Postcard from Chesil Beach

I admit it.  I'm catching up on a backlog of 'postings' from a few months of visits to the South West, and this photo is a few months old.  Am just trying to get ahead of the Royal Mail and their inevitable backlog...

 

My time spent on Chesil Beach was inspired by the fact I was reading the novel of that name and thought I'd try a little co-location of the reading experience.  Not all of Ian McEwan's settings are real, but the suck and draw of the pebbles resisting the tide on this breakwater certainly are.  Attempting to hold pages open while the wind whipped them about, losing my place, wasn't easy but did add to my appreciation of the difficulty of the characters' situation.  And the physical effort of walking over those stones would leave anyone with scant energy to pursue more difficult, emotional goals.

 

I don't intend to get obsessive about visiting the locations I read about (I'm currently reading a book set in London.  1920s London.  Can you imagine the difficulties that would arise?), but as an experiment this was a successful one.  There are many more reasons to go to Chesil Beach though.  Well worth a detour any time.

Postcard from Wells

Vicars' Close in Wells claims to be one of the oldest planned streets in Europe. Not that there haven't been renovations and improvement works: those chimneys were added in the fifteenth century to introduce some mod cons. And the streetlights are electric.

The changes of more recent years aren't so photogenic and explain the odd angle of this picture. Residents are now allowed to park their cars in front of their houses. The design of a twenty first century car may have a lot to commend it but, in this ancient street, you have to wonder what present day planning officials were thinking.

Vorsprung durch technik? Maybe not in this case.

Postcard from underwater II

County Hall used to be home to the Greater London Council. These days, the sharks there are real, and they're not afraid to show their teeth.

Palpable agression emanates from the tank, the quiet wisdom on the faces of replica Easter Island heads doing nothing to soothe its occupants.

Of course the aquarium staff are playing on the public's fears - piping tense music from speakers nearby, adding to the discomfort of standing there. Watching these fish swim isn't a relaxing experience; it is an interesting one though. The sharks are more compelling than any councillor could be.

Postcard from daybreak

It doesn’t have the romance of sunset, but the start of the day has a different beauty – should you ever be awake to notice. Even the East London skyline looks rather glamorous with this lighting. The soundtrack is more subdued at that hour: the occasional car engine, a cough from a smoker warming their lungs up for the day. But the traffic is mostly silenced; the city asleep.

As I should have been. But you see some terrible things in my line of work. Five in the morning for one.

Anyway, dawn broke and I returned to work. Thought it was a relevant picture for the first post in a while. Apologies for the break in service; internet access is currently intermittent. And there’s been that postal strike to contend with... I hope to be back online and in touch again soon.

Postcard from the pitch

OK, so I'm not a huge cricket fan, and I'll admit to not following quite all of the rules (who can be bothered, this is a game that needs 3 umpires to make sure it's being played correctly); but even I know that an Ashes test match at Lords' is a big deal.

Lords' styles itself as 'The Home of Cricket', and the tube trains were full of just the type of man you'd expect to find making his way there: navy blazer, chambray shirt, beige trousers (sharply creased), the occasional flash of rhubarb and custard in an MCC tie and a tight grip on the essential blue holdall for one's sandwiches. Of course an Ashes match attracts a much wider audience as well, so I was lost amongst a regiment of the Barmy Army and Aussies a long way from home.

England couldn't have this relationship with any other country. No one else would take the 'love to hate you' banter and bat it straight back the way the Aussies do. And the mix of rigid tradition and picnicking informality makes for a great English day out.

The third test starts at Edgbaston this week. Good luck, England.

Postcard from the Pendolino

I've been a regular on the train between Birmingham and London recently. The Pendolino cuts a high-speed slice through the middle of England, leaning as it rounds the bends. Should I attempt to read, the velocity and jolting make me nauseous. So I gaze out the window at the glimpses of life the panoramic windows display, the soundtrack from the wheels a white noise pitched just too high to ignore.

Anglers drop their lines into lakes, horses and their riders cut across fields and canal boat dwellers take a more sedate journey through the countryside. Into towns, and the land by the tracks is shared between industrial units and housing crammed in painfully close to the rails. A few moments, and I'm back in the country where a Land Rover is mobbed by sheep looking for lunch. Makes more sense than the craziness of car parks – empty, but for one car parked just off centre.

The stations we don't stop for pass in a blur of lights and platforms where solitary passengers are left standing for the next train. Then my field of vision adjusts to widescreen once again as the foreground detail becomes irrelevant compared to the deep vista of woods and hills. Until the buildings appear again and we zoom past factories with advertising claims: you have to go a long, long way to bake a better biscuit. Perhaps a little further than Watford Junction.

Postcard from the parlour

Sunny afternoons in Britain aren't complete until you've heard the chimes of the ice cream van. The discordant rendition of 'Greensleeves' is a more welcome soundtrack to summer than drumbeats leaking from the open windows of passing cars.

My problem is that a Mr Whippy-style dollop into a cone made of crunchy air cannot satisfy the Pavlovian craving the music triggers. Not even if you stick a Flake in it.

I'm certain there's a gap in the market for quality ice cream parlours in the suburbs. I'd love to be able to wander down the road and choose from a range of delicious flavours as I did in the tiny ice cream parlour in Spain, pictured above.

I selected creamy coffee (and a pink spoon), my companion chose decadently rich chocolate (and a blue spoon) – gender stereotypes are alive and well! The gelato texture was heavy and smooth, the flavours intense. My only disappointment was that they weren't playing 'Greensleeves'.