A Holiday in England - The Smoke, Up North, VCs & Raptors

After leaving Scilly it was a dash back to my place in Kent to do some laundry before jumping back in the car and driving up to London to visit my sister, Carol.

Cornish Wind Farm

Driving through London made me realise how much easier it is to drive just about everywhere else in the world.  The omnipresent speed cameras, traffic light cameras, yellow box cameras, congestion zone cameras, bus lane cameras, speed humps, pot holes, grid locked traffic, nightmare parking, warped one-way systems, ridiculously short timed traffic lights and totally illogical speed limits positively ensure, no, absolutely guarantee that there is not one iota of motoring joy to be had.

However, once safely ensconced at my sister's place with my car in the basement car park, safe from any marauding traffic wardens, I was happy.  I've said it before (but I'm going to say it again) but London really does have the best pubs in the whole wide world.  Fact.  Without doubt.  And so my brief time in London was spent in several pubs, eating pub grub (as well as fish and chips from the local chippy) and catching up with my sis.

Sharky & Me in the Boozer

For the next leg of my journey to North Yorkshire I left London early hours of the morning in order to avoid the nightmare daytime traffic.  Driving at night can be tough (I had to pull over a couple of times to snatch five minutes of zzzzzz) but the rewards of the open and largely empty roads is a blessing that definitely makes it worthwhile.

I had plenty of time so took the scenic route, coming off the A1 early, up Sutton Bank at sunrise, across to Helmsley and on to Kirkbymoorside.  At dawn I was driving across the magnificent North York Moors, on what is without doubt one of the best driving roads I've ever had the pleasure to drive over (particularly when I was using a Honda CBR 600 and in a Porsche 968).  Even the sedateness of the Volvo couldn't distract from the twists, turns, brows, dips, cambers and the ever present risk of crashing into a wayward sheep wandering across the road. En-route I passed the Lion Inn on Blakey Ridge, one of the best pubs in the whole of England - it has to be because it's so remote it would've shut down years ago if it wasn't - and had it been open for breakfast I would have definitely stopped for a full-English.

North York Moors

But it wasn't so I went on to Guisborough and feeling that it was rather too early to be calling at my mate Tom's house I went looking for a cafe for an unhealthy fry-up, but to no avail.  So I took a slow drive to Tom's after wandering around the town and buying a newspaper.  Fortunately he was up and about, as was his better half, Judith.  They had business to attend to so I welcomed the idea of forty winks to catch up on my sleep whilst they went about their errands and tasks.  Later that day we went for a walk around the foot of the moors (being away from England really does awaken your senses to just how beautiful the English countryside is) and then into the local boozer for beer and grub.

North Yorkshire Countryside

That afternoon Judith asked me what I wanted to do whilst I was in the area?  I've been travelling up to Yorkshire and the immediate surrounding area for well over 20 years (I've also known Tom for around 25 years, since the Falklands) and so the imagination was wearing a bit thin.  However, the day before my sister Carol had given me a CD containing research she had commissioned on my grandmother's family tree (my mother's side) and knowing that my grandmother was from "up north" I mentioned this.  We fetched the CD out of the car and, to Tom's yawns, Judith and I started reading up.  I knew that my grandmother's eldest brother had been awarded the Victoria Cross in WWI and following a bit of research on the internet we learnt that there was a statue of him in South Shields town hall, so a plan was hatched to go and visit and pay homage following day.

I'd always imagined that South Shields was a fair trek from Guisborough but it was actually much closer than I imagined and we were there in no time at all.

South Shields Town Hall - Now a Glorified Traffic Island

South Shields town hall is an imposing building close to the town centre.  It's a town hall as town halls used to be: full of grandeur and bristling with a sense of civic pride.  The present day main reception, which in its day would have been a side entrance, was a disappointing typical council office, with matching bland décor, chirping switch boards and a take-a-number-wait-your-turn arrangement.  I was convinced we'd never get to see my great uncle's statue, thinking that in modern Britain it would have been labelled "most irregular" or "not council policy" or being too much or a security risk or fill in a form for your request and we'll process it in 21 days.  We approached the reception desk and by way of explanation made our request.  Surprise of surprises we were accommodated and process with an astonishing speed.  It would seem that people still hold a very high regard in matters relating to those that have been awarded the VC.  We were issued with temporary passes and went from the soulless reception into a different world of the corridors and meeting rooms of the old building.  These were a strange mixture of marble floors and walls, with vaulted ceilings in what I would describe as a renaissance style of building (although someone may want to correct me on that).

Corridors of South Shields Town Hall

We proceeded to what would have been the reception desk in the splendour of the good old days at the front of the building but which had long since been relegated to a lesser and secondary standing now that the reception needed to be manned by an army of civil servants and technology in order to function.  Consider this:

At the height of Victorian power and prosperity in 1851, the Whitehall departments of central government employed only 1,628 civil servants.  Also in that year, when Britain led the world in commerce and industry, the whole public payroll, including postal workers, totalled just 75,000 [in 2003 it was 516,000 and now seven years later has probably surpassed that number by many more thousands].  The vast expansion of the Civil Service has gone hand in hand with Britain's decline.  In 1900, when the British Empire covered a quarter of the globe, the Foreign Office employed 142.  It now has 5,620

 Source: Steve Doughty, Social Affairs Correspondent, Daily Mail 2003.  Words in square brackets have been added by me.

We enquired at the reception desk, which was at the foot of a grand double-turn staircase, where the statue might be, explaining that Thomas Young was my great uncle. Again, we were treated remarkably well and were escorted to the statue that was located in a recess above the first landing of the stairway.   Quite astonishing really.  I didn't really know what to say or think, just a feeling of immense pride and honour that I was somehow connected to such a remarkable person.

Pte. Thomas Young VC

Note:

From the genealogy research it came to light that Thomas Young was born Thomas Morrell.  His mother had died (we assume) and his father then married my grandmother's mother.  Thomas Morrell's father also died at a very early age and my grandmother's mother took Thomas as her own and married my grandmother's father and therefore became Young.  Thomas Morrell also took and used the Young family name.  I'm not sure, but I'm convinced that my grandmother did not know, as did neither of her other 12 brothers and sisters, that Thomas was not in fact her blood relation.  She never mentioned or even suggested this to me at any time and it's my belief that she lived her life believing him to be her true brother.

The following link will take you to Durham Light Infantry web site where there are details about Thomas Young and his VC award on the (it's far more interesting than anything I have to say): Thomas Young VC

We then drove to Marsden Cliffs for a walk along the coast leading to Whitburn where my grandmother and her family originally came from. 

Marsden Cliffs

Souter Lighthouse and Foghorn

We passed through Whitburn and stopped briefly to walk through the cemetery for clues to any relatives that may have been buried there.  When searching through the older parts of the cemetery I was saddening to see how many children were buried there as well as victims of mining accidents and those that had died relatively young (probably through disease or war): previous generations must have been all too familiar with death on a regular basis, a familiarity that we have been fortunate enough not to experience.  It was hard to imagine the village it as it would have been in my grandmother's day when the mines and mining, now long gone, would have been the hub of the village and life in general.

Hartlepool Marina

The rest of the day was spent driving along the coast, passing through Hartlepool and then into Middlesbrough and over the amazing Transporter Bridge.  I'd often seen this from a distance and imagined that the bridge was high above the river but that isn't the case.  In order to allow shipping to pass the bridge's gantries are high above the river but there is a gondola suspended from cables from the gantries that carries the cars and passengers at the same height as the river banks.  It's an amazing concept that works really well and despite the gondola being suspended from cables it has virtually no swinging movement to it as you might expect.

Middlesbrough Transporter Bridge

The Gondola to Take You Across

The following day, we decided to go to the Durham Light Infantry Museum to see Thomas Young's actual VC which was kept there but we very nearly didn't make it.  Being the first one up in the morning I wanted to fetch some gear out of my car.  I'd remembered that I'd left my car keys in Tom and Judith's car so I took their car keys, which were on a key ring containing all the keys for the house and went and unlocked their car and retrieved my car keys.  I then went to the boot of my car, took out the items I wanted and slammed the boot shut.  In that split second, just as the boot clunked closed I had an awful sinking feeling: did I leave the keys in the boot?  Yes, of course I did, along with my car keys as well.  And my car was locked (the boot can be opened in isolation without opening the car doors).  And I don't have a spare set keys (300 quid plus from Volvo - that's 1/5 of the cars value -  and only from Volvo because the key is encoded).

Sheepishly I had to confess to Tom and Judith what I'd done.  Fortunately (for me, not for them), I'd locked their keys in the boot as well and as they were with the RAC there were grounds to call them out.  Within 30 minutes the RAC were on the scene and the man from the RAC jumped out of his van, looked at the Volvo and of course said "That's the worst car in the world to lock your keys in".  Why?  Because even if you open the car there's still no way to access the boot without destroying the rear seats because there's no remote boot release in the car and whilst the seats can be dropped for extra storage space, this can only be done from inside the boot.

After signing a release form to say that the RAC wouldn't be responsible for any damage to the car - I did ask half jokingly if the retrieval process involved one of those hydraulic cutters that you see the fire brigade using to rescue car accident victims -  the guy went to work.   The process involved using an inflatable bladder to squeeze the boot lid over to create a slightly bigger gap between the lid and the body.  A wire was then used to hook the wiring loom leading to the boot and tease it into a position where it could be accessed in the gap between the boot seal and the boot lid.  With the skill of a brain surgeon, the RAC man then used tweezers, scalpel and tiny pliers to separate the cable from the loom that controlled the boot latch (I'm making this sound too easy), whilst I stood over him mopping his brow (not really, I was in the kitchen drinking tea and eating bacon sandwiches).  He then cut the cable and then using a 12v battery connected it to the exposed ends and hey presto! the boot sprung open.  And he did a sterling job in not scratching the car and causing absolutely minimum damage.  Thereafter, the wiring loom was repaired and I can report the patient has made a full recovery.

With the car fixed, Judith and I headed to Durham (without Tom, who has the patients of a 3 year old and finds libraries and museums boring) and went to the DLI museum.  There was memorial plaque outside regarding all those who had served with the DLI and had been awarded the VC.  We did a tour of the excellent museum and went to the medal room to see Thomas Young's VC.  My grandmother often told me how he would often offer to pawn it in the local pub in exchange for a few beers but the landlord always refused to accept it and just gave him a drink anyway, so I suppose it's lucky that it's not hidden away in a private collection somewhere.

Similarly, there's another story where the medal was lost:

Private Thomas Young was known as the "Cornfield VC" because he got drunk one night and lost his medals in a cornfield.
"He had the whole village out looking for them," said Norman Dick, of the South Shields branch of the Durham Light Infantry Association.

Source: The Shields Gazette, 04Jan07 

I'd not been to Durham before but I remember a dragon of a junior school teacher I had being from Durham, and during one lesson she showed us a photo of the Sanctury Knocker on the cathedral.  She asked us what we thought it was and why the handle was so shiny?  Of course, being a bog standard council estate school none of us had a clue: if it wasn't in our street or in Mote Park, we couldn't possibly know. I remember looking at the North Downs from our school playing fields and wondering what was over the other side.  A lost world of dinosaurs perhaps (I was nearly right - it's the Medway Towns!)?  There wasn't any way I was going to know that Durham even existed.  As a means of enlightenment everyone in the class had to write an essay from the point of view of someone fleeing persecution, trying to cross the city to seek sanctuary in the cathedral.  How the hell were we know what Durham city centre was like?

Sanctuary Knocker, Durham Cathedral

I have to say, having been to Canterbury Cathedral several times, Westminster Abbey, St. Paul's, York Cathedral and even Nortre Dame, that Durham is is by far the most impressive. I was somewhat hacked off that the place was full of signs saying "No Photography".  Why not?  Not being one to be put off easily I walked around and surreptitiously snapped away.  I have no idea what the shots came out like as the film hasn't been developed yet and it's languishing in a draw at home so I'll probably never know.  But who cares, it was cocking a snoot to overly authoritarian rules and regulations that mattered.

Durham Cathedral

We'd also learnt that Thomas Young was buried in High Spen cemetery so we headed there.  After wandering around for a while we found his headstone.  It was a lovely place, overlooking the rolling hills of the countryside.  A fitting resting place for a hero.

Final Resting Place

After leaving Tom's I headed a short distance up the road to visit my mate Mark.  I don't really know what to say about him because there is so much to say - certainly more than enough to fill the pages of this blog several times over.  We've also been good friends since we met in the Falklands.  I supposed I could say that Mark is bird breeder by trade but he's not.  Breeding birds, specifically birds of prey, is his passion: his life: his sole purpose.  And he's become very, very good at it, despite having the whole Establishment stacked  him.  Determined, persistent and totally single minded is what he is 

Some This Year's Breeding Successes

As usual, I turned up at a inconvenient time when he was very, very busy but, and I should consider myself lucky (as well as not being mauled to death by the wolf masquerading as an Alsation at the entrance to his property) he always makes time for me - so long as I slot in with whatever he's doing.  Although I draw the line at popping the yoke sack out of and skinning dead-day-old chicks for feeding his birds.  When he wasn't busy, and I wasn't taking photographs of his incredible collection of birds, we'd sit in his field, drink coffee and catch up with what had happened in our lives since we'd last met (Jan 2008).  Invariably, infinitely more interesting stuff had happened in his than mine such is the life he leads and I enjoy immensely the time we are able to spend together.

I stayed for a couple of days before I was off again, hitting the road and flying back south.

A Holiday in England - Flights, Motors and Scilly

As the project had ended an extended trip to the UK was in order.  Having sacrificed an earlier opportunity to go on leave to the UK on the alter of the good of the project, I had negotiated in return an extended leave.  Usually, the standard 2 weeks isn't really enough to do anywhere near all the things you'd like to do, or have to do.  I was hoping an extended leave of double that time would allow me to do most,  if not all that I wanted to do.

First on the list was to meet up with friends I hadn't seen for some time.  Ideally, it would have been better for me if those friends were to come and visit me, rather than me having to travel the length and breadth of the country to visit them, but as I don't have a place to call my own (so to speak), and understanding that my friends have jobs and commitments then it was me that was going to doing the leg work.

In fact I didn't mind this.  I was actually looking forward to doing it and the idea of travelling extensively throughout the length and breadth of England during the summer months was highly appealing and something to look forward to.

The Glorious Kent Countryside

However, in order to make this happen I had to have some wheels.  Yes, I could have rented a car but the cost of renting something reasonable, comfortable and capable would have been a considerable lump of money and at the end of the holiday all I'd have to show for it was a rather large credit card bill.  Hence I had planned to buy a car and the reason was two-fold: apart from the aforementioned cost the second reason being I needed to acquire some no-claims discount.  Why?  Because when I do eventually return to the UK (hopefully in the not too distant future) I don't want the kind of car that I buy to be dictated by the cost of the insurance.  For this reason I also discounted the idea of borrowing a car from the kind offers that I'd received.

In an ideal world I'd step off the plane and into a waiting car that had been pre-purchased before my arrival but the ideal world is actually a different planet so that wasn't going to happen.

Several months before my due leave date I spent time trawling through the Autotrader and eBay going through the bitter-sweet process of choosing a vehicle, which ultimately bounced between the highly sensible, the practical and the downright reckless.  In the sensible range there was the Ford Focus.  Practical - Audi Estate.  Reckless - too many great choices but I kept swinging between a Porsche 993, AC Cobra kit car (with the Chevy 6 litre engine), Audi A8, Mercedes 300SE (which I really, really want) or any Alfa Romero.

And speaking of reckless I even considered buying on-line without actually having seen the vehicle but I resisted this as I knew there was high possibility it would end in tears.  The problem was though, I know just how time consuming buying a car can be and I didn't want looking for a car to dominate the time I had available to me.  So I reckoned that if I spent enough time researching what was available and the market rate I'd be able to earmark something in advance and nab it fairly quickly.  Within a week is what I had in mind . . . . .

My flight involved a domestic flight from Iloilo to Manila, then Manila to Doha and then onto Gatwick.  Primarily due to the amount of acquired kit I was lugging back to the UK, and partly because I'm going soft in my old age, I was flying business class.  The (Philippine Airlines) business class lounge in the Iloilo terminal was a disgrace.  I can understand that in a poor country the facilities maybe aren't so extensive or good but what I can't come to terms with or accept is them being filthy dirty.  It doesn't cost very much, especially in a place where labour is incredibly cheap, to keep a place clean.  The chairs and sofas were grubby and stained.  Behind the sofa there were mouse or lizard droppings that clearly, judging by the amount of dust there was, had been accumulating for some time.  Okay, so out of sight is out of mind but in one of the roller blinds there was a dead gecko for all to see but no one had bothered to remove it, despite the fact that the size of it would've made raising and lowering the blind rather difficult.  Yuk: I was glad to get out of there.  Even in Manila the lounge wasn't great either.

Slumming It In Business Class

When I arrived in Doha and went through transfer I was asked if I'd booked a hotel?  Why?  The transfer was only 3 hours.  Oh no it wasn't, it had been rescheduled and it was 10 hours after arrival.  To be fair, when I'd rebooked the flight there was a vague notification of the change but I missed it.  Not to worry, if you've ever been to the premium lounge in Doha, having to spend 10 hours there is a blessing rather than an ordeal.  However, as it was ramadan there was no free booze available, which was a bit of blow.  Still, there was lots of great food, coffee and after a shower I felt almost human and ready for the next leg of the journey.

It was an interesting flight out of Doha.  Passing up the west coast of the Arabian Gulf I could clearly see Kuwait City, the Iraq Central Marshes, Baghdad, then following the Tigris River to Mosul and the Mosul dam, the Iraq/Turkey border and then across the Black Sea (which was surprisingly large) and into Europe, which was lost in the clouds.

Down Town Baghdad

Back in England I made immediate plans to acquire a motor.  I had a look at an Alfa 166.  Nice but it didn't quite hit the spot.  An Audi A4 Estate 2.8 - very nice but no history.  Not even a log book.  And whilst it was rapid enough there was a strange over-heating, burning oil smell about it and my gut feeling was to give it a wide berth.  Having bought a dodgy BMW 323 a few years ago I've learnt to trust my instincts and not my let my heart rule my head.  I had a look at another Alfa, which was tatty and a clean Alfa is trouble so one that hasn't been not looked after is going to be heaps of hassle.

I was starting to panic as I could see this was going to take potentially longer than I had hoped and I had to control my anxiety to stop myself from rushing out and making a bad buy.  Then I was trawling though the Autotrader and just through boredom/desperation I had a look at the Volvos, which is a car I really hadn't considered at all (in the past I'd had an old 144 and an S40 and wasn't impressed with either).  There were two S80s that caught my eye.  Big, comfortable cruisers that could chew up the miles, with a 2.4 petrol engine with the right blend of performance and economy (this was the sensible coming out in me!).  I went to have a look at the one nearest to my house, which was being sold by a Chris Moyles lookalike dealer operating out of his living room .  The car was a one (company) owner, leather upholstery, cruise control, central locking, alarm, all the air-bags you could ask for (in the event of an accident I imagine it would be like falling into a swimming pool filled with pillows), full service history and all the toys.  And lovely to drive and so it was a deal (and a steal at £1500).

An Old Man with his Old Man's Car

Having made myself mobile the first plan was to head to the Isle of Scilly.  On the way I stopped off to visit my mate Gary in Haywards Heath.  A somewhat difficult situation as he had recently split with his wife and was going through a divorce.  I was going to say an acrimonious divorce but then is there any other kind?  Over the years I've felt as though I've become part of the family, having known my mate since we met in the Falklands in 1985 and having remained firm friends ever since.  More recently I'd spent so much time living with them when my house was rented and I'd had nowhere else to stay during visits to the UK (something I'm immensely grateful for), that I'd practically become part of the furniture. My first stop was to visit the wife and kids in the estranged family home.

Thereafter it was to stop over with Gary with a couple of drinking sessions and a day trip to Brighton.  However, what became apparent was in these situations you are constantly being manoeuvred to take sides and nail your colours to the mast as there's no room for being neutral, try as hard as you might.  None of this was really a problem for me and I'm always happy to lend a listening ear but I did find myself at times thinking that both of them actually want the same thing, but can't agree to or find any middle ground and so the whole process descends into one of blind, bitter self destruction, which is incredibly sad.  Not withstanding this, I still enjoyed my time in sunny Haywards Heath.

On Brighton Beach

Driving down to Cornwall to catch the ferry to Scilly I was convinced the car would breakdown as it seemed too good to be true, but it behaved and performed impeccably. The plan was to stay overnight in Penzance and then take the ferry to St. Mary's in the morning so my first priority was to find a B&B for the night.  As I pulled into Penzance and passed the harbour where the ferry departs, right opposite there was the Dolphin Inn, made from Cornish granite and with a Room Available notice hanging up in the window.  Being perfectly placed for the ferry I phoned from the car to enquire if there was still a vacancy.  There was and the bidding started at £75 for the night.

The Dolphin Inn, Penzance

"Phew, that's a bit expensive I said".

"It includes breakfast for the two of you", the man on the other end said.

"But there's only me", I retorted and the chap said "All right, you can have it for £60".

"Can't you do better than that", I asked?  "Cor blimey, I'm trying to make a living here", he said, ". . . . okay, £50 then".  

Perfect.  I quickly dumped my bags in the room and went and parked the car in the (rip-off) long-term car park and hoofed it back to the Dolphin, walking along the wonderful Penzance promenade. Huge colourful flags had been erected which looked vivid in the evening sun.  The lido pool on the seafront adjacent to the harbour had been renovated to it's former glory and also adorned with the large colourful flags.  Before dinner I had a wander around the town, which is quite picturesque although at the end of town where the railway station is it is rather more run down with its kebab and mobile phone shops.

Penzance Promenade

I had dinner in the Dolphin, which I wouldn't have done if the room price had been £75, and I had quite a few beers too so I suppose they made their money from me in the bar rather than in the room rate.  I imagined the room was going to be overwhelmingly chintzy but it was modern but without being out of character with the pub and the building.  It had rattly, draughty sliding sash windows so that made me feel like I was at home in Lenham.  The only real drawback was that the toilet had a built-in macerator that fired up automatically when the toilet was flushed and which sounded like a train passing through the bathroom.  If this wasn't bad enough, the sensor that triggered the unit was so sensitive that when I went for a widdle in the dead of night (too much beer) it triggered the macerator and the unexpected noise nearly made me soon snapped me back to sobriety.

Refurbished Lido Pool

Early the next morning I had breakfast in the bar and a wonderful breakfast it was too.  I couldn't decide between the full English or the kippers but decided on the kippers in keeping with the seaside theme.  Next it was the short walk to the Scillonion Ferry and onwards to the Scilly Isles to meet up with a Pete, a mate of mine who I'd known since our school days, and who lived a few houses up the road from where we lived as kids.  That was until he ran away and joined the Royal Navy (he didn't really run away but it sounds better).  We spent our childhood practically living in the park at that backed onto our road: fishing, swimming, boating on an upturned car roof on the lake, playing Tarzan on a rope swing of inadequate rope thickness, making Dutch arrows, cycling on bikes with must-have cow horn handle bars, tearing around on Vespa scooter of a questionable source and crawling through half constructed sewers.  I'm sure there's a PSP or Wii game for all those activities these days.  

Mackerel Fishing

I was met off the ferry by Pete and we went and dropped my things off at his house in the centre of St. Mary's.  The next few days were ones of fishing, checking and baiting lobster pots, walks around the island, visiting different pubs, eating freshly caught seafood and sailing on Pete's yacht (to another pub on another island).  I just thought that was such a wonderful thing to be able to do: sail from one island to the other, jump in a dingy and row ashore to visit the pub, have a meal of peanuts (too late for the restaurant by 1 minute - how very British), row back to the yacht to open a bottle of wine (or was it two?), have a whizz over the side without falling into the freezing water and then sail back in the morning in time for Pete to open his souvenir/gift shop.  Brilliant.  I had an absolutely fantastic time and was reluctant to leave but leave I had to, and I did so with a cloudy mind having been coerced the night before into sharing a bottle of port on top of several beers and a considerable quantity of wine (something I seem no longer capable of doing with any resilience these days).  But what a great send off.

What shall we do with a drunken sailor, indeed?

Freshly Caught, Freshly Cooked Lunch

Scilly Houses