new English phrase: ‘Laphroaig whiskey tastes like a Viking’s armpit’.

Snowshill village

Evening – we had the picnic area to ourselves – beer and music thankyou very much

The campsite/carpark with our German neighbours van in the background.

Sunday in the Cotswolds and you kind of have to do a walk. There is a big tower on the top of a hill not far from where we were camped out, so we decided to have a day of walking and do a circular walk, because I hadn’t done many of those in the last month.

The Broadway tower, as it happened, was that very day host to the end of a gruelling 52 mile marathon, sponsored by carlsberg, and all afternoon, exhausted participants were crawling up the hill to the tower, where the Carlsberg team had thoughtfully put marquees, flags, a finishing line and a ridiculously loud non-stop DJ sound system. Call me an old fuddy-duddy, but if I’d just crawled two miles up a steep hill at the end of a 52 mile marathon, the last thing I’d want to hear is full-on pop music pumping away. Hallelujah Chorus on loop, next year please, Carlsberg.

Scrumptious little house on the way up to the Broadway tower

Me and Broadway Tower. I made it to broadway, folks!

I completely forgot to take photos of the marathon brigade, probably because we were too busy on the way down the hill to the little town of Broadway, saying ‘well done’ and ‘not far to go now’ and other such original phrases to all the exhausted looking participants. Ah well, I’m sure the DJ and his music cheered them up no end when they reached the finishing line.

Broadway is another delicious little England townlet. Plenty of people and tourists, many shops and pubs and cafes, and even another village (town?) green with a Sunday gospel performance. And yes, I did take a film of it, just so you can experience the flavour of sitting down to rest your feet for five minutes in a little England Sunday afternoon:

One last film for y’all – we’d had a perfectly lovely Sunday – walked 12 miles of Cotswold’s finest (although in fairness, the Cotswolds is all pretty fine), and just as we were on the home straight, we struck up a conversation about pig breeds with Cheryl and Brian, on holiday from Canada. Turns out that Brian is a musician, he had a mouthorgan in his rucksack, and he happily played us a tune for my blog. I bloody love this adventure.

Brian & Cheryl from Vancouver discussing pigs with Me n The Lovely John

Tomorrow’s blog is The One With The Weather Forecast…

Return to the Cotswolds

To give you an idea of just how wet I got on Friday, it’s now Monday and my boots are STILL drying out. The Lovely John came armed with spare boots, so we have been able to still do some walking and enjoy the delights of the Cotswolds.

The Stealth Campervan in our prime camping spot by the Gloucester docks

We spent the friday night in a carpark in Gloucester by the docks, and Saturday morning decided to have an explore. I’ve never been to Gloucester before, and it is a jewel of a town. On the way in to the centre of town, we passed the Gloucestershire Academy of Music, and seeing as how I’m doing things with musos, I felt obliged to pop in and tell them my story about travelling … looking for musicians…. etc… and would there be anyone who might like to play their favourite tune for me?

Unbeknown to me, the Academy of Music is for young ‘uns, not grown-ups, and they were worried about parental consent etc, but as luck would have it, one of the tutors offered to accompany his son playing. This young lad was a beginner, and I’m including this tune in here because a: I love the music of O’Carolan; and b: we were all once learners, but not many of us have the confidence to play for a random woman who just turns up asking to record something. Thanks to the charming father & son combination of the fabulous Oxleys playing Carolan’s Air. Xavi and Glyn.

Gloucester, you are a scrumptious little poochiefaced town. I had a lovely couple of hours wandering round, marvelling at architectural delights and seeing Beatrix Potter things:

Yes! This is the house of the Tailor of Gloucester!

The Royal Welsh Consort of Viols

The Royal Welsh Consort of Viols were giving a free concert in a church (St Mary de Crypt) – the music was amazing and there were less than a dozen people in the audience. There are free concerts here all summer, all different kinds of music, and tea and cakes. I would have stayed for the whole concert, but the parking was running out so I filmed a couple of pieces and promised to send them the recordings. ‘Browning’ by the Welsh composer, Elway Bevin:

Branle by a welsh composer 8 bar melody – ‘the leaves be green the nuts be brown they hang soo high they wil not come down’

an excerpt from William Byrd’s 5 part Fantasia:

We returned to the Stealth Campervan with five minutes left on the parking, and headed onwards, or rather backwards, returning to the Cotswolds, as I had arranged some musical meet-ups (before the rainy rainy day), and I had The Lovely John with me and we had The Stealth Campervan to return us back to the route I had escaped from the day before.

Quick cup of tea in the hills above Stroud

First port of call was to visit Stroud to meet up with two local folk musicians: Jeff & Elaine Gillett who play together as ‘Discovery’.

Jeff:

I play Guitar, concertina, dulcimer, mandolin – always been a bit of a folkie, but listen to lots of different music. I’ve been playing for the best part of 50 years – worked for over 25 years with Ron Taylor and worked with Sarah Morgan, local well-known performers. And I’ve appeared with Jim Causley several times onstage and played on two of his albums.

I was a teacher for 38 years at a school, and we ran a barn dance band called the Downfielders – been going for 30 years and still going strong, and still rehearsing every week during term time at Marling School.

Gwilym Davis is a collector of local tunes and songs – he set up the Single Gloucester project to make all the tunes in Gloucester readily available online. We got involved with the project as ambassadors playing tunes for the area.

We’ll play ‘Annie Lee’ – a Gloucestershire song for you. It was sung by a lady in north Gloucestershire called Beatrice Hill who come from Bromsberrow Heath. One of her tunes was a hornpipe named Bromsberrow Heath.

2nd piece – ‘Jack Williams’, Gloucester song.

One of the absolute joys of my adventure/project/journey is that I get to meet (and often, quite by chance), people like Jeff and Elaine, listen to their music, hear their tales and stories and have a lovely time. But then I have to head off towards my next port of call, and I have to resist the temptation to join them for a tune or two, knowing that we’d get lost in that strange music vortex that pulls you in, and before you know it, time has marched on, and you’re still sitting there having a wonderful time.

So, reluctantly, but grateful for the music, we left Jeff and Elaine Gillet and headed north on the Cotswolds on the hunt for morrismen, the tales and recordings of which are worthy of a separate blog entry…

Argh! The discipline of writing a blog

Overlooking Crantock beach in a car park under Bowgie Inn. Heh heh bowgie…

This is where I am right now. You can see my feet. That’s me, looking over the bay, just made some spaghetti bol and eaten it. I’m relaxed now, I’ve had a bit of an almost meltdown trying to find paths for tomorrow. This week I’ve had The Lovely John and The Stealth Campervan with me, and my journey so far has been a different one – we can drive to meet people, we can change the direction, and we always have somewhere for the night, as long as we plan where to park, how to get back to the walking point, to walk back to the van. From tomorrow, it’s just me walking like every other LEJOGger, (but slower)

And as I’m typing, the bloke in the next door van has come over and is chatting to us. He’s got a 3 year old with him and is splitting up with his wife. He’s a lovely guy, and I don’t want to say ‘I’m too busy to talk to you’, i want to reassure you that everything will be ok.

Lovely John is talking to him at the moment. They’re both talking electrics and vans.

Here’s my dilemma at the moment – Being in the here and now always trumps looking back at things, and I’m going to have to work at the discipline of writing this blog. I’ve got so many things to tell you about – the jazz singer, the shanty women, the community folk group – and I’ve got videos for all of them.

Tomorrow, Sunday, when I start journeying alone, I shall fill you in on the adventures. But for now, me, The Lovely John, and Dan (the bloke in the next door van) we’ve split a bottle of wine between us, had a beer, and are necking Tullamore, sitting outside our vans, watching the tide coming in and putting the world to rights.

When you’re willing to grab what’s in front of you, Life is sweet.

Note to self: ‘I’m putting the broom out tonight’ means my husband is out for the count/away/down the boozer, and it’s ok to come down. A saying from Dan’s Nan.

Unable to escape the lure of the Salty Siren and loving it.

I knew If I got on the South West Coastal Path (otherwise known, to me, as the Salty Siren), I’d find it difficult to get off it, I stepped on it yesterday and today received an invite to a music session in Porthleven, just down the South West Coastal Path from Praa Sands where I was staying, and I heard the irresistible call of the Salty Siren enticing me once more to wander along her cliffs. She is indeed a demanding mistress, this siren, this Coastal path. Every mile along her path is worth 5 miles anywhere else, in blood, sweat and pain, but it is worth every steep incline, every stomach churning descent, and every endless supply of bays keeping you from your destination.

You get to see things in the caress of the Salty Siren. You get to see primary school parties who don’t know any traditional songs (yes, I asked them) and other primary school kids learning how to abseil in a way that would make the SAS flinch.

You see the dog-walking couple again, the ones who overtook you many times yesterday, you watch them power-walking miles behind you and you know they will overtake you again within five minutes. You marvel at their skill, their nimble dexterity, and when you mention that you saw the yesterday several times, you never see them again.

Today, we were the slowest hikers in Cornwall. Taking it steady, getting out feet toughened up. Tonight we will meet some local musicians and I may have a story or two to tell.

There were so many steps like this, up and down

But it was worth it for the glorious views and that blue blue water calling you ever onwards

Had our picnic here, it doesn’t look it but it was a rocky outcrop only accessible by a terrifying walk through bracken hanging on to the edge of the cliff.

I posted this page already today, but accidentally deleted it, couldn’t retrieve it, so had to rewrite it. Which is a shame cos the original page was hilarious and incredibly well written.

An Owen Wilson Kind of day

This is day two. Bear in mind that my feet are aching and I’m still trying to work out how much stuff to carry in my rucksack, and one of my meet-ups has been changed and is now not as far along the journey as it was going to be, so I can take it a little slower. And I’m in Cornwall. Most of the routes from Lands End through Cornwall go along the middle of the county, along the backbone. I reckon I’m still in training (having done practically none), so today it was decided that a walk along the coastal path from Penzance to Praa Sands would be the order of the day.

We drove to Praa Sands and parked up right by the beach, then walked up the hill to the main road and caught the bus to Penzance. I have a confession to make: I took into consideration the extra mileage we walked yesterday and this morning and the walkway was open, and decided that we really should get off the bus three miles early and walk to St Michael’s Mount then carry on along the coastal route. Good call.

The day was filled with so many ‘Wow’ moments that we turned into Owen Wilson every time we said ‘Wow’, (St Michael’s Mount, Marizion, the coastal path – every view, every turn, every hilltop, every valley, every cove, the two canoeists, the azure clear sea, the naked sunbathers way down on Prussia cove, the little thatched cottages, the astounding circular courtyard that doubled as a wedding venue, the couple and the dog who kept overtaking us, nipping down to every beach and still overtaking us again, and The Stealth Campervan waiting for us there right by the beach after a lovely day’s walking).

The coastal path wasn’t on my route, but I’m glad I did the detour.

Yes I took photos, but they don’t do the wowing justice, so I ain’t posting them. Here’s Owen Wilson going ‘wow’ instead:

Before I begin I’d like to introduce…

1: The Stealth Campervan –

This beautiful little piece of kit will be spending the first week with me as my back up vehicle. It has lots of everything in it, so I’ll be able to work out exactly how much I need in my rucksack when I step out alone next week. It will be making several appearances throughout the trip. And thanks to Jamie Newson-Smith for clearing out his storage and finding the mattress.

Back of The Stealth Campervan.

Inside the Stealth Campervan

Our view at Mouseholes Sunday night

The Stealth Campervan

2 – The Lovely John

The Lovely John is looking after me for the first week, he is driving the van and cycling back each evening to pick the van up from where we left it. He has just driven us all the way to Penzance, and we’re parked up in Mousehole enjoying a pint or two before the Big Walk. The Lovely John and The Stealth Campervan will be making regular appearances over the next few months. I hope.

The Lovely John

3: My New Boots and Fiddle

These are Scarpa walking boots, as recommended by Dave at Go Outdoors, Scunthorpe. I have never spent so much on footwear before, so these boots are going to get mentioned a lot. I’ve been wearing them in, but have yet to give them some serious stick.

The fiddle will be my constant walking companion and it is a sweet little treasure. It’s made by an American company – Magic Fluke, check out their website, they have some brilliant travelling instruments. My fiddle is the Cricket model. Love it, so I do.

New boots and fiddle