Britain Counterclockwise. Day 0 – Edinburgh

To be distinguished from “anti-clockwise”, a foul Americanism that should be banned, drawn and quartered by all English (UK) spellchecks. “Counter” clockwise does sound less offensive than “anti” clockwise, no?

My plans to tick off one crazy nation after another each holiday were scuppered (look that’s the fanatical American spellcheck picking up on “scuppered”! Flee, wiggly red line!) by a sudden personal credit crunch. Officially in overdraft, and unofficially deeper up turd creek than I could imagine as I had yet to pay the monthy rent, I settled on travelling round the UK by Megabus.

For the uninitiated (which I presume is nearly all my readership), Megabus is a bus company that sells one-pound tickets; now everyone can bus. And with no hidden airport or carbon taxes, a pound is a pound.

Unfortunately, that’s exactly how much the seat is worth.

When you buy tickets, you are not warned of the risks of impotence that might result due to 8-hour periods of exposure to the radiators, running all the way down the window seats. Travel advisory – always let your girlfriends sit by the windows, on the magnanimous pretext that you really want them to enjoy the view. Your unborn children will be all the more grateful for it.

Calamity thus averted by a mad dash for a seat, I boarded the bus in Newcastle barely 40 minutes after my last class had ended, utterly intent on getting the hell out of Newcastle as fast as the public transport system could take me.

3 hours later, I woke up to one of the most inspiring sights ever – Edinburgh Castle, perched loftily over the Old Town. It can always bring a tear to a long-wandering Scotsman’s eye; I’m fairly sure the Petronas Twin Towers might one day have the same lacrimal effect on me.

Getting of at St Andrew’s Bus Terminal, one is instantly hit by the realisation that Scotland is flush with the spoils of autonomy. Every bus station in Scotland is a gleaming monument to postmodern architecture. That, after having left what doubles up as a local bus stop in scruffy England, is enough to make one want to pack one’s bags and don a kilt. 

With glum thoughts of England in mind, I promptly set out to find Sit (my host for the night)’s accommodation, and was promptly put on voice mail.

With newly formed glum thoughts of Scotland now in mind, I ended up in a junior’s house, where I spent the better part of 2 hours finding out how five of my favourite Malaysian dishes tasted like 24 hours after cooking. With my appetite obviously whetted beyond belief, it was no surprise that I completely crashed out after Mister Friend picked me up and deposited me in his bachelor pad, Pringles on the floor and all.

The next time I woke up, bedlam was in full swing.

There were at least ten people, all drunk, in the next room, attempting to copy dance moves off YouTube; dance moves that looked as if they had been formulated after a particularly gruelling binge drinking session. Coupled with the fact that my glasses had decided to temporarily remain incognito, I was sufficiently horrified to see someone, who I had always remembered as a paragon of virtue, dancing on the bed, that I decided to retire to the kitchen, where an entire cooked pot of what seemed like 5 Maggi packets laid dormant.

By the time I went back to sleep half an hour later, there was no evidence to suggest there had ever been anything on the hob.

And on that rather vengeful note, I steeled myself for an awakening, the next morning, at 8am, to catch the 8.15 to Glasgow, the next stop on my one-pound tour of Albion.

Padas White Water Rafting – Team Capsize

On a white water rafting trip with two people who cannot swim to save their lives, you KNOW a name like Team Capsize will rankle. We even had a team cheer – “We want…we want…capsize! capsize!”, to the cheer of Queen’s “We Will Rock You”. A haunting cheer, indeed; but one that never worked.

I had been white water rafting before, in the process clocking up a record number of capsizes. (Three, for the record.) Capsizes are no fun in a white water raft.

Firstly, as befits a capsize, they ONLY occur in the scariest of places. Where the river is turbulent and dashing into the rocks gurantees sure death.

Granted, you will be in a lifejacket, but when you can’t swim, lifejackets are about as good as a self-help book. Capsizes inevitably fling EVERYONE on board into the river; there are no lucky escapes, no sole survivors. For around fifteen minutes of your abruptly-shortened life, there is no respite from the swirling water. You will be swallowing water to your heart’s content, and for the select few, a few minutes trapped under a boat beckon.

Naturally, this does not deter at least 50% non-swimmers from signing up for the trip every day without fail. Rumour has it that the capsize, or lack thereof, is entirely dependent upon your boatman’s skill in manoeuvring the raft through stormy patches.

We would soon find out.

 

The beginning of the journey is, to many accustomed to a First World walk in the park, grief-worthy. After alighting the luxury coach at a train station that bears a striking resemblance to a hay shed, we spent the next half an hour frantically disgorging our fears as the train carriage moved up. And down. And up. And down. And ended up in the same place we had got on it.

 

In an interesting twist to affairs, the guides themselves alighted the train ONCE it had stopped being indecisive. They obviously knew how to pull the collective strings of the system. Grumbling, we found ourselves a nice, cozy seat on the steps of the train, and looked on, horrified, as the world literally started falling away from our feet.

 

The train travels on a trajectory roughly paralelling the Padas River gorge; it does not require rocket science to know that that makes for spectacular aerial views indeed. Unless, of course, you ARE perched at the steps of the train, sans door.

 

One and a half (rather precarious) hours later, we pulled into Rayoh station, the endpoint of the rafting trip, and stashed our valuables in the BUSAT hut. Each company has a hut of its own; presumably serving a different BBQ buffet, which, for the record, is complimentary on all white water rafting trips from any company. That done, in a record 5 minutes (at least for the women out there), we headed off to Pangi station, the starting point of said tour.

 

Here, the action begins, with, uncharacteristically, a helping of watermelons and a bottle of water (a seemingly irrelevant item if you consider that the next 2 hours will be spent IN the water – much deeper in for some than others, but a tad more understandable if you consider how much sunlight you’re exposed to all the way.) and a choice selection of lifejackets and helmets. (Among other things.)

 

Moving on, after the rather short briefing (supposedly coupled to a far longer TV briefing on the bus which we all succcessfully slept through), we were thrown into a raft with Steve and Kay (our tourists), and the real fun began.

 

Part One was where we were warmed up for the ordeal ahead via a rather minor series of rapids. The non-swimmers in the group were already blanching – the swimmers stared on forlornly, wondering when the first capsize would be. Sighs and looks of relief were immediately evident when we heard we WERE moving on to the Harder Rapids in a few minutes.

 

Then, the Fun Began. Scooby Doo – the first sensational rapid was…scary. Thrown on waves from side to side, hitting rocks with worrying regularity, we knew we were done for, but Mr Impressive Boatman steered us to safe ground. Next, the <b>Washing Machine</b>. This involved a series of rapids, not too difficult individually, but as a 5-minute litany of tossing and turning, rather disturbing for the rafting debutantte. Onwards we headed through the Body Rafting segment, where, presumably, those who could swim…swam. That myth would soon be dispelled.

 

The next two rapids were far from easy – the Cobra and the Headhunters were, as their names suggested, a rather explosive ending for many rafts that got thrown off kilter. Soon, we had completed our…rather disturbing trip…and headed off to our BBQ.

 

I, especially, NEEDED that BBQ. After attempting to body raft down the last part of the river, AND missing the Pangi stop, I frantically fought the currents, to no avail. Already resigned to my imminent death, to my relief, someone pointed out that there WAS another stop a little further along, which, to my relief, I proceeded to.

 

BBQ aside, the train ride back was another eye-opener. In Nicholas Pang’s book, there are three kinds of train transport – first class (wooden benches in filthy carriage), 2nd class (wooden floor in equally filthy carriage with peanut shells on the floor), and 3rd class (carriage with no walls). I thoroughly enjoyed the experience of 2nd class; for one, it was FAR more involved than 1st, where people seemed to be jostling for space with chickens and other related poultry.

 

3rd class was, no doubt, depressingly airy. No odd scents from the local produce wafting through the air – guides seem to prefer that particular role in life.

 

We got back to Beaufort town in around 2 hours – a far more pleasurable 2 hours, considering how we got to hobnob with the public on the dusty floor – and were back in KK in time for another brilliant sunset.

Swahili for the Broken Hearted – Peter Moore

Syndicated from sister site Last Word Reviews

Picked up this book in a random fit of interest in a Birmingham bazaar; since then, this tome occupies pole position in my List of Books I Will Read Again without a bribe. I count many travel books among my inspirations for relentless travel; most of the Tintin books fit snugly in this category. Now, to that bookshelf, we welcome Peter Moore.

He wrote the book/planned the travel post-breakup with a long-term girlfriend; in his own words, he needed to “get away from it all” and rediscover singlehood without the trappings of society breathing down his neck. He, aptly, picked Africa, easily one of the most lawless lands known to Lonely Planet conoisseurs, to drown his sorrows; little did he know that the Sudanese embassy would eat him up all the way.

All throughout, he enters the mythical kingdom of Lesotho, still untouched by tourist litter; he gets a guided tour round a Jo’burg shantytown, easily the place with the highest proportion of shootings per capita; he tries to climb the highest mountain in Africa, to the consternation of everyone around him, not least his guide, who doesn’t get his tip; and has a rollickin’ fun time all the way.

Sure, I agree with other reviewers that the funny streak vanishes sometimes, but one has to bear in mind good travel writing is far and few between, and the bar has to be lowered accordingly. Bear in mind that most tourist sights have been worked and reworked by countless fledgling journalists trying to ape their way onto the colour pages of each broadsheet’s Travel pullout. With focused competition like this, one simply cannot compare.

To his credit, his narrative takes in a LOT of educational soundbites – much is made of the history and culture of the places he travels through, and one gets the feeling this is less a George Bush than a Michael Moore travelogue. Many genuinely funny bits abound, mind you – his attempts to get that elusive Sudanese visa, with long distance phone calls from various (badly telecom-linked, may I add) parts of Africa back to a Sudanese embassy in Malawi that has already given up all hope on him, complete with respective abusive language, are some of the best bits of travel writing I have read all year.

Thumbs up, Peter Moore – you get that 9/10. This is one of the truly inspirational travel books of our time, mateys. (He’s Australian, by the way, like nearly all good travellers are.)

Yorkshire – Day 5 – Ripon and Lightwater Valley

Breakfast – Bangers, Beans, Peach Slices, Cornflakes

Miracle of all miracles – the boys took it upon themselves to clean up their rooms, the entire campsite, AND hoover the entire building to boot by 9am. One suspects it has everything to do with the fact that the Lightwater Valley trip would end at 2pm no matter what.

Lightwater Valley is the water theme park of the Yorkshire Dales – a whopping 15 quid entry fee, but of course, the boys were being subsidised by the company. Theme park experience ranged from Craig having been 6 times, to Richard not ever having been at all; it is always the high point of the Seniors programme, and the boys get highly proactive on the morning it happens; one suspects it is there as a bribe to clean up.

One of Lightwater Valley’s prime attractions

By 10am, we had checked into Lightwater Valley – leaving the lads there, we older people headed down to adjacent Ripon for a good dose of UK history. First, Ripon Cathedral, the one thing guranteeing Ripon held city status despite its miniscule size:

The fine interior of the cathedral

They were having a Floral Fest in the cathedral – given that it jacked up entrance fees from free to 5 pounds, Mr Hawkins adeptly weaved his way through verbally, convincing the turnstile man that we should be let in for free. Fair enough – we, after all, had no inkling the floral fest was taking place, and certainly expected our cathedrals to be free, a basic human right indeed. The cathedral is stunningly constructed – there is an overall grandiose feel, the way the pillars rise and curve to the sky, linking hands midway, reminds one of the sanctity of the church as an umbrella institution.

Next stop – the Ripon marketplace (shorthand for the town centre) where a fascinating hodgepodge of old buildings still remain. Many Tudor gems line the northern end, next to the famous Town Hall, where, every day at 9pm, the Ripon Hornblower emerges to blow a horn signalling dusk:

A time-honoured tradition that guarantees the tourists continue coming in droves

Fine buildings in the Ripon marketplace

For lunch, after Captain picked up some Sainsbury’s sandwiches and sent them off to Lightwater Valley (obviating the need to buy highly tourist priced food on the spot), we adjourned to a lovely little cafe next to the Ripon Spa Hotel, facing the Ripon Gardens and inevitable bowling green:

The Ripon Spa Hotel overlooking the Ripon Gardens

On the very last day of camp, sitting and overlooking a group of old men playing bowls, we went for quintessentially English – a Hot Lunch, with creamy leeks, carrots, suedes, roast pork (or cucumber ratatouille for me), potatoes, the slightly burnt Yorkshire pudding, and cleaned up with rhubarb crumble and apple pie.

Those lovely Yorkshire puddings, yes, they were THAT burnt

After lunch, we picked up the boys at Lightwater, and headed wearily on the A1, hitting Newcastle at 4pm sharp, after a detour to Captain’s house (the first time any of us had seen it, mind you!) in West Moor to stash our stuff. It was a rewarding camp, after all, 5 days of pure Yorkshire and pure England, and as an international student, I will never regret nor forget my gradual gentrification.

Top 10 City List

CITIES I WANT TO LIVE AND DIE IN

Funny how the loveliest people in my life all coincidentally stay in the cities I love most in the country. I mean, obviously, all of them were from KK before I went to KYUEM, but my list was drawn up (most of it) BEFORE I went to KYUEM.

Here it is, with rough numbers assigned to cities:

1. KK 9.7/10

Whether I DO live here or not, this place is LOVELY. And my assertion has been backed up by EVERYONE I take here who leaves KK wishing, even a teeny weeny little bit, that they stayed here. One of my tourists actually felt they had a “life-changing” KK+Mountain experience. Me, I’ve just lived my life here, and I wouldn’t desert it for the world. Every time I bring people to KK, I marvel at the fact I NEVER have to bring them to shopping malls or stick them at home – there’s JUST so MUCH to see and do, even on MY part!

2. Miri 9.3/10

Knock off the 0.2 its-not-home coefficient and the 0.2 accessible-to-local-mountains coefficient, but eerily reminiscent of KK. City centre’s the same design plan, with shopping areas roughly in the same areas – and if you’ve been to Miri you’ll realise how MUCH cleaner is it as opposed to KK. And the schools are SO much better. But it’s not home and that’s what tips the balance. But visit Miri Park, described in an upcoming entry, and Miri as the ideal place to live is beyond reasonable doubt.

3. Kuantan 8.8/10

Lovely, leafy, wide open spaces. Notice all the top 3 are the most spacious cities/towns/living places in Malaysia. Kuantan has its beach, its thriving city, the BEST REAL (as opposed to touristy) food I’ve had in any West Malaysian city (leaving Ipoh and Penang out of this for obvious reasons) and a wonderful backlog of national parks in the vicinity I have yet to visit.

4. Ipoh 8.3/10

My prize-winning heritage city. The town centre is sensationally cantik, on par with Penang, without the rabid traffic jams that are a feature of a city traditionally its size. Of course, that’s if you are prepared to ignore the crawl in the city centre during any working hour. But then, which city isn’t like that? The buildings kick ass. Just check out St Michaels Institution, coincidentally, home of a certain Aaron Singh of Cambridge fame.

5. Penang 7.7/10

Cities with jams are automatically docked a huge amount of points, unfortunately. Penang was, in Sept 2004, in my very exact words, “one of the cities I can’t bear to leave” after my 5-day holiday there, in which I remember leaping off a bus when it was about to move, sending James Koo of Edinburgh fame into a laughing fit he isn’t ready to forget. And the famous bowl of Balik Pulau assam laksa! Only two meals have ever sent me into a delightful trance artists on drugs would know well – THAT bowl of laksa, and a bowl of mee soup in a wooden stall in Kota Bharu.

6. Kuching 7.6/10

Ditto. Penang just has this teeny bit more LIFE than Kuching. And I am validated by the comments of local Kuching-ians about the paucity of shopping malls. Of course, there are SO many lovely people I know there. Yolanda, Brandon, Nat, Sandra (I guess you count, huh), Hazwan, and ALL my Batu Lintang friends from so long ago, thank you!

Why a list of 6? Simple. These are the only cities in Malaysia I will consider living voluntarily in. If I am posted to some other city, so be it, but in the meantime, here’s a toast to the top 6 cities in Malaysia.

P.S. KL gets a honourable mention, I love the pace, the rhythm of KL, there’re SO many ways to live and let live there, but my kids will not be allowed to grow up there, where life is dictated by one’s achievements instead of one’s personality.

Yorkshire – Day 4 – To Knaresborough and Harrogate

After lunch – an utterly sumptuous baked potato and cheese melt experience, the fact that the boys were holed up with the Casino Royale DVD permanently in their sauna-like bedroom, which had had the heating on for 4 days now, as we belatedly realised, detracted from the pleasure somewhat. Still, with 2 consecutive meals, they all having cheese, tomato, tuna and bacon sandwiches throughout the opening credits, who’s complaining?

Post-lunch, a trip into Knaresborough beckoned; the travel brochures screamed “pretty Yorkshire town”, and we were in no mood to disagree. A half hour later, we pulled into the carpark adjacent to Mother Shipton’s Caves, reputedly the oldest tourist attraction in the UK:

Yorkshire – Day 4 – Rained Out!

If, the day before, we had been in self-imposed dormancy in the campsite on account of the weather, today, paradoxically we spent as much of it OUT as possible despite the worsening weather.

Breakfast – Bangers, Beans and Cornflakes

After that meal, we headed out to Pateley Bridge at 8am for the carboot sale; there the boys picked up a DVD player for FIVE pounds. Amazing haggling skills witnessed there, mind you – it began at 15 pounds. I picked up something looking suspiciously like this for a fiver:

Given it comes with funky Spanish writing on the parchment AND looks authentically ancient, I believe it is a star purchase; and travellers to Newcastle will be regaled with tales of my globe, sitting in position of pride on my study table. As always, a stash of books was amassed; for 10p a paperback, it was irresistible.

After John picked us up at 9.30, to our relief – the wind had been what one could only describe as “blustery”, and it was in no way reminiscent of a traditional British summer – we headed out to the Leeds Boys’ Brigade company campsite, on the other end of Pateley Bridge. This campsite was on top of a tiny hill, commanding superior views of cows grazing on postcard perfect slopes – one is instinctively reminded of Cameron Highlands or Kundasang, and suddenly, it dawns upon me, why the Brits were so excited about developing hill stations.

Must have felt like home, eh?

Yorkshire – Day 3 – Rained In!

Breakfast – Bangers, Beans and Cornflakes

Breakfast today – a far more subdued affair, given that it had been pouring maniacally the night before. The temperature had sunk into the mid-teens, and they say it’s summer. After grub, we shepherded the whole camp to Pateley Bridge, this time via the river route.

On the way, we detoured to the site of the proposed new campsite. A little digression to discuss camp politics would now be useful – the owner had proposed shutting the current campsite down, but in a remarkable twist, had provisionally agreed to delay this till 2 years’ time – AND set up a trust fund to maintain the new campsite in the process. All this was gleaned off the backs of the 17th Gateshead, who nipped down to Yorkshire for a weekend camp, stopping by at Glasshouses on the way, creating the remarkable situation of 2 Tyneside Brigade companies meeting up – for the first time in ages – 2 counties away.

The new campsite (if at all) is next to a fish farm; it was strewn with rubbish, a decrepit hulk of a disused Land Rover AND an untenable shack dotting the landscape. Sufficiently disgusted, we moved on to Pateley Bridge (where, in retrospect, we visited every single day in camp). Bursting out of the woods near the riverside carpark after a good fifteen minutes, we were let loose for a while; a visit to the local Spar, the high point of Pateley Bridge civilization, was definitely in order.

We snuck into the Farmers’ Market, a uniquely Sunday occurrence; I ended up trying all the free samples on offer, ranging from 2-year-old cheese, curry-and-chili cheese, 3 different – and singularly outrageous – marmalade flavours, a good smattering of jams, and joy above all joy, the obligatory traditional pastry shop. Striding away from the market, munching on white chocolate and cranberry cookies, the meaning of life was a little more apparent than usual.

Post-Pateley, we departed to the campsite. There, the seniors were deposited while the juniors were taken off to Brimham Rocks, where, I am assured, they had a whale of a time:

Brimham Rocks, 2 km from camp

John, the driver-cum-bonfire-extraordinaire, drove the Juniors back to Newcastle, thus ending any further involvement of theirs in camp; that accomplished, he then turned the vehicle around, and found his way back to the Glasshouses. A valiant 4 hour drive, indeed, and kudos to him for making the effort. In the meantime, the seniors whiled the rainswept hours away, playing pool, unsuccessfully attempting to operate the TV. This, in any case, convinced them to head over to the car boot sale the next morning to pick up a DVD player, to stave off boredom.

Dinner – Peas, Mashed Potatoes and Carrots

The traditional UK Sunday dinner, for the uninitiated, the boys had roast pork to go with their meals, save the lone vegan. This is a rough idea of what we had, sans soup and CERTAINLY sans luxuriance:

If only the Brigade owned such beautiful plates. If only.

Post-dinner, one in the UK generally has tea – and this time, a pasta!

Again, very overstated elegance. Our actual blue melamine bowls came nowhere close.

Post-pasta, a trip to the pub up the road with John – this time, no alcohol for us, we elected to have a J2O instead. It’s a non-alcoholic drink that doesn’t even try to be remotely alcoholic – it comes in orange and cranberry, orange proper (which we had) and apple and mango. After a few beers, the night was no longer young, AND it was still raining; we decided to call it a day.

AND to mixed consternation and relief, John picked up 2 wines, which he shared with Captain, unfortunately, as we, the ingrates, had long fallen fast asleep. He had only bought them because we told him we preferred wine in Malaysia.

Yorkshire – Day 2 – Becoming Brit

BREAKFAST – Bangers, Beans and Cornflakes

My production – conceivably, as a vegetarian, I would avoid cooking meat like the plague, but I have absolutely no compunctions about feeding other people and accelerating their atherosclerosis via bangers that are dripping in cholestrol, fat and all that makes them ooze with a certain genteel charm. Over 5 days of camp, we settled into a comfy pattern – the boys would begin with cornflakes, while Captain and either me or Gan (depending on who volunteered to cook breakfast) frantically heating up the bangers and beans before the boys wolfed their health food down.

Post-breakfast another pattern ensued – Alan would open the tuckshop (<i>tuckshop, <b>noun</b>: a stash of chocolates that would be sold to the boys at WAY below cost price</i>), say, half-past, allowing the Juniors to further slash their life expectancy. At ten, Craig of the Broken Metacarpal decided to lead the expedition to Pateley Bridge, the nearest town, via a steep uphill ascent, striking for a clearly visible telecom tower.

From there, the path, purpotedly, closely adhered to a mountain ridge, passing Yorke’s Folly, before bending into the main downhill recourse into Pateley Bridge.

Pateley Bridge, the centre of historic Niddledale

Yorke’s Folly, a prominent landmark even from beneath the hills

Onward Ho, Pateley Path!

Captain’s brows were furrowed sooner rather than later, as Craig led everyone else, dashing way ahead of us. With James and Matthew (2 juniors), Captain, Gan and I were left minding the stragglers. It took us a good half hour to plant weary foot on the peak. A few good hollers later, unfortunately, our looming fears were confirmed. Craig and crew had vanished from the face of the tilled earth of Yorkshire.

Running down to the only conceivable exit route – a shortcut at sea level to Pateley Bridge – we waded our way through uncut grass, nettle stings, and a fair amount of cows with uniformly quizzical gazes, emerging near Bewley’s Farmhouse after another hour. If anything, our lack of sandwiches for dinner and the promise of a hot, piping fish ‘n chips in town was the carrot that clinched it.

To our relief, the three adults, who had elected to stroll by the river instead of subjecting themselves to uphill torture, awaited in the town park; unfortunately, our targets did not. Captain searched for them, but to no avail, while Matthew and James, oblivious to the danger that lay ahead, attempted to push the park swings to their natural limits of construction. After our promised fish and chips – where I discovered the wonders of peas and curry as a protein-carb supermeal – we glumly took the bus back to Glasshouses, resigning ourselves to our fate.

Turns out our God had a plan.

Barely minutes after reentry into The Mill, Craig steps into the building, sans the rest of the crew, who were making their way to Pateley via our ORIGINAL route. Turns out they’d successfully stopped at the Hidden Lake on the way for long enough to evade capture.

The Mill (adjacent to the campsite) in more productive days

In the process, devouring every sandwich in clear sight. On the bright side, I stayed behind and figured out how to play cricket, which worked – up to a point, when I realised I was learning cricket in a blind-leading-the-deaf scenario. Almost as if on cue, Captain hollers, “There’s a cricket match playing in the local field!” and all physical activity ceases, as everyone dashed to the field.

Where I finally learnt how to play the Glorious Game in White, and committed the arcane scoring system to procedural memory.

Dinner – Baked Potatoes 

Yorkshire – Day 1 – Fly by Night

Nicholas nicholas86@gmail.com reports

The moment the exams ended, you know you had a problem. With barely 3 hours’ shut-eye in between, punctuated by a good pizza buffet, we (me and Gan) showed up at Byker Community Centre, disheveled, to say the least. With 2 mini  backpacks between us, we were dwarfed by our boys, who saw it fit to take along 6 changes of clothing, a years’ supply of DVDs and a pool cue (among others). Obviously, they knew the drill.

Little did they know the weather was one potent drillmaster. With a mind of its own, mind you.

Departure from Byker at 6.15 was uneventful; after a stopover in Scotch Corner, characterised only by its utter lack of reasonable pricing, we pulled off the A1 at 8-ish, near Ripon, and immediately let the Yorkshire Dales begin weaving its magic.

Ripon Cathedral – sited in reputedly the nation’s smallest city

A fair sampling of Dales scenery

A 10-mile journey from Ripon to Pateley Bridge, the nearest town; and we never wanted to leave the van. Shutterbugs were furiously at work; the poet within each of us was furiously jolted out of inaction.

The turnoff to Glasshouses, our campsite, began a precipitous descent, studded with quaint English country houses almost torn heartwrenchingly out of a Jane Austen novel. Each house had an immaculately kept garden and flawlessly cobbled stone footpaths – easily every pensioners’ wet dream.

Passing a BnB, one of the more acerbic lads observed that “this was a B last year; the Breakfast only came in this year”.  The whole camp would feature various similar compare and contrasts; the boys come here twice a year, and are adept at spotting discrepancies.

The first was soon evident – the temperature had, unfortunately, decided to be British, and sink below 15 degrees. (Celsius. In Fahrenheit, that would be…cryogenic.) The older boys immediately got the campfire lit, assisted by the inveterate John, the van driver, and so, so much more.

Gan and I were set to work (which was exactly how we had been written into the Script) immediately, readying supper for the boys – a rabidly delicious meal of cookies baked by the Captain’s wife, Mrs Hawkins. After camp setup, the Juniors congregated at the pool table, which many of them belatedly realised they were unable to play; the seniors found refuge around the fire, which, I daresay, lasted until the wee hours of the morning, around which distinctly male ribaldry was witnessed.

Not palatable for the average delicate feminine ear, mind you.