Bill's Travels

[BillB]

With our lives beginning to return to a semblance of normality after our daughter in law’s death we felt that our son had made enough progress in rebuilding his life for us to take a short trip. We had cut out our wanderings to make sure that we were there if he needed us, but with my birthday approaching we felt that a couple of days away wouldn’t be amiss. We’re also grateful that our son’s friends and colleagues include him in invitations, days out and trips.
It’s been our habit for a while now that instead of buying each other birthday gifts we would each nominate something a little different to do on the day – a meal in a nice restaurant, a concert or maybe a short trip. I decided this year that I would like to pay a visit to the Mercedes-Benz Museum in Stuttgart. I had visited it once before around 1970 when I was writing about cars for a magazine in Frankfurt, but it has since been moved into a purpose built building just outside the Unterturkheim plant’s main gates. I went onto Google Earth to have a look at the area and to search out any possible restaurants and discovered there is a Hilton Garden Hotel just a couple of hundred yards from the museum. I went online and made a reservation for two nights, then went onto the Mercedes-Benz museum website and bought two tickets at a reasonable price and discovered that I could combine the museum visit with a tour of the Mercedes factory for only a couple of euros more. I jumped at that and we were all set to go.
Stuttgart is less than three hours’ drive from our home in Luxembourg so we didn’t need to leave at the crack of dawn. In fact, we waited until after the morning rush hour had subsided before setting out. As has become normal whenever we drive in Germany it was raining when we left home. The route we followed took us off the autobahn for a good stretch, but once back on the fast road we had all the time in the world to stop for coffee and later on, for lunch. Even so, we were still early for our check-in, but they gave us another room and we were able to unpack, put our feet up for a while and then freshen up before going out to get ourselves oriented.
The museum itself is housed in a remarkable building which, so I was told, has no two pieces of glass on the exterior of the same shape. Even though our tickets were for the following day we went in so that we could have a look around the entrance lobby and we stopped off for a coffee on the ground floor cafeteria. We then asked at the information desk how we should pick up our tour of the factory. That brought a simple answer – “Just stand at that door over there a few minutes before the time of your tour.” All our queries answered, so we drifted back to the hotel.
We had dinner in the hotel that evening and were impressed by the service, which was welcoming and friendly and by the quality of the menu. We had a drink while waiting for our meal and chatted with our charming waitress.
Next morning we set off just before 9.30 for our visit to the museum. The exhibits are set up in such a way that the visitor goes to the top floor for the oldest vehicles then gradually spirals downwards. Since Daimler and Benz were the originators of the automobile as we know it today you get to see the entire history of motorised transport – from private cars to trucks to buses to industrial vehicles to fire engines to aircraft engines and more.
As you descend you can stop at various points where some of the most gorgeous vehicles ever made are on display. You can stop to examine them, or wander over to the camera points where the keen photographer can shoot away at vehicles on the floor below. Some of these cars – roadsters, sports cars, luxury sedans – have been restored to perfection and will have you goggling at their sheer beauty. The lines of those manufactured in the ‘20s and ‘30s can be followed as they developed until you see how they led the magnificent “gullwing SL” and its successors of the ‘50s and subsequent decades.
Partway down we paused our tour for the factory visit at 11.45. There were about 6 other people and we learnt, disappointedly, that we wouldn’t be going to the car assembly plant (cars, it seems, are assembled at a different site altogether) but to the engine manufacturing plant. For this we had to place our cameras in lockers on the ground floor as photography is strictly forbidden inside the factory. Competition in the automobile industry is clearly cut-throat.
A bus came along to drive us to the Bad Canstatt plant where we were given an introductory orientation talk before going onto the factory floor. Without going into technicalities I have to say that this was absolutely fascinating. Much of the work is done by robots with human workers interceding here and there in the process. From time to time trollies loaded with 8 or 10 engine blocks come along, apparently of their own volition as they have no drivers, then turn into one of the work stations and start unloading their contents – completely automatically. Each engine block has a number assigned to it which identifies the country, the city, the individual showroom and the name of the customer who has ordered the vehicle. All this information remains with the engine block as it makes its way through the process. The manual work, which must have been killing in the days before robots, is all done by the robots while the human workers carry out the lighter tasks.
When we exited the factory for our bus we were agog at the care and attention to every small detail which M-B are famed for.
When we got back to the museum we decided to give our legs a break and went for a snack lunch at the cafeteria. Did we need the break!
After about 30 minutes we took the lift to the floor we had been on previously and continued our tour, finishing on the ground floor. We then discovered that downstairs, in the basement, there was the shop, another cafeteria and a showroom selling Mercedes cars. We had another coffee then browsed the shop and the newest M-B models. After that, our feet told us that enough was enough and they seemed likely to go on strike if we didn’t amble back to the hotel.
If anyone asked my advice about visiting the museum I would recommend going around 10 a.m. The museum opens at 9 a.m. and there were quite a few groups of school kids, and like many school kids these days, seemed totally out of control. However, if the visitor arrives at 10 or so, the kids have had an hour to work their way downwards and those interested in the exhibits can enjoy them in peace.
That evening the waitress in the restaurant remembered that it was my birthday and wished me happy birthday when she presented the menus. A nice, thoughtful gesture. Dinner was pretty good, as well.
When we looked out the window next morning it was raining again. We checked out and headed for Luxembourg – once more in torrential rain.

 

[Kat100]

Bill you are inspiring x

 

[BillB]

Thank you, Kat - you're doing my ego a power of good. But seriously,as long as I'm not boring anyone here I'll keep writing. We've just got back from Peenemunde which I'll write about shortly.

 

[BillB]

Having grown up during World War 2 I like to read the history of that period from time to time, so when I saw a book entitled Target London on Amazon I ordered it double quick for my Kindle. This fascinating history tells the story of the V1 and V2 attacks from both sides – the British, who knew something big was going on but didn’t know exactly what, and the Nazis, who were working at full pelt to produce secret weapons that they hoped would alter the course of the war.
The V1s began to land in London in August 1944, a couple of months after D Day. My uncle, who was only 10 years older than I, saw one of the first and thought it was a plane he didn’t recognise. It seemed to be in trouble as the engine was stuttering and a flame was coming out of the back.
Various committees had been formed in London to try to coordinate all the little pieces of information that were coming in – from Norway, from Poland, from Germany, from aerial reconnaissance flights and especially from the codebreakers at Bletchley Park.
More and more often the name Peenemunde appeared. Peenemunde is a small town on the Baltic coast of Germany, situated on the northern tip of Usedom Island. The Nazis had created a military research base here with an airfield and a number of industrial plants, one was a power plant, another was a factory that produced liquid oxygen, used as fuel in liquid fuelled rockets. Dotted around this rather large area were the ramps that were used to fire V1s and the test stands and launching pads for V2s.
The British bombed the military area of Peenemunde and later the Americans carried out more air raids. When the V1s began arriving over London the anti-aircraft batteries that ringed London during the blitz became something of a liability –if they shot down these flying bombs, they crashed on London in any case so a major removal of these batteries to the south coast was undertaken so that those that were shot down would crash into open farmland.
I remember that we soon learned to recognise the stuttering engine roar of the V1 (believe me, once heard, never forgotten). As soon as one came within earshot all activity ceased. Everybody would stare upwards, judging where it was as it approached. If it passed over everybody relaxed – some other poor b*****s would cop it. If the engine cut out before it had passed overhead everybody would dive for shelter – under the table, under the stairs, away from windows (flying glass could cut you to ribbons), under the bed , anywhere, in fact, that would provide a modicum of protection. There was never time to make it to the Anderson shelter in the garden. God help you if you were in the loo.
The V2 was a totally different kind of weapon. Whereas the V1 was powered by a ramjet, the V2 was a true rocket. It was fired upwards towards the stratosphere where it travelled until it ran out of fuel, at which point it turned over and began its descent.
For those of us on the receiving end, the V2 had one devilish characteristic – you never heard it coming. It travelled faster than the speed of sound, so the rocket arrived before the sound of its descent. The first knowledge we had of its arrival was an enormous explosion (it carried a warhead of a ton of explosive). If you heard it come down you had survived.
The government was worried that this stealthy attack would destroy Londoners’ morale and at first tried to explain away these sudden explosions as exploding gas mains. After a couple of days it became apparent that this story wouldn’t wash because London had never known so many gas mains to explode in so short a time scale.
In the meantime, the air raids on Peenemunde continued and drove the Nazis to set up its main V weapons manufacturing plant in a series of tunnels built into the Harz Mountains. Other launch points had been built in northern France (there’s one near Calais, called the Blockhouse of Eperleques, and is well worth a visit if you have a couple of hours and you are in the neighbourhood).
During the course of reading the book, I went to Google Earth and had a look at Peenemunde and its surroundings. It was 1000 kilometres away from Luxembourg – an easy two day drive – and it dawned on me that having been on the receiving end, it would be fascinating to see where these damned things started from. I told Jackie that I was thinking a trip to the Baltic would be very, very interesting. She indulged my whims – as she almost always does – so I looked online for a hotel and found one in the centre of Peenemunde. I booked a stay for 3 nights in mid-May, allowing two days to get there and two days to come back.
We left around 9 a.m. on a Sunday, driving at first towards Trier, shortly after which the autobahn petered out and we drove for about 45 minutes on normal roads. However, we soon enough rejoined the autobahn and carried on, stopping for coffee and for lunch. Traffic in our direction was comparatively light as heavy trucks are banned from the autobahn at weekends in the summer. We aimed to drive for about 600 kms the first day so as to leave us a comparatively light drive the next day. Traffic in the opposite direction was much heavier, luckily for us.
Once we passed the 600 kms mark I passed Jackie a road map and set her to looking for a small town which would be likely to have a hotel. She hit on Sovlau, which was about 30 kms ahead. We came down the slip road to a T junction, and thinking we may find a country hotel we turned right, away from the town itself. After 10 minutes driving all we had seen was forest and a decrepit camper van parked at the side of the road. We decided that we would turn round and head back towards Sovlau.
That was a good decision – a few minutes after repassing the autobahn slip road we came to a pleasant looking hotel called the Eden. We pulled over and I went in to enquire if they had a room for the night and if their restaurant was open. The answer to both questions was yes so I handed over my credit card and checked in. Our room was comfortable with a nice view of the hotel grounds and the fields beyond. It was a real pleasure to kick off our shoes, lie back on the bed and explore the German TV channels – none of which were showing anything even mildly interesting to us, so it was out with the Kindles.
The restaurant, we discovered later, was excellent and we had landed in the midst of the asparagus season, which vegetable featured large on the menu. In all the years we lived in Germany and all the times we have visited since I have never seen green asparagus there. The German variety is always white and has a delicate flavour which goes with its usual accompaniments, such as ham or prawns or simply hollandaise sauce or a vinaigrette. We had an excellent meal and were surprised at the reasonable prices, both for the room and the meal, including a half litre of red wine. This is probably because we were now in what was formerly the DDR and the prices haven’t yet risen to the Bundesrepublik levels.
Our departure wasn’t particularly early, as the breakfast buffet was very good and we weren’t in any great hurry. And anyway, I had never before seen jelly and custard on the breakfast buffet in a hotel. So I treated myself to a small helping. After about half an hour’s drive the traffic began to thin noticeably and after we passed Rostock it was very light indeed. I was driving our new car and it was nicely run in so I took it up to 170 kph then flicked on the cruise control and left it there for the next half hour. I don’t think I have ever seen such a deserted motorway and I was happy to make the most of it. Sadly, this beautiful stretch soon ended as we had to leave the autobahn and finish our journey over back roads, which were much more heavily populated. At one point we got stuck behind a slow-moving tanker which trundled on and on until we came to a small area of fast food restaurants, petrol stations and light industrial businesses. I grabbed the chance to turn off and headed for one of the fast food places. We had a fair salad lunch and a coffee then set off again for the final 30 miles or so.
We arrived at Peenemunde, checked with our hotel and found they could give us our room straight away, so we quickly unpacked and set off to explore the area. I knew that one of the attractions here was a Soviet Juliette-class submarine which comprised the Peenemunde maritime museum, so I asked the very helpful and friendly hotel owner how far it was and he told me it was just 300 metres away, so we took the car (not, I hasten to add, because we were too idle but because we were intending to go further after seeing the sub).
The sub itself is enormous and at first I thought it was a nuclear sub but it turned out to be a conventional boat – diesels for surface running and electric motors for underwater travel.
We were the only people about on a Monday afternoon outside the holiday season so we had the entire vessel to ourselves. We entered at the stern and slowly made our way forwards. Getting through the bulkheads which would have been closed by watertight doors during combat was no easy task – no matter how big the sub was the space for the crew was severely restricted. It must have been hell when they were submerged as the sleeping spaces were minuscule, as were the galleys and duty stations. There were six rear torpedo tubes and, I presume, the same in the bows. Just storing this number of torpedoes took up an enormous segment of the available space.
We made our way through, surrounded by cables, conduits, instruments and controls. I was disappointed to find that we couldn’t go into the conning tower. I was greatly curious to see the periscopes and fighting deck of the boat but access to it was forbidden.
When we emerged onto the deck it was a relief to breath fresh air that wasn’t tainted by the smell of diesel fuel and engine oil. The exterior needs a coat of paint now, but it’s pretty impressive all the same.
We walked along the dockside until we came to a fenced off building which turned out to be the former power station for the military research centre. Also there was another couple who were speaking English to each other, so we began chatting. They had already visited the V weapons museum and recommended it highly. We told them we intended to visit the next day and chatted for a while until their ferry for the mainland arrived.
That evening we drove to the town of Karlshagen for dinner. As usual for town on the Baltic, or any other sea for that matter, most of the restaurants’ menus leaned heavily towards fish and seafood. We found a small restaurant on a side street and dined on grilled halibut, which was not only delicious but very low carb.
After dinner we took a short stroll around town to work off some of the after effects of a good meal, then drove back to our hotel where it wasn’t long before we fell into bed.

 

[BillB]

Breakfast next morning was delicious, with various breads (good ones for a T2), eggs, ham, cheese, a variety of cold cuts and as much tea and coffee as you wanted. After that we made our way, stuffed, to the Peenemunde Museum, housed in buildings dating from the war years. This was slightly further away than the U-boat and once again we took the car as we weren’t sure what we were going to do for the rest of the day.
To get to the museum complex the visitor has to pass two replicas, first of the V1 then the V2. The V, incidentally, stands for Vergeltungswaffe, which means Vengeance weapon. Behind them stands a railway coach showing the type which was used to transport everything around the site, from materials to workers. A further walk brought us to the power station we had seen yesterday. We were able to walk inside and view some of the plant – turbines and other equipment. Much of what had been here was removed by the Russians at the end of the war, but it is still an epic size with about half of the interior blocked off by a glass wall that lets you see more of the plant but doesn’t let you touch it.
From there we crossed a grassy courtyard to the museum itself. It wasn’t quite clear whether the visitor was meant to start at the top and work his way down, or vice versa. We elected to climb to the top floor. Peenemunde regards itself as the home of space travel, as it was from here that the very first rocket left the Earth and entered space. The mastermind behind the Nazi rocket programme was Wernher von Braun who, to give him his due, was not a particularly ardent Nazi but lived, breathed and dreamt rockets. It had obsessed him since he was young and when he was offered the chance to work on the research programme he jumped at it. At the end of the war the Americans got him before the Russians did and they took him to the US where he became the father of the American rocket programme. I think it was a bit remiss of Hollywood to make a film of his life in the 1950s. It was even sillier to release the film in the UK. On one of the posters for the film, under the title I Aim for the Stars, some wag had added “but sometimes I miss and hit London.” The film was not a great success on this side of the Atlantic.
However, the subject of rockets is given a thorough exploration in this museum, and the explanations of the intricacies are crystal clear. You can also find batteries of electrical switching gear so that power could be directed around the area, boosting the current when needed at one point or another, and other insights into the technical side. There is so much to be seen, from the theoretical to the practical that we spent several hours there and much longer than we expected.
Leaving there we decided to drive down the eastern coast of the island to the town of Zinnowitz to seek out some lunch and to have a look around the town. After we had found a small café serving light lunches, we walked down the main street to the seafront. The Baltic beaches all seem to be beautiful sandy stretches. In the towns you can hire what the Germans call a Strandkorb or beach basket. This is not the type of basket you used to be able to get on some British beaches where you got a pot of tea, cups, milk and sugar to take down to the beach. No, these baskets are high backed and large enough to seat two. They can be hired by the hour. The nice thing about them is that you can turn them around to face away from the wind.
As we began to stroll back to the car we heard a band strike up in a nearby park so we detoured to have a look. We found a bandstand upon which a German army band was rehearsing and doing sound checks. This wasn’t the standard oompah music that you might expect – they were knocking out some swinging big band jazz. We found a couple of seats and joined the people enjoying the sunshine and the music. What a way to pass an afternoon.
At breakfast the next morning our host told us that there was a bus tour available from the main gates of the airport which would take us around the larger area of the site to places we couldn’t go alone. We thanked him and drove to the airport – a pretty small one that had been used for military aircraft from the Nazi period through the DDR years. Now it handles only light aircraft and ones which take visitors to view Usedom Island from the air.
A few yards away from the entrance we found a gentleman who assured us that he was indeed the tour guide we were seeking and along with three young men we bought tickets and duly set off. If you look at the area on Google Earth you will see not only how large an area this research centre covered, but many of the craters left by the wartime bombing.
Our tour took in the buildings erected as living quarters for some of the workers, test stands, launching pads, fuelling sites and test areas. From a historical point of view it’s a shame that the Russians destroyed so much of the infrastructure, but they can hardly be blamed for wishing to expunge every trace of Nazism from the face of Europe.
That afternoon we drove further down the coast as far as the Polish border where we turned back. We stopped to have a look around the seaside town of Ahlbeck, which was a pretty little place and we decided to have a coffee. However, I decided that I hadn’t given myself one of those wicked little treats for a very long time, so we stopped at an ice cream café and ordered sundaes. I chose one that I judged to have less sugar and thoroughly enjoyed it. There’s nothing like feeling sinful on a delightfully sunny day at the beach.
We took our last evening meal in a hotel in Karlshagen, for no other reason than that the menu sounded delicious and low carb. We weren’t disappointed.
Thursday morning found us enjoying a hearty breakfast before bidding farewell to our host and his family and beginning the long drive home. We had decided to repeat our plans, but in reverse – in other words, drive for about 600 kms the first day so that we’d have an easier drive the following day. Once again the first part of the drive on the autobahn was very pleasant with little traffic so as before I set the cruise control at just on 170 kph which I was able to maintain for quite a long stretch, but the traffic got thicker and thicker as we began to see the names of the big cities appearing on the autobahn signs – Rostock, Hamburg, Bremen and I reduced our speed.
We stopped for a quick snack lunch then drove on until about 4 p.m. when we turned off the autobahn and asked the GPS to list some of the nearby hotels. It came up with a Great Western that was only a few kilometres away so we set off for the town of Bad Salzuflen and the hotel. Best Western is a reliable chain of hotels and this was no exception. We checked in, parked the car in their underground car park and relaxed for a while before dinner.
The rest of the journey home was uneventful, except that several hundred yards before our exit the traffic came to a grinding halt. It seems there had been an accident up ahead so we were inching forward very slowly. After a while we breasted a hill and I could see the exit ahead. I pulled over and drove the last stretch on the hard shoulder. Jackie was having kittens, expecting to see me arrested at any moment but quite a few other drivers were doing the same thing and I thus arrived home without having my collar felt.

 

[daisy1]

Bill, I enjoy your accounts of your travels. Please keep writing :clap:

 

[BillB]

Thank you, Daisy, your kind comments are much appreciated. We are off to California on 12 June, staying with our old friends Claire and Terry. There has been a terrible tragedy in our American daughter in law's family. I don't want to be too specific but it involved a murder and suicide. This has not been a good year for our family. We're hoping that these things don't run in threes. Our younger son and his wife are now working their way through the probate process.

 

[BillB]

Our California trip has been and gone. When I was a teenager a week’s holiday seemed like an eternity – yet now 4 weeks seem to come and go just as quickly. Nevertheless, we settled in as we usually do, shopping and travelling around with Claire. At the end of the first week Claire will be leaving for Massachusetts as there is going to be a family reunion to bury her mother’s ashes. She plans on staying for 2 weeks so she’ll be with us for our first week and our last.
I started my routine of doing my brisk walk daily along the beach. It makes a nice change to trample the sands instead of walking along the Moselle. There was a heat wave going on which we were assured was not the norm for this part of California – fog is so frequent there that June is known as Gloomy June – this year was different. I find it an extremely pleasant way to start the day: there I am being passed by slender young ladies in short shorts jogging along who wish me a good morning. I think they like to hear my English accent – well, that’s my excuse, anyway.
We also quickly fall into the life of the Aptos neighbourhood. The lady across the way, Janet, called in a couple of tree fellers to take down a giant redwood in her front garden. All the neighbours gathered to watch. Janet has been complaining about the tree for years as it blocks the light and drops a mighty shower of pine needles regularly.
Soon after arriving, the workers started cutting off the branches at the bottom, quickly moving upwards. The fellow with the chain saw was in a cherry picker which his colleague manipulated from the control station on their truck. When he arrived about 10 feet below the summit, so to speak, he cut a notch on the side where it was to fall, then went back and began to cut into the trunk at the same level as the notch on the opposite side. Within a short time he had cut through the trunk and it fell, gracefully, to the ground on some adjacent waste land. The cherry picker was lowered about 10 feet and the same procedure was carried out. As he worked his way down the trunk got thicker and thicker so that each length of trunk made an almighty crash, that got louder each time and was shaking the ground to such an extent that an old lady who lived nearby thought there had been an earthquake and came out to see if there was any damage.
Just about the time the tree had been reduced to a stump about 4 feet high and 8 feet across, a van with an official-looking logo pulled up. Consternation all round. They served a cease and desist order on Janet and walked around looking very important. It seems that Giant Redwoods are protected by the town council, except in places where the tree is within 150 feet of the beach and then it becomes the responsibility of the Coastal Agency who can levy some pretty hefty fines. Think along the region of several thousand dollars.
The next morning the tree fellers were back to cut the lengths of tree trunk into more manageable chunks and began loading them onto their truck. Every now and then they would drive off their truck with the chunks of wood and return a while later and begin again. Janet was convinced that a neighbour had grassed her up and when she confronted him he denied it vehemently. We haven’t yet heard what the fine will be, but Claire and Terry’s house is much brighter inside without the giant tree blocking the light, and we have a view of the Pacific Ocean.
Just after Claire departed for New England Miriam and Jack, our friends from Denver, arrived. Jack had some family business to attend to in San Francisco so they came a couple of days early so we could spend time together. The first day we picked them up at their hotel in a town called Marina. We drove them down to Monterey, parked the car then strolled along Cannery Row, window shopping and generally playing the tourist. We went for lunch at a place called the Fish Hopper, one of our favourite restaurants where diners can sit and gaze out over the Pacific and the inshore kelp beds. It’s a rare day that you don’t see sea lions and otters and occasionally, if you’re really, really lucky, you’ll see humpback whales or sperm whales or blue whales, sometimes dolphins and porpoises. Gulls, cormorants and pelicans stare down into the water, waiting for fish that they can pounce on. We sat and enjoyed our aperitifs, scanning the vivid blue sky and the glittering ocean. I can assure you that life doesn’t get much better for this onetime hard up kid from South London.
The following morning we suggested that we start off with a visit to Carmel by the Sea (where Clint Eastwood was once mayor) where we could have a stroll around the delightful little shopping area. Carmel is one of the most sought after areas to live, so the property prices are sky high to match the demand. Jackie and I have decided that if we ever win the lottery we’re going to buy a holiday home in either Pacific Grove or Carmel. That’ll be in our next life, of course.
There are a lot of high priced art galleries in Carmel and I have to confess that apart from some of the sculptures their attraction completely eludes me.
From Carmel we drove to another of our faves, Tarpy’s Roadhouse. Claire introduced us to this wonderful restaurant where we keep returning. I’ve mentioned before that with a name like that I expected a shack full of bikers with straggly beards and beer bellies. What we found instead is an elegant building set in a grove of pine trees with an ornamental lake and a fountain playing in the centre. There is a small courtyard and a shaded terrace or diners can sit inside. But it doesn’t matter where you sit – the food is superb by any standards. You can take something simple and traditional such as meat loaf which is served with garlic mashed potatoes and makes you realise that an everyday dish like this has been raised to a level you never thought was possible. Or try the grilled halibut or pan seared scallops and your tongue will think it’s arrived in Heaven ahead of you. Jack and Miriam were as bowled over by Tarpy’s as we were. When Jack explained he was allergic to garlic (among other things) the waitress promised him that his meal would contain no garlic whatsoever. When it arrived he was delighted – even the vinaigrette dressing on his salad was specially made without garlic.
After lunch we thought they might like to view Big Sur, or at least part of it, so we made for Highway 1 and followed it down the coast, passing Point Lobos. We stopped off at various lay byes so they could take in the fabulous coastline and snap away with their cameras. In this slow but enjoyable fashion we got as far as Bixby Bridge, which is a very photogenic feature of this part of the coast where we stopped and took pictures of the soaring cliffs and the beautiful structure of the bridge.
After this we made our way slowly back, stopping off at a delightful little shopping centre for a coffee. From there it was a short amble back to Marina and their hotel, where we said our farewells and drove back to Aptos.
Our younger son, meanwhile, has been working with his wife to track down the estates of her family members who died in the recent tragedy. They have bought a house up in the woods inland from Santa Cruz and have moved in since we returned home, which means that we haven’t yet seen it. For some years now they have been keen competitive shooters and he invited us to join him at a nearby shooting range for some practise. I have always been a reasonable shot, going back to the days when I was a Boy Scout and we were allowed to use the rifle range at the Greenwich Naval College, where I earned my marksman’s badge (which I was very proud of). That was for .22 rifles and when I did my National Service in the RAF I got to fire .303 Lee Enfield rifles and Bren guns. Again I was a reasonable shot but after basic training I didn’t get anywhere near a firearm until this visit to California.
Our son duly arrived, armed to the teeth with a .22 rifle, a 9mm Glock pistol, and a .22 Glock pistol, all locked and secure. We drove down to the range in Watsonville where we signed in, and were given a verbal list of the rules. Our son rented a Smith and Wesson .357 magnum revolver and the ammunition for it, as well as a number of targets along with ear defenders for all three of us. There were several people already firing away at their targets with a variety of guns so the ear defenders were very necessary. Our son loaded up his .22 Glock with a full magazine, set up the target at 25 yards and fired. He was aiming at the head on the target and did a pretty good job of grouping his shots. Then he reloaded the pistol and passed it on to me. To differentiate my shots from his I aimed at the heart area of the target figure and was quite satisfied that after all these years my grouping wasn’t at all bad. We followed this up with the 9mm weapon, and once again our son shot a good grouping before reloading and passing it over to me. This pistol, being of larger calibre, had a more powerful recoil and I was glad I was using the two-handed grip. Once again, my clip of 9 rounds all hit the target, but my grouping was more widespread than our son’s. We moved on to the .22 rifle with pretty much the same results, and then came the .357 Magnum revolver. This had a much lighter trigger pull than the Glock and the recoil was much greater than any of the other weapons. But it was very accurate and as long as I took my time, my grouping was all within a very small area.
At this point Jackie, who cannot see why our son needs guns as a hobby, decided that she would give it a try herself. The .22 Glock was loaded up for her and she began firing away. This was the first time she ever touched a firearm of any description, let alone fired one, but though her spread was wider than our son’s (and mine) it wasn’t that bad. Given a few more weeks of regular shooting she might well prove to be a good competitor.

 

[BillB]

As everybody knows, July 4 is one of the biggest celebrations in the US and from the East Coast to the West the world’s biggest party takes place. Terry’s father, my old friend Bob from my days at Stars and Stripes, always held open house on that day and the entire neighbourhood used to flock there as Bob was known as one of town’s greatest hosts. There used to be enormous bowls of cole slaw, green salad, tuna salad, egg salad and bean salad. Burgers, steaks and spare ribs sizzled on the barbecue, while corn on the cob simmered away in enormous cookpots in the kitchen. Beer, wine and soft drinks were there for everyone to help themselves and there was a constant stream of friends and neighbours from all directions, all anxious to share Bob’s lust for life.
When age and poor health advanced and made it impossible for Bob to act as the life and soul of Aptos, his grandson Michael, Claire and Terry’s son, took over the tradition. He lives in Sunnyvale, a small town near San Francisco and we were invited, as we always are when we’re there at that time of year.
Now at this point I have a confession to make – I have a new girlfriend. She is gorgeous with black, curly hair and vivid blue eyes. It took a little while for her to come around to my charms but after an initial coolness, she succumbed. I should also say that Jackie doesn’t mind at all. My new girlfriend, Dakota, is the daughter of Michael and his Mexican wife, Monica, and she’s two years old.
When we arrived in Sunnyvale, Dakota was initially suspicious of me and kept her distance, giving me distinctly old-fashioned looks. However, she had a little playmate there and a paddling pool which Michael had filled with water where the pair of them spent a lot of time.
The weather was very torrid in Sunnyvale but fortunately Michael’s garden has lemon trees and avocados to provide shade from the blistering sun and he had slung awnings between the trees to give us plenty of shade.
Michael gave yeoman service at the barbecue where he cooked the burgers, bratwurst and chops. Some of his guests brought dishes – one of his guests is a Japanese sushi chef who brought along a great plate of unbelievably tasty sushi (my best low carb intentions were trashed that day, I’m afraid)
What a time we had – I restricted myself to red wine for the entire afternoon, and I was careful about that, so you’ll have to forgive me for polishing my halo.
At first Michael, having invited us, was struck by doubts about whether, as British citizens we would be offended. I assured him we didn’t hold 250 year old grudges and we joined in with a swing.
A week later Michael invited us to join him and his family at a cabin in Calaveras County National Park. A friend owned the cabin and told Michael to take it any time so he invited his parents and us for the weekend. Calaveras County will be a familiar name to any who has read the Mark Twain story, The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County. The only outlay was for us to pay for the cleaning and laundry – which divvied up to $50 per couple Not bad for a long weekend in a log cabin.
The great attraction in that area is the Calaveras Giant Redwood Park, which is only a couple of miles from the cabin.
We travelled up with Claire and Terry as Michael, Monica and Dakota were travelling separately. On the way up we stopped for coffee, or something cooler seeing as how swelteringly hot it was. We pulled off the road into a McDonald’s and inside discovered that they had an iced coffee on their list. We all ordered one apiece and we discovered it was absolutely delicious.
We were travelling through Gold Country, the area where gold was discovered in 1849. At the time of year we were there the grassy hillsides had dried out and turned to a shade of gold. Terry pointed out that these were known as the Golden Hills of California – and they were truly golden in the sunlight.
We stopped for lunch in the little town of Arnold where once again we found a small restaurant where we were served with friendliness and charm by our waitress. As I wasn’t driving I was able to order the whisky I usually enjoy before dinner (yes, I know this was lunchtime, but who’s bothering about time?). From Arnold we drove about 15 minutes and found our cabin, thanks to my unfailing TomTom.
My first impression was how big it was – the words “log cabin” bring a small structure to mind but this was huge, with a large living room, dining room, kitchen, and one bedroom with bathroom on the ground floor, and more bedrooms and bathrooms on the upper floor. In the living area there was a large, rear projection TV and a selection of DVDs.
We had a barbecue dinner that evening whose ingredients were brought up by M&M in a cool box. I can never resist a combination of bratwurst, pork chops, burgers and corn on the cob. Dakota suddenly decided that she wanted to sit next to me and we became the greatest of friends for the rest of the weekend. Jackie and I fell into bed soon after clearing up the dishes and stacking them in the dishwasher.
I was awake early the next morning – suffering from a thumping headache – and no, it wasn’t a hangover : I hadn’t drunk enough for that. Jackie passed me a couple of painkillers which kicked in quite quickly, but didn’t entirely eliminate the pain. I was feeling somewhat odd.
We were heading for the Giant Redwood Park that morning which Michael knew well from previous visits to the cabin, so we followed him to the park and we all set off for the walkers’ circuit. Dakota clung to me like glue, holding my hand and leading me along.
These Redwoods are truly awe-inspiring, not just in the thickness of their trunks but also in their height. It is impossible to do them justice with a camera as you can never get all of a tree into the viewfinder. We came to a trunk that had been cut down and I sat Dakota on top of the cut end and took a photo. It’s a great shot with this tiny-looking child sitting on top of a tree trunk that is about as thick through the trunk as I am tall.
And this I found was a great way to shoot the trees – placing Dakota beside them or in front of them while she beamed happily at me.
Then she decided that she wanted me to carry her. Well, I can assure you that it’s been a good many years since I last carried a 2 year old and after a couple of hundred yards I truly felt like Sinbad with the Old Man of the Sea on his back. Fortunately, Michael relieved me of the weight (well, he’s about twice as big as I am). On top of that, my headache had returned and I took a couple more painkillers with lunch.
After quitting the park we drove back to Arnold to buy the ingredients for dinner. American supermarkets usually have the most incredible array of vegetables and fruit – and they always seem bigger than the ones in Europe. Dakota is one of those unusual children who love vegetables such as broccoli and asparagus so they were among our purchases.
Dinner was again prepared on the barbecue and we sat around outside listening to the birds and enjoying the silence of the forest. Jackie and I went for a walk among the trees, noting that ours was the only cabin that was occupied.
Next morning I woke up early again, and once more I had a thumping headache. Jackie was still asleep and I didn’t want to waken her, but to my headache I could add nausea and finally I realised I would have to make a dash to the bathroom, where I parted with the remains of last night’s dinner. And then I realised why I was suffering from this blinding headache and nausea – we were at an elevation of more than 5000 feet. The last time I had felt like this was in Tibet, but there I had been at an altitude of over 12000 feet. I hadn’t realised that I would be so affected at a comparatively low elevation.
Jackie told Claire before breakfast what my problem was so Claire insisted we leave straight after breakfast to get me closer to sea level as quickly as possible. Few people realise how dangerous altitude sickness is, but among the risks you run is the possibility of a stroke.
As we headed back towards the coast, descending all the way, my symptoms began to subside and within an hour I was back to my old self.
We stopped at another McDonald’s in Modesto this time for a second iced coffee and then later stopped at a place called the Casa da Fruta just off Highway 101. This is a place offering not just meals in the restaurant, but fruit, bakery and cakes, and a variety of other goods in different buildings. I was feeling much better and was able to enjoy a Mexican snack.
We arrived home and I was feeling none the worse for my bout of altitude sickness – just as well as we were due to fly out a few days later. However, the day wasn’t yet done as we had promised to take Ted and Susan, neighbours of Claire and Terry, to Tarpy’s for dinner that evening. Surprisingly, they had never heard of it until we mentioned it and told them it was one of the best restaurants in Central California. After dinner, they agreed with us and all six of us trundled back up Highway 1 to Aptos.
And that was about the last outing for us in this trip to California. We flew out of San Francisco and had an uneventful trip home.
As I write, Claire is presently in Switzerland. Her son, who lives in Australia and is married to an Australian girl with whom he has two young daughters, has been seconded from his company to their office in Switzerland. She’ll be staying there for several weeks until she is joined by Terry, then Jackie and I will drive down there, pick them up and bring them back to Luxembourg. A couple of days later the four of us will be leaving for our journey around the UK which has been planned for a good while. I just hope the weather holds out for us.

 

[BillB]

Had an interesting experience after our return from California. I’m always a little wary of my bg levels after a visit to the States – US food is not particularly diabetes friendly with the American sweet tooth’s influence. However, I usually manage to find food that I can handle or eat around the things I can’t.
Two days after our return I went for my 7 month blood test, prior to an appointment with my endocrinologist. I should go back to the beginning when I was first diagnosed in 2008. My endocrinologist put me first on Metformin (called Glucophage here) and when this didn’t bring my HbA1c down low enough she added Januvia. As I became more familiar with the requirements of Type 2 diabetes as regards exercise and diet my bg levels began to fall. When I had my HbA1c levels down consistently to 5.5/5.7 the doctor increased the length of time between appointments from 6 months to 7/8 months.
My previous reading was 5.5, at which point the Metformin was reduced, with the doc telling me that 6 was a good reading. This time the blood test was 5.6 so she made more adjustments to my meds, prescribing a mix of Januvia and Metformin called Janumet, which I have to take twice a day, morning and evening. She also warned me that keeping it consistently low wasn’t good, either. It seems I’m being too hard on myself.
As Jackie remarked when I got back from the appointment, “You must be the only diabetic in the world whose doctor is trying to get your bg levels up.”

 

[BillB]

As the date for our tour of the UK approached life began to take on a hectic note. Our Californian friends, Terry and Claire, who were joining us added a visit to their son and his family in Lausanne prior to travelling to us. Their son had just been transferred from Australia to Switzerland by his company for a two year secondment so they thought this would be a good chance to pay them a visit while they were on this side of the Atlantic.
However, when they came to looking at the best ways to travel from Lausanne to Luxembourg they hit a couple of snags. Air travel was too expensive for such a comparatively short journey, while doing the journey by train was ridiculously expensive with no possibility of a seniors’ reduction. It was also very, very slow, taking virtually the whole day. In the end we volunteered to drive down there on the Thursday, spend the night, then drive back with them on the Friday. That would leave us with Saturday to pack before leaving for the UK on Sunday morning. That was a riotously active few days, believe me!
Neither of us had been to Switzerland for at least 20 years so it would prove an informative trip. We left home at around 8 am and drove via Saarbrucken and Strasbourg. The traffic wasn’t too bad and we had a fairly smooth drive. I had found a hotel online which was situated in Montreux on the shores of Lac Leman (also known as Lake Geneva) and we checked in just after 2 pm. Our room had a very elegant balcony with views over the lake to the mountains in the south. We sat out there for a while, recovering from the drive, and admired the view. Around 6 we phoned Claire and Terry who gave us directions to reach their son’s apartment. It was a drive of only 15 minutes and the traffic was light so we got there without too much stress, the built-in GPS system helping out there. We had met their son before but not his Australian wife or their two young daughters so we chatted for a while before leaving for dinner at a restaurant that Claire had discovered.
The next morning when we raised the blinds we were staggered by the view: as the sun rose it began to illuminate the mountain tops across the lake. The peaks were bathed in a golden glow, which began to move imperceptibly down the slopes. We both grabbed our cameras and began shooting – straight on shots, shots of the mountains reflected in the lake, shots to the side where the sun’s glow reflected in the still waters. We had to call a halt to that, though, as we had to have breakfast and pick up Claire and Terry for the trip back to Luxembourg. The view from the breakfast terrace was just as spectacular and we sat there enjoying our first meal of the day while gazing out at nature’s beauties.
After we picked up Claire and Terry our journey back was surprisingly smooth. It was a Friday and I would have been expecting more traffic but it turned out that there was less than on the day before. Which was a mixed blessing because when we returned from the UK I discovered a speeding ticket from the French authorities – fortunately I had only been travelling 7 kph over the limit at that spot so the fine was less than £30.
On Sunday morning we left around 9 after Terry did a spot of jigsaw puzzling about packing the boot of the car. He managed it with the third go. There is also a confession to make here – Jackie thought it might be better, in order to pack four people’s luggage, if she and I used flexible bags rather than rigid suitcases. Our son had lent her one of his and I bought another for myself. That was a big mistake as they took up more space in the boot than our rigid cases would have.
We left home, making our way through Belgium to Calais. Sundays on the Continent see less heavy goods traffic so once again we had a fairly relaxed drive. After embarking on the ferry we discovered the wind was quite gusty so the sea was fairly rough, though the captain assured us the stabilizers were deployed so the crossing wouldn’t be too bad. Claire is not a good sailor, she had warned us in advance, and after about 45 minutes she began to feel queasy. Luckily, the Calais/Dover crossing is only about 75 minutes, and ten minutes of that is in Dover harbour manoeuvring into the berth. Once underway in the car again, Claire was fine.
Our first stop was Whitstable where we had booked a B&B for two nights. We checked in, unloaded the car and took a short rest before driving the short distance to my cousin Mark’s place. We enjoyed a drink with him and Suzanne before leaving for the restaurant where Mark had booked a table for the six of us. We had eaten there before and Jackie and I unerringly went for the Beef Wellington – delicious.
One of the must sees on this trip was Canterbury and that’s just where we headed the next morning. Suzanne joined us and proved to be an excellent guide and fount of knowledge about the city and its history. First off we headed for the Cathedral where we were shocked to find that the entrance charge was £18 per person. I can’t pretend to be a devout Christian but I was shocked at this sky high charge – so much so that we all decided to forego a visit to the interior. What happens when a better Christian than I needs to go in for prayer or just for spiritual comfort I hate to think.
We stopped off for a coffee and then continued our perambulations around the city. Quite by chance we stumbled on the possibility of a cruise in a punt along the River Stour. In all my life I have never been in a punt before, even though we had a boat on the Thames for 10 years. Our pole man was a greatly entertaining character who talked about the buildings we were passing and other sights along the way in a manner that kept us all amused. The Stour is quite shallow as it passes through Canterbury so one can see fish swimming into the gentle current and the wild birds dash back and forth chasing the flying insects that skim the water’s surface. You can see a totally different view of Canterbury from one of these punts.
After a quick mobile lunch of pasties we headed off for the coast, taking in some of Kent’s prettiest countryside. We parked in Rye and had a walk around the antique shops as Terry can never resist one – he collects cameras – and there are a lot of antique shops in Rye. I don’t have enough patience for browsing old bits and pieces (I’m one of the old bits and pieces myself now) so I stepped into a coffee shop while the others carried on their window shopping. By the time they straggled into the coffee shop for a restorative latte it was getting on time to head back to Whitstable, where we dropped off Suzanne and then made our way back to our B&B to put our feet up for a couple of hours before heading back to Mark and Suzanne’s for fish and chips, and I was very careful about how many chips I ate and picking the fish out of the batter. However, with the intake of a enough wine we had a riotous evening. It was going to be our last time with Mark and Suzanne for a while so we were all determined to make the most of it.
The following day we had breakfast and checked out of our B&B. Our destination that day was Greenwich which was a simple journey along the A299 until we joined the M2, then it was simply follow the motorway until we reached Blackheath. We explained to them that it’s alleged that Blackheath was where many of the dead from the Great Plague were buried.
We headed downhill towards Greenwich, past my old school, and drove them around many of the places that had played a big part in our respective younger days. We showed them the site of the house where Jackie lived with her mother and father until it was demolished to make way for a badly designed council estate (as is customary, the architect won an award for his design – it’s not a pleasant place to live, I’ve heard). They asked where the house was that I was living in when it was bombed. I drove them to Dinsdale Road and showed them the front of the house. I told them that it was the back of the house that bore the brunt of the bomb, which was why the front still looked like it did in the ‘30s. We were in the Anderson shelter in the back garden, so were only a matter of yards from the explosion.
From here we drove into Greenwich Park and parked by the Observatory. Standing by General Wolfe’s statue gives a marvellous view over London and it’s a great spot for taking pictures of the Queen’s House, the National Maritime Museum and the old Greenwich Naval College (now the University of Greenwich). We walked around to the Greenwich Meridian where Terry insisted on having his picture taken standing astride the 0 degrees line, with a foot in each half of the world. Of course, a visit to the Observatory is obligatory when you’re in the spot, so we duly did so.
Following this stroll down memory lane we made our way to the hotel we were booked into for the next three nights. We checked in and had a light lunch in the hotel restaurant. Claire and Terry went up to their room while I walked to my bank, a matter of 30 yards away from the hotel and fixed up online access to my account. I followed this by heading for Greenwich Pier and booking four tickets on the boat to Westminster Pier for the following day.
In the evening we went for a walk around the area and stumbled onto a nice looking Vietnamese restaurant. We went in and enjoyed a really good meal at a very reasonable price. And chatting to our waiter I discovered that he and I had attended the same school, although with an interval of about 50 years. We took a further walk after dinner to view the Cutty Sark, Samuel Pepys’s house and some of the other historic monuments close to the Thames.
That night I slept as soundly as I have ever done – out like a light as soon as my head touched the pillow.

 

[BillB]

It was an early start to have breakfast and be at Greenwich Pier in time for the first boat of the day. It’s a pity that the weather wasn’t kinder to us as it was overcast, but it did improve later on. The cruise up the Thames was fascinating for Claire and Terry who had never spent time in London before. There was a commentary which pointed out historical buildings, including the dock where the Mayflower had tied up before it sailed for America. Other points of interest kept our guests’ heads swivelling. We could see the dome of St. Paul’s rising above the riverside buildings, and the quaint old pub The Prospect of Whitby, which I visited many years ago.
They loved seeing the Tower of London and Tower Bridge, though as it was high tide Traitor’s Gate was underwater. We stopped at Tower Pier to allow passengers on and off and then carried on upstream. They didn’t know about the Monument, built on the site of Pudding Lane where the Great Fire of London first broke out, and which is clearly visible from the river.
We disembarked at Westminster Pier where I pointed out the statue of Boadicea (who for some reason known only to the politically correct is now known as Boudicca). I was also able to ask them if they could see what is wrong with the statue. They studied it for a while but eventually gave up. I heard the answer a good few years ago so I was able to be pretend to be really smug – there she stands in her chariot, the horses at full gallop, blades extending from the wheel hubs designed to chop off the legs of the Roman legionnaires at the knees. Her handmaiden shares the chariot with the queen of the Iceni. There is only one thing missing – there are no reins so she has no way of controlling or guiding her horses. On the other hand, putting reins on a bronze statue would have been well nigh impossible.
We crossed over the road toward the Houses of Parliament – past St Stephen’s Tower, usually misnamed as Big Ben (Big Ben is the bell which you hear when the clock is chiming).
The tourist hustle and bustle was in full swing as we passed Parliament and walked on towards Westminster Abbey. We caught sight of the lines of people, queuing for entrance. We went to have a look at the entry fees and once again were shocked at the cost - £18 per person. To be honest there was a discount of £3 for pensioners, but we felt this was still extortionate so we decided not to go in. One of the managers of the queues was quite indignant and told us they had been charging for entrance since 1806. I’m sure that wasn’t true as I remember going inside with my parents when I was a kid and I know my folks wouldn’t have paid that kind of money (or any kind of charge, come to that).
So we ambled across Parliament Square and strolled up Whitehall, past the Cenotaph. I was able to tell them about the Cenotaph and the time dopey old Michael Foot had turned up for the Armistice Day ceremonies wearing a donkey jacket.
Partway up we walked past the entrance to Downing Street. As a kid I had walked down that street with my parents. A uniformed PC had asked if we would walk on the other side of the road as the PM was in residence. Now, large iron gates block the entrance and police with sub-machine guns bar the curious from entering, and government members from exiting so they can fit them up. From there we walked on towards the mounted sentries and into Horse Guards Parade. From here we could see Churchill’s underground war rooms (now covered in ivy), the rear of 10 Downing Street, and the splendid green vista of St James’s Park. Terry and Claire hadn’t realised that this area is where the annual ceremony of Trooping the Colour takes place on the Queen’s official birthday.
From there it was back to Whitehall, heading towards Trafalgar Square, stopping off for a glass of wine in one of the pubs we passed. Well refreshed, we negotiated the traffic to get to Nelson’s Column and the fountains. I fell into my tour guide mode, indicating St Martin-in-the-Fields, the National Gallery and, further up Charing Cross Road, the National Portrait Gallery. The weather had improved considerably with the sun shining upon us as we made our way through Admiralty Arch and started walking down the Mall towards Buckingham Palace. Part way down we came upon a group of people in 19th century dress and discovered that we had stumbled on a film set where the stars were Meryl Streep and Johnny Depp. The film is called Into the Woods, and we’re going to make a point of seeing it when it’s released on our side of the Channel. Neither of the two stars were in evidence, but lots of extras were waiting at the mobile canteen.
We carried on down the Mall, crossed over to reach the railings of the Palace where we watched the guards marching back and forth and wondering who was in the cars entering and exiting the gates. One thing we all agreed on, however: our collective feet ached so we hailed a taxi to take us back to Westminster Pier where we had a pleasant piece of luck. A boat was there, just about to leave, so we made our way along the walkways and stepped on board just moments before the lines were hauled in and once more we were cruising the river.
The return cruise was much more interesting as one of the crew members gave us a running commentary on the riverside sights. He was highly knowledgeable and very witty, keeping his passengers well entertained. And I had a personal first – as we approached Tower Pier, we noticed the lights on the roadway of Tower Bridge begin to flash. Traffic stopped and within a couple of minutes the bridge began to rise. Looking around I saw one of the old Thames barges, those beautiful sailing barges with their red sails that used to ply up and down the river when I was growing. Its mast was too high to pass under the bridge, so the bridge was raised for it. Now, having been born and bred in London and having spent most of my years before moving abroad in London I had never seen Tower Bridge open up. Never.
When we got to Greenwich I suggested that we go and try to visit the Painted Hall again. And this time we were lucky - it was open. And it was just as magnificent as I remembered it to be. Claire and Terry were awestruck at the ornate decoration that covers the walls and ceiling. It truly is one of the great treasures of the world.
The commentator on our return down the Thames had mentioned a bar and restaurant in Greenwich called the Trafalgar Tavern. I remembered it from my younger days but had never been in there – my parents weren’t into eating in restaurants, except where strictly unavoidable. It sits on the riverfront right next to the Naval College so we went along there to have a look at the menu. It seemed okay so I went in and reserved a table for that evening.
We went back to our rooms and flopped for a couple of hours then went together to the Tavern where we had an excellent meal while watching the sun set on the river. A memorable evening.
We split up the next morning, Terry and I wishing to visit the National Maritime Museum while Jacky and Claire thought that a morning shopping was a more attractive alternative.
I had often spent Sunday afternoon, in those days probably the most boring time of the week, in the Maritime Museum and remembered the magnificent models of ships throughout the ages that were on display – from the finely detailed warships of Nelson’s day to World War 2 vessels, Japanese, German, American and British. I used to stare in awe at these intricately detailed vessels. I had told Terry about them and he was looking forward to seeing them. Disappointment – in the rush to make the Museum more “inclusive” the number of models on view was severely reduced so there were only about 8 models which were displayed in cutaway mode.
To make up for our disappointment Terry and I, both diabetics, went to the cafeteria and had a tea and an apple turnover. Well, sometimes you just have to rebel.
We met up with Jacky and Claire when Jacky presented me with a book on the Shackleton expeditions with original photos which she had found in the covered market. It’s sitting in our living room right now, waiting for me to finish an extremely long novel before I bury myself in Shackleton’s exploits in the Arctic and Antarctic.
That afternoon, while Terry took a nap and Claire immersed herself in her iPad, Jackie and I took a drive down to the Thames Barrier at Woolwich. I had only seen it from a distance, except once when we took our boat down there from St Katharine’s Dock. I looked it up on the web and discovered that there was a visitors’ centre and a viewing area along the bank. When you’re standing there alongside it, it looks pretty big; but then again, it has to hold back a substantial weight of water if the worst ever happens. While looking around we got into conversation with a couple of New Zealanders who had walked the riverside path from Lechlade to the Barrier.
That evening we returned to the Vietnamese restaurant where we had eaten on the first night. Everybody had paid heed to my raving about the shrimp in chili black bean sauce and we ordered four portions. It was every bit as good as on our previous visit.
Next morning it was to be checkout, then departure for the New Forest, our destination for the next three nights.

 

[BillB]

Down to the M2, turn on to the M25, then on to the M3. A surprisingly fast journey without too much traffic, and the M25 wasn’t being used as a car park that morning either. After leaving the M3 we took a slow drive through the New Forest towards Ringwood, where we had booked our B&B. As we approached Ringwood we saw a pub called the Fish Inn which looked like a good place for lunch so we parked and had a look at the menu. This proved attractive so we went in and weren’t disappointed, considering we were only looking for a light lunch. Not only was the food good but their house wine wasn’t at all bad.
After lunch it was too early to check in at our B&B so we went on to have a look at more of the forest, hoping to see some of the ponies that wander wherever they wish. Disappointingly, we didn’t see many of them, but Claire and Terry were charmed by the New Forest towns – Lyndhurst and Brockenhurst. We stopped off and took a closer look at these places, had a coffee and generally just loafed around the area.
Later in the afternoon we checked in to our accommodation, which turned out to have lovely views over the meadows to the forest. Approaching dinnertime, our hosts gave us the names of several restaurants in Ringwood and directions. We parked in the big car park and strolled down the high street, sussing out the restaurants. We read through several menus and settled on a restaurant called Indian Tree. It was already pretty full, but they managed to find a table for the four of us. When the meal was served we were really impressed. This was, as its name implied, an Indian restaurant, but it had taken the subcontinent’s cuisine to a level I had never experienced before. We were delighted with the quality of the dishes and the wine and had a thoroughly enjoyable meal. If you’re ever in Ringwood and are looking for somewhere to eat, then you need look no further than the Indian Tree.
Our B&B proved comfortable in the extreme and we all enjoyed a good night’s sleep. For breakfast next morning we had a choice but I settled for the full English with fried eggs, bacon, mushrooms and sausage. Excellent for a diabetic. Our host advised us that there was a carnival in Ringwood that day and many streets were closed off, so we decided to avoid the town and head for Stonehenge. As we got closer to the ancient monument the traffic began to clog up until it reached full traffic jam status. It seems that this road is notorious for its holdups on a daily basis and there have been calls for it to be widened, or even bypassed. However, we finally got to the entrance to the visitor centre and were able to turn in to the car park. There were a fair number of visitors already there but there were plenty of parking spaces. The site itself is roped off, obviously to protect the ancient stones from the constant wear and tear of an army of visitors clambering all over them. They’re still an astonishing sight after almost 5,000 years, and their purpose still remains unexplained. There are, of course, a number of theories, but that’s all they are – theories.
At the end of our visit we took one look into the visitor centre, saw how crowded it was and made straight back to the car and headed out towards Old Sarum, that strange village, originally an Iron Age fort, which was abandoned by its inhabitants after a new cathedral was built in what is now Salisbury. The history of this place is amazing, making it a worthwhile place to visit as it’s close to both Salisbury and Stonehenge, and not far from Avebury. Claire was particularly caught up in its history and she took many, many photos of the remains. Sarum is only a couple of miles from Salisbury, our next destination.
We parked the car near the cathedral and had lunch in a pub called The Cloisters, which turned out to be enjoyable – good food and friendly staff. From there it’s a short walk to the cathedral. There is no entrance fee as at other historic places of worship but visitors are asked to make a voluntary donation, which we all did.
One of the fascinating facts about the cathedral is that it was originally built with a square tower, supported by four granite columns. Later on it was decided to add a spire to the top of the tower. The spire is the tallest in the UK. However, this added so much weight to the existing structure that the granite columns began to bow inwards. If you stand in front of the columns, the bowing is clearly visible. But there’s no need to worry – the columns have been standing there with their pronounced curve since 1320.
Another great attraction is the Magna Carta. There wasn’t just one copy – several were made to be circulated among the nobles of the time and one of them is on display in the cathedral. Alongside it is a translation into modern English. It looks quite insignificant, yet it is the bedrock on which the tradition of British freedom was built.
We had a coffee in the Refectory Restaurant in the cathedral before heading back to Ringwood.
Having been on the go since early morning we took it easy for a couple of hours before heading off for dinner. The news was that the carnival was still ongoing and it would be much wiser to avoid it. This time we made for Christchurch, about 20 minutes’ drive. And this is where the evening descended into farce. We drove up and down the high street without seeing much in the way of restaurants or pubs that were inviting. Someone mentioned a pub we had passed on the road to Christchurch and as it had looked promising we decided to head back and have a look at it and the menu. Unfortunately, there are two roads running between Ringwood and Christchurch and on the way back we took the wrong one. Thus we found ourselves back in Ringwood where the carnival was still going on and roads were blocked in what seemed like all directions. It didn’t seem to matter which way we turned, we came to a road that was closed for the evening. “I know,” I said with a stroke of my customary genius. “Let’s head back towards Christchurch and we should come to that pub.” So we set off back to Christchurch. And once again we took the wrong road, mainly because we couldn’t reach the other one due to the carnival, so we missed the pub – again.
That’s it, I thought, now we’re back in Christchurch we’re going to drive around until we find any sort of pub or restaurant that looks halfway decent. We then drove around and discovered that what we had earlier thought was the High Street was not. But we found the High Street and passed several pubs which unfortunately were showing football on big screen TVs, so we passed them by on the grounds that they would be unbearably noisy. Then, oh, the joy of it. We came to an Italian restaurant which looked okay and people were sitting inside eating. I parked the car nearby and we went to have a look at the menu. Since two of us were diabetics we didn’t really want a place that only did pizza and pasta, but we were fortunate as they also had seafood, fish and meat.
We had a good meal then we headed back to Ringwood. By this time of night the carnival was over and the roads had been reopened. We made our way straight to our B&B without any more diversions. To say we all slept solidly that night is something of an understatement.

 

[BillB]

Hello Kethy, welcome to the forum. I’m not clear in my mind what exactly you wish to know so why don’t you start off by telling us a little about yourself, such as what type of diabetes you have, what medication are you on, how long have you been diagnosed, what diet do you follow, where do you live, what kind of work do you do, and so on. I would be happy to offer you the benefit of my experience of life and I’m sure that there are plenty more people on the forum who would be glad to help. Look forward to hearing from you.

 

[BillB]

I wonder what happened to Kethy. It was hard to tell from his impenetrable English exactly what he wanted, but I have a more than sneaking suspicion what he was after. I also have an idea that the moderators had the same thoughts as I did. However, onwards and upwards.
Next morning, still feeling a bit of a Charlie, I suggested that we had a drive around some of Dorset’s beauty spots as we were only a couple of miles from the Dorset border. Everybody was in agreement so we set off driving towards Corfe Castle. I had visited the castle many years before and as I remembered it the castle sat in splendid isolation on top of a hill beside the road. We left the car in the car park at the bottom of the hill and began the walk up. Arriving at the top I felt totally disoriented – there was a village up there with cafes, restaurants and shops. Either my mind was beginning to wander or I had visited an entirely different castle (no, I knew that I had been here before – I just couldn’t remember the village at the top of the hill). However, having visited the castle before Jackie and I went for a coffee in a bakery while Claire and Terry went for a walk around the village and a visit to the castle. When they returned they found us ensconced in the window seat of the bakery, finishing our coffee and sharing a slice of cake.
Returning to the car we drove on towards Lulworth Cove, which we have visited several times since the 1950s and regard it as one of the most perfect coves we have ever seen. Unfortunately, what had been a light mist now began to get thicker and thicker. When we arrived at Lulworth we found it was quite crowded. It seemed there was some kind of military display taking place and this had brought more visitors than usual for a Sunday in late September. Luckily, the military had finished their display as we arrived and they had started packing up their equipment – which led to many visitors heading back to their cars. We found a slot in the car park and walked down towards the sea. Disappointingly, we couldn’t see to the other side of the cove so the effect of its beauty was totally lost in the fog. Not wishing to waste the journey we had a walk around the village itself and ended up stopping for a light meal. We found a pub that had some attractive sounding snacks where we stopped and had fresh crab – diabetes can’t be so bad if you have to choose freshly caught crab over a greasy hamburger. Their house wine was pretty good as well so we were feeling well set up as we drove away from Lulworth and headed for Durdle Door, where I had had one of my earliest sea dives back in the ‘60s.
We had no more luck here than we had had in Lulworth – once more thick fog blanketed the coast and there was no chance of getting even a fleeting glimpse of this lovely stone archway rising out of the sea. I once caught a very large spider crab as I was swimming through the Door, but I found it extremely hard work getting the meat out of the shell.
As the only other item of interest here was the caravan park, we returned to the car and had a look at the map to see if there was anything of interest inland, away from the coastal fog. We hit on Wareham as a town of possible historic interest. When we got there we parked the car and had a walk around, looking out for any signs of historic relics. We didn’t find anything other than a couple of pubs, so it wasn’t long before we were back in the car and heading for Christchurch.
Our next day had presented us with a bit of a problem as we had miscalculated our bookings and found ourselves with a spare day and nothing pre-booked. We talked it over before we left Luxembourg and decided to look for a B&B in Somerset with the idea of visiting Cheddar and its surroundings. We found our overnight accommodation close to Shepton Mallet, where there used to be a military prison (known as the glasshouse) where Acker Bilk taught himself to play the clarinet while serving a sentence for being a naughty soldier.
It’s a longish drive from Ringwood to Cheddar but we stopped for coffee and enjoyed the scenery along the way. We drove through Cheddar itself, then drove up the gorge until we emerged on the plain at the top where we found ourselves on a rather flat plain. We turned around and descended through the gorge again until we found a car park to leave the car while we were having lunch. After having taken care of the inner man in a snack bar we went for a stroll up and down the lower end of the gorge where there’s a nice variety of shops. One we found was a sweet shop which had some sugar free varieties, where I bought a jar of pear drops, something I hadn’t tasted in over 40 years. In another shop Terry bought a slab of Cheddar Cheese for no other reason than that he wanted to take it back to California and invite people to taste the original cheese from its home village.
By mid-afternoon it was time to make our way to Shepton Mallet where our trusty GPS system brought us straight to our accommodation. We had booked into a farmhouse B&B where we were welcomed by our hostess and shown to our rooms. The farm breeds alpaca, among their other activities, and we learned a lot about their breeding, care and handling, which is a lot more complex than you would think. They have also created a fishing lake at the back of the house where visitors can enjoy the tranquillity of the still water with a gorgeous view over the rolling Somerset countryside. For dinner we walked down an unlit lane to The Wagon and Horses, one of those typically British country pubs which are such good value. We had a drink before dinner (well, none of us was driving) and a glass or two of the house wine with our meals.
Breakfast next morning was another great full English which we all thoroughly enjoyed, before bidding our hostess farewell with our hearty thanks for a great stay, albeit a short one. Our ultimate destination that evening was to be my cousin David and his wife, Anne’s house near Aylesbury. As we had time to kill that day we thought to spend a couple of hours in Bath as we all wanted to visit the Roman baths. That was a decision which led to another farcical period of epic proportions.

 

[BillB]

Christmas is almost upon us so I'd like to say Merry Christmas and a healthy, happy and prosperous new year to everybody on the forum and the mods who do such a good job. We are off to a hotel which is about 5 miles down the road for the hols, which should give Jackie a break after years and years of cooking Christmas dinner. Our son will be joining us. I know it sounds daft to go no more than five miles away, but it means that we'll also be able to enjoy a little more wine than we normally would take. The hotel also has a wellness centre and swimming pool which we intend to make use of. Should be interesting!

 

[Giverny]

Christmas is almost upon us so I'd like to say Merry Christmas and a healthy, happy and prosperous new year to everybody on the forum and the mods who do such a good job. We are off to a hotel which is about 5 miles down the road for the hols, which should give Jackie a break after years and years of cooking Christmas dinner. Our son will be joining us. I know it sounds daft to go no more than five miles away, but it means that we'll also be able to enjoy a little more wine than we normally would take. The hotel also has a wellness centre and swimming pool which we intend to make use of. Should be interesting!

Merry Christmas to you too, Bill. Best wishes from all the forum team x

 

[BillB]

So now, back to our UK tour. Our plans from that moment were to visit my cousin David and his wife who live near Aylesbury. They had invited all four of us to stay with them and we decided on a 3 night stay. But as they were not going to be home until after 4 p.m. we had a day to kill. Visiting Bath seemed like a good idea at the time – we had all read about the Roman thermal baths and we all wanted to visit them. Off we set for Bath, which was not too long a drive from Shepton Mallet. We hadn’t done any research on Bath as there are always those brown signs that direct the visitor to his intended destination. Everywhere we have travelled in the world, the local attractions are signposted. Bath is the exception to the rule. We arrived in the centre of the town and began looking for the signs. As the driver I had to keep a closer eye on the traffic than on the road signs, but the other three were keeping their eagle eyes sweeping our surroundings. We saw signs for car parks, but how could we know how far the parking area was from our intended destination? We saw all kinds of signs, but none for the Roman baths. We drove round and round the town centre, until someone espied a sign that pointed to the American Museum. “Wherever there’s a museum they are bound to have leaflets for other local attractions,” said Claire, using what seemed to be unerring logic. But logic doesn’t seem to apply in Bath. We followed the signs, up and down city streets, around and around we drove until we arrived at a set of gates. It turned out that the American Museum is part of Bath University. A sign on the gates informed us that the museum was closed that day (the story of my life). Feeling more and more dejected we turned around and headed back to the city, all the while looking out for those brown signs, normally so ubiquitous. Soon we were stuttering along in thick traffic and I was getting more and more frustrated. Finally, I snapped. “You know what?” I asked. “I say ****** the Roman baths. Let’s head for Aylesbury and take a side trip into the Cotswolds.” The alacrity with which the others agreed made me think that they all were just waiting for someone to say something along those lines. So it was with a sense of relief that we left Bath behind and pointed ourselves toward the Cotswolds.

We had a nice lunch in a pub somewhere in the Cotswolds, then drove around for a while, enjoying the area (which we had never visited before) and generally admiring the countryside.

We finally arrived at my cousin’s place in late afternoon, had a happy reunion and then had dinner with them, prepared by Anne, a former air hostess.

We woke up to thick fog, but were assured by the weather service that this would dissipate quite early on – which it did. We decided to visit Blenheim Palace, the birthplace of Winston Churchill, but first we were going to visit a nearby stately home where David worked as a volunteer, driving visitors around the grounds. This I found very interesting as I had never before seen the inside workings of one of these institutions. We spent a while looking around the garden centre which was part of the attraction, then David drove us up to the main house, an enormous building where most of the furniture from its earlier history was on display.

From here we headed for Blenheim, stopping off for lunch in a pub, which was extremely good and then drove straight on to Blenheim.

Although Winston Churchill was born in the palace, it was not his ancestral home, I discovered. His mother went into premature labour while visiting other members of the family and so Winston was born not in his own family’s home but in the home of a relative. Blenheim is an incredible place to visit, with some of the best exhibits of their kind. There is also a history of the palace which takes the visitor from room to room, with virtual characters explaining the building of the structure and the owners who moved in and out of its history.

We were all mightily impressed by the experience and talked about our impressions and the sights we had seen all the way home.

Dinner that night was in an Indian restaurant within easy walking distance of David and Anne’s and was first class. I like the way that ethnic restaurants in Britain are improving their menus and recipes. It makes going out for a meal a special event.

Claire and Terry wanted to visit Oxford, but as our youngest son lived there for several years we were familiar with it, so we opted for a flop day while David and I drove them to the bus station in Aylesbury and saw them onto the right bus and made sure they had a map of Oxford. We had lazy day, catching up on emails or reading or chatting with David and Anne.

Our journey continued next day with a longish drive to Yorkshire. We arrived in Raskelf, the small village where we had booked our B&B for three nights in mid-afternoon. We were greeted with tea and biscuits, then shown to our rooms which were spotlessly clean, comfortable and cosy.

For our evening meal we walked along to the local pub, The Old Black Bull, where Claire and Terry were knocked out by the excellence of the traditional British dishes that were on the menu. They were even more impressed when the dishes appeared on our table, steak and kidney pie, gammon steaks and Old Peculier Pie (so called because the gravy is made with a dash of Old Peculier beer), among other dishes. Well fed, and having added a bottle of excellent red wine, we walked slowly and cheerily back to the B&B.

 

[BillB]

We couldn’t possibly visit Yorkshire without seeing the city of York, so that was our plan for the following day. We discussed our idea with the B&B owner who gave us very precise directions to the big Park and Ride where we could leave the car in safety and get into the city centre without having to drive around looking for a car park with space. We followed his directions and dropped off the car without any problems, and were lucky enough to have a bus pull up just as we got to the bus stop. And so we found ourselves in the city centre quickly and without stress. We took a wander in the area surrounding York Minster, but once again we felt that entry to the Minster was too expensive, so we passed on that.

York is a city of immense historical interest so we bought tickets for a round city bus tour. Once on board we climbed up to the open top deck and readied our cameras. Left to our own devices we wouldn’t have seen nearly as much as we see on these tours. The tour was a good two hours’ worth and we learnt a lot. Once back to our starting point we began looking for somewhere for a quick lunch. One of the things I learnt is that next time I visit York I’ll avoid doing it on a Saturday. The city was really crowded, and so were the restaurants and pubs, but eventually we found one that had a table for us and we grabbed a quick meal. After lunch we split up for a couple of hours – Claire loves art galleries, Terry can’t resist an antique shop, while Jackie and I needed to buy some odds and ends that we can’t get in Luxembourg. We showed up at our pre-arranged spot and, once again reunited with our friends, stopped off for a coffee before heading back for the bus and the Park and Ride. There was just time for a couple of hours rest with our Kindles before heading out to The Old Black Bull again for dinner. The meal was just as good as the previous night and we were all pretty mellow by the time we headed back for the B&B.

One of the towns on my wish list was Whitby (the town where Dracula lands in the original Bram Stoker novel) so that was destination No. 1 the following day. As we drove across the dales I caught a glimpse of what appeared to be enormous ruins, but before I could decide what it was I had seen we were driving through a wooded area. After a couple of minutes we emerged into an open area and sure enough we saw the ruins again, this time clearly and for longer. “Stop here,” everyone was shouting at me, which is what I intended to do anyway. I pulled over and we all scrambled out, to find that this was Byland Abbey. A lady came out of the hotel opposite to sell us admission tickets and give us a leaflet as a guide to the ruins. We were all amazed that an old abbey, as large as this, was so little known outside Yorkshire. We spent much more time there than we anticipated, taking pictures and visiting the little museum that describes the history. We had stumbled upon this place purely by accident and everyone was enchanted with its beauty and its history.

Thus it was that we arrived in Whitby much later than expected. We found a car park and set off to explore, and to find somewhere for lunch. Finding lunch was easier said than done as Whitby gets crowded on a fine Sunday with mild weather and plenty of sunshine. Eventually we stumbled on a little snack bar where I settled on the diabetic’s old faithful low-carb standby, mushroom omelette.

Drifting around the streets we saw several shops selling something that reminded me of this forum. I had seen Michael Portillo’s TV programme a while back in which he went into the history of this subject, and here we were looking at pieces of jewellery made from Whitby jet. (Hello there, Whit!) A lot of ingenuity goes into carving this beautiful jet black stone, which I discovered was the remains of compressed forerunners of the monkey puzzle tree, a kind of fossil. It was mined by the Romans and is found around Whitby. We chatted for a while with a jet carving artist in her studio who filled us in on the origins of this substance. We carried on around the town, gazing up at the Abbey ruins on a high point above the town.

Our next destination was Scarborough for which we took the scenic route. Parking was difficult and we found it almost impossible to get into town. We left the car on the approach road and took a little stroll around, then drove back to the B&B, once again taking the most scenic route. That evening we drove a little further afield for dinner and found a hotel called The George. The meal was excellent and we were impressed with the quality of the food and the cooking of it. When I think back to my early days, I’m amazed at how much food in Britain has improved.

 

[BillB]

After breakfast the following day we set out on one of the last legs of our journey around the UK. You can’t visit Britain without visiting the Lake District and as we have friends there we had decided to stay near their town of Penrith. But we also wanted to see the Yorkshire Moors and the Dales National Park, so our route towards the Lake District was a sweeping curve, first north then swinging northwest.

Into Cumbria we stopped for lunch at a pub which was also a microbrewery which made its own beers. I didn’t try the beers but stuck to my usual red wine. Terry tried one of the beers and pronounced it first rate. The food was excellent, as usual.

We found our B&B, although it would have been more difficult without our GPS as it sits out in a fairly isolated area: it’s a working farm as well as a B&B. We quickly unloaded our suitcases. Our rooms were comfortable with striking views across rolling farmlands to distant peaks. Apart from the views, we even had a TV in the bathroom, but we didn’t spend enough time in there to watch the news.

That evening we drove down to the nearest village and found a very pleasant old pub called The Wheatsheaf. Once again we all had excellent meals. Finding our way back to our B&B was another matter as we wound our way around small lanes in the dark, missing the turnings we should have taken and working the GPS hard. We eventually found our destination, however.

We planned to spend the next day with our friends Randy and Muriel. We turned up on their doorstep without difficulty and had a great reunion. Then we drove out to a hotel they like for lunch. We all had a great time, recalling our old times in Luxembourg and talking about the shows we had worked on together. We drove back to Penrith to spend the rest of the afternoon at Randy and Muriel’s, carrying on our reminiscences. It was dark by the time we left them and though we needed something to eat, nobody wanted a big meal. We made for Cockermouth, parked the car and took a stroll around the town, finally stumbling on a small restaurant whose menu of light meals looked just the job. And so it proved.

Being within a few miles of the Scottish border, we thought we would spend the following day exploring the Borders and then Claire and Terry could at least say they had been to Scotland, even if they hadn’t seen the Highlands. We made for Langholm, parked the car and enjoyed a walk around the town. We stopped at a branch of Edinburgh Woollen Mills where I picked up a couple of Pringle sweaters and Terry treated himself to a flat cap, which made him look remarkably like Del Boy. Just across the way from the woollen shop was a bakery and tea room where we adjourned for refreshments and I broke my low-carb diet with a couple of crumpets to accompany my cup of tea.

From a previous visit I remembered that just outside Langholm there is a road which snakes up onto an area of high moorland. Without saying anything to Claire and Terry I turned off onto this road and we quickly found ourselves on the moors with stunning outlooks in all directions. The contrast with the road below is amazing and they were overwhelmed with the views. Small streams meander along in heather-covered countryside, while ferns and brush sprout here and there.

After coming back down from the moors we drove roughly in the direction of Locherbie but then saw a sign for a town called Ecclefechan. This started a lively debate on how to pronounce it, which didn’t decide anything, but we felt that any town with a name like that just had to be worth a visit, so we began following the signs. When we got there, I have to say, there was nothing special about Ecclefechan, so we started heading for Penrith by a roundabout route. It was mid-afternoon, so we stopped at a coffee shop, where I stuck to my diet this time, then made our way back to the B&B.

As we were passing through Braithwaite I overshot the turning, so I carried on along the road for about a hundred yards and took the next turning on the left to bring us back to the correct road. And there we saw a very attractive hotel and restaurant called Middle Ruddings Inn. That looks like a good place for our final dinner tonight, I remarked and everyone agreed.

That evening we drove back and found the interior was just as nice as the exterior and we were welcomed most warmly. The menu specialised in local produce and we all agonised over our choices. In the end I settled for venison escalope and Jackie chose pheasant breast. We all thoroughly enjoyed our meals (and I had a chat with the chef who was German, but has lived so long in England that his English is better than his mother tongue).

It was a long drive next day from Penrith back to Whitstable, a total of 600 kilometres, and taking the M6 toll road. Despite the length of the journey we didn’t hit any traffic problems until we were on the M25 and ran into road works, which slowed everybody down to a walking pace.

We checked into our original Whitstable B&B then had dinner with Mark and Suzanne, to whom we said a fond farewell at the end of the evening. Our journey back to Luxembourg was via the Channel Tunnel, as even though she’s not too fond of tunnels, at least you don’t get seasick.

It was a pity that time didn’t allow us longer in Britain – sadly we didn’t see anything of Devon or Cornwall, nor of Wales. We would have all liked to have explored Scotland more, but Claire and Terry wanted to get back in time to celebrate their eldest son’s birthday, thus curtailing our travels.

However, we did get to visit places we had never seen before and once again I was reminded how beautiful the British Isles are and how varied the landscapes: from the gentle agricultural land of the Kentish countryside, the chalk cliffs of the south coast, the dales and moors of York, the beauties of the Lake District. And no longer can foreigners make fun of British food. We never had a bad meal in the three weeks or so we were there. We ate in small cafes, pubs, hotels and a variety of restaurants and invariably found ourselves eating nicelyl cooked, fresh food that showed a lot of thought and skill had gone into its preparation. What a change in the culinary scene since my childhood.