Camping it up!

In my younger days I went camping on many occasions, and really enjoyed the outdoor experience. However, with Juliet consistently showing zero enthusiasm for holidaying under canvas, until last summer the most recent nights I spent under campus were back in 1997 when I walked along the Thames Path from its source at Kemble in Gloucestershire to the Thames Barrier at Woolwich.

Last year, however, I finally found myself a campsite companion when Hannah announced that she wanted to go camping during the summer holidays. So, with a new tent and various other bits of equipment packed into the back of the car we set off to Norfolk, where after we'd set up camp in fine sunny conditions, it started to rain and didn't stop for the entire four days of our stay. Fortunately the novelty of being under canvas kept Hannah's spirits up and didn't dampen her enthusiasm for another attempt this year.

Juliet's sister, Rachel and her family have been living in Jersey for a year. Against all expectations when we started to think about planning a visit for this summer, Juliet announced that she was willing to give camping a try. After all, she reasoned, if things got too grim in the tent, there would always be Rachel's sofa to sleep on if an emergency room couldn't be found in a hotel. In the event, Juliet seemed to even quite enjoy the outdoor experience, although possibly not enough to want to repeat it in a hurry.

Our tent is to the left next to the caravan.

The weather was mostly fair during our stay, and the campsite at Rozel was picturesque and well kept with very clean facilities in the shower and toilet block, which even included a hairdryer no less. I think perhaps the only real negative, and it's the one thing about camping that I really struggle with myself, was the inconvenience of getting up in the night to answer a call of nature. Or in my case, calls of nature, my bladder sadly nowhere near as efficient as it was in my younger camping days. It's a right old pallaver, and even more so in rain as heavy as we expeienced on our final night, even though as a male I have the advantage of being able to use mother nature's own urinal, also known as the grass a few steps outside the tent.

The picturesque harbour at Rozel Bay, about a mile from the campsite

We had a lovely relaxing time throughout our stay in Jersey. My young niece and nephew, Katie and Josh loved spending time with their older cousin and vice versa. An unexpected and massive bonus for us were the front row tickets that Rachel had bought us for the famous "Battle of the Flowers" parade, which has been an annual highlight of summer in St Helier since 1902. It was by some distance the most colourful, creative and enjoyable carnival style event that I have ever attended and we all left the seafront buzzing with excitement.

A throwback to the 1960s during the "Battle of the Flowers"

This was my third visit to Jersey, having spent a week there in the early 1980s with my brother Simon and a weekend in 1987 on an inter-bank sporting visit when I was working in the City. The Sunshine Hotel, where Simon and I stayed, no longer exists having been pulled down to make way for a residential development. Not surprising really I suppose, as it was already pretty dated when we stayed nearly 30 years ago but I was nevertheless disappointed not be be able to spot it as we emerged from tunnel that passes under the Fort at St Helier. There was an element of hi de hi about the hotel with its chalet style rooms and organised evening entertainments. Dining room places were allocated in advance and non-negotiable. We were placed next to a couple of lairy OAP eastenders, Bill and Lil. Lil was especially loud and Bill had a fondness for string vests and pants that extended to putting more of them on public display than was strictly necessary, but they were a game old couple who meant well and enjoyed a laugh. For the whole week we managed to keep up the pretence with Bill and Lil that I was a dustman and Simon was unemployed and that I'd paid for him to come on holiday to cheer him up. They kept repeating how kind this was of me (e.g. "Ahhh, ain't that lovely Bill?), and were also unnaturally interested in what my job as a binman involved. By the end of the week I'd described so many of the unusual objects we came across in people's bins that I almost believed I really was Bromley's answer to Curly Watts.

Another noteworthy couple on that holiday were Mr and Mrs Buckle, whose chalet was next to ours. The Buckles, who seemed to disappear back to their room immediately after dinner every night, told us nearly every morning that we had woken them up on returning to our room in the middle of the night. We felt that this was unfair as after their first complaint we were careful to slip back quietly each night and concluded that either Mr and Mrs B were very light sleepers or just habitually miserable. Either way their moaning grew increasingly irritating and eventually prompted us to exact a measure of revenge on our last day. As we left our chalet for the last time we noticed that the Buckles had left their key in the door on the outside. We quietly approached the door, removed the key and buried it in a flower bed. Twenty minutes later as we waited in reception for the coach to take us back to the airport, an announcement was made over the tannoy,

"Would Mr and Mrs Buckle please return their room key to reception"

"You had it last," said Mrs Buckle to her husband "where did you put it?"

"We must have used it to get into the room when we returned from the shops this morning" replied Mr Buckle, "Are you sure you haven't picked it up since then?"

"No, it must be in your trouser pocket" answered his wife "Oh but you've changed into your going home trousers since then. It must be in your suitcase"

At which point Mr Buckle started to empty his case onto the floor just as the coach arrived. Ten minutes later the Buckles, very flustered and arguing with each other, were the last people to board the coach. Of course, as a responsible 50 year old I would never do anything like that now, but I do allow myself a little chuckle every time I remember this episode.

Anyway, enough for now of anecdotes from my youth and back to August 2011. After a brief interlude  in Cornwall (see Doin' it Dreckly), Hannah and I dropped Juliet off at Newquay Airport for her flight to Gatwick and subsequent return to work, and headed back towards Weymouth to spend a further three days under canvas at Haven's Littlesea holiday park.

Our idyllic pitch at Littlesea next to the Wildlife Reserve
.

The park, which is enormous, consists mainly of very well equipped static caravans. The camping area, positioned next to a beautiful wildlife reserve, is very well kept with washing facilities even more pristine than those at Rozel, and campers have the same access to all of the central facilities at the park as guests staying in the permanent accommodation. However, once we had put up the tent in sunny but blustery conditions, somehow our enthusiasm for camping seemed to have evaporated. Our hearts were no longer in it. I'm not exactly sure why. Perhaps, unless you are a die-hard camper or a member of the SAS, living under canvas is fine up to a point but that after a certain number of days, five in our case, a tipping point is reached at which the lure of your own bed and the attraction of a short dry journey to the lavatory seizes control and starts to override everything else. At 4:00 am on our second night we were woken by the rain hammering down on the tent even more fiercely than we had experienced in Norfolk last year. It was still coming down just as hard when we eventually dared to brave the outside world 6 hours later and heard from fellow campers that so heavy was the deluge, large parts of Bournemouth and Poole, a few miles along the coast, were completely under water. Fortunately the camping area, although sodden, was relatively high up and so not in danger of being flooded, but by now our minds were made up. If there was a break in the rain, we would pack up the tent and return home one day early. This just wasn't much fun any more.

And luckily, that's exactly what happened. The rain relented for an hour or so, just long enough for us to break camp and set off for home just as the heavens opened again. At home the following day, prolonged sunshine and a keen breeze enabled me to put up the tent in the back garden and allow it to dry out and be be packed away neatly ready for next year. By then, of course, my enthusiasm for camping will have returned. However, I'll definitely be taking my tipping point theory into account in the planning process. Four days max!

Doin' it Dreckly

Hedluv and Passman in full swing

If you have read my previous entry, I'm sure you will be pleased to learn that with the assistance of travel sickness tablets and a much more benign sea, our return to the mainland from Jersey was far less traumatic than our outward crossing five days earlier. I'm going to reflect on our time in Jersey and the camping experience as a whole when Hannah and I return from phase 3 of our trip that is just about to begin. This entry will cover the short second leg of our West Country jaunt, our two days in Cornwall.

The reason for our visit was to attend the 80th birthday party of Rose, my artist aunt, who I wrote about back in January in my first Holidays of a Lifetime post.

Rose enjoying the Cornish rapping

Rose is a lovely, exuberant and very talented person and the warmth felt towards her by every one of the 100 guests who made their way from far and wide to the marquee set up in her garden in Botallack was clear for all to see. The sun duly shone throughout the afternoon and early evening and everyone present seemed to be having a fabulous time. Much alcohol was consumed, more by some than by others. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, but rather than describe everything about the party I'm going to write about two aspects in particular.

The first concerns an Anglo-French diplomatic incident in the food serving area that I observed as I queued to fill my plate from the buffet. Chefs are well known for being temperamental and French chefs perhaps especially so. On this occasion the beautifully prepared salmon was taking an eternity to be served to the queuing guests by the Gallic gastronome and Bo, Rose's son and my cousin, understandably wanted to hurry things along and so started to divide up some of the remaining fish into individual portions. Hands on hips the chef downed his tools and stared scarily at Bo, who carried on cutting.

"Look at me" thundered the chef "Can't you see how angry I am?"

"I'm only trying to help," countered Bo, "the queue is moving too slowly."

"Do you understand why I'm angry?" continued the chef "Nobody interferes with my food."

"I'm Rose's son and you need to speed up" Bo replied, unfortunately without producing the desired effect.

"I don't care if you're the son of God", the chef interjected, "you don't touch my food!"

At which point Bo, having completed cutting all of the salmon, made a closing remark [censored] and stormed off. Avoiding the gaze of Mr Angry, I quickly collected my food and moved away. No blood was shed but there was a definite hint of menace in the air.

My other abiding memory will be the cabaret. Now, when you read on the invitation for an 80th birthday party that the afternoon's events will include cabaret, the kind of thing that comes to mind is perhaps a mature singer belting out covers of hits from the fifties and sixties. Or perhaps a scaled down version of the Glenn Miller Band. On the other hand, a pair of twenty something rappers probably wouldn't feature too highly in most peoples' expectations. But that is exactly what we got, and what's more they were absolutely astonishing and went down a treat. Rose had been to a Hedluv and Passman gig a couple of months ago, been bowled over by them, and - ever with a penchant for the unconventional - decided to book them for for her big day.

Their style was actually a mixture of singing, rapping and interesting microphone effects as they delivered their ironic and very funny slant of life in Cornwall and various other humorous topics. The lyrics were very clever and often accompanied by vigorous dancing and thrusting that added to the spectacle. Surreal in the extreme at times, their act had me crying with laughter more than once. Their signature number, 'Doin' it Dreckly' has a very catchy hook that is still going around in my head as I finish writing this entry nearly a week later, 'dreckly' being a Cornish dialect word loosely meaning 'later' in a similar way to how the Spanish use 'manana'. Hedluv and Passman's act is so unique, I'm not going to attempt to describe it in any more detail - you need to be there to appreciate it. If you're ever in Cornwall (or perhaps elsewhere as their fame spreads) and get the chance to see their act, take it without hesitation.

Our stay in Cornwall was very brief and unfortunately there was insufficient time on this occasion to return to our childhood beach at Nanjizal, which is now only reachable by a lengthy walk along the coastal path. It's a definite for next time though. We did have time for a quick visit to St Michael's Mount, though, making use of our National Trust membership to enjoy the well preserved castle at its peak and take in the lovely views over the ramparts.

More visitors crossing the causeway to St Michael's Mount

We weren't under canvas for this short section of our holiday, but stayed in one of the four bedrooms built out the back of the The North Inn in Pendeen, a small old fashioned no thrills pub that serves good beer and simple hearty food, including a great cooked breakfast. 

Accommodation at the North Inn Pendeen

Amongst the overnight guests for our second night were some Germans which brought about a vivid flashback to my schooldays thanks to the utterance, on a number of occasions, of the word 'Spiegelei', the German word for fried egg. Apart from having a wonderful resonance in its own right, Spiegelei was also the nickname awarded to my first German teacher at school, a very strict, bald as a coot, stern looking man with very small round wire glasses. So fixed in my memory is he as Spiegelei, I can't actually remember his real name, but he was an effective teacher for the inattentive and mischievous schoolboy I was at the time, and laid firm foundations for my learning of German which I subsequently went on to study successfully at A Level.

A colourful memory of this visit to the far reaches of Cornwall will be the vivid orange Montbretia that was in evidence all around, and in particular along the side of the narrow country lanes.

Montbretia and Heather beside the Pendeen Lighthouse

In the sunshine it looked amazing and complemented the gorgeous purple heather that was omnipresent on Botallack Moor to stunning effect. This part of Cornwall is very remote, and undoubtedly bleak at times, particularly in the winter but it is undeniably a beautiful part of the world.

Holidays of a Lifetime Part 2

We made a very early start this morning in order to be in Weymouth in time for the 6:30 am high speed ferry to Jersey. It would have been even earlier if we hadn't decided to stay overnight in the spartan surroundings of the Yeovil Travelodge, which enabled us to have a lie in until 4:00 am before the alarm woke us up. The sunrise over Weymouth harbour made the pre-dawn start seem worthwhile, although 30 minutes into the four hour crossing, I'm starting to feel distinctly queasy and wondering how long I can keep looking at my laptop screen as we bounce speedily across the channel.

Well, that was as I managed to write on the ferry before my forehead started to break out in a cold sweat, and I needed to close my eyes and sit very, very still until we finally docked in St Helier. We are now fully set up in a lovely campsite up the hill from Rozel Bay in the north east corner of Jersey with a beautiful view across the shimmering sea to northern France. More about our camping holiday will follow later in a later post. For now, in between various holiday activities, I'm going to write about what I'd set out to cover on board the Condor Vitesse, although due to the absence of broadband in our tent and so far only being able to connect to French mobile phone networks I have no idea when I will be able to get it posted.

Back in January I wrote a nostalgic piece about our family holidays in Cornwall in 1969 and 1970, which received a very favourable response that suprisingly went well beyond the family members who took part all those years ago. Inspired by our journey through Thomas Hardy country en route to Weymouth, I thought the crossing would provide an ideal opportunity to extend my nostalgic ramblings to the five consecutive years  between 1971 and 1976 that we spent our summer fortnight in the Dorset seaside town of Swanage.

If you've read my Cornwall memoir you will already be familiar with the daily routine centered around a six hour stint on the beach. It was exactly the same at Swanage. For five years. The only differences being different beach and different house.

The beach at Studland Bay

The beach at Studland Bay extends for a number of miles as far as the Sandbanks chain ferry that links the Isle of Purbeck to Sandbanks, Poole and beyond. The beach is backed by extensive sand dunes, and we would set up for the day a fair old hike from the car park to where other groups of sunseekers were few and far between. Once our patch for a particular day had been identified, the ancient ritual of erecting the windbreak would begin. Ours was no ordinary windbreak, however. Oh no! It was home made, far more substantial than any available in the shops and is still breaking wind effectively 40 years after its construction. It was, and is a marvel in yellow, red, black and white. Its sturdy construction is not the only reason for its remarkable longevity, though. Equally important is that its six posts have never, ever been banged in using a mallet or similar implement. Instead, after the direction of the prevailing wind had been determined, the windbreak would be placed flat on the sand and each of us six boys would have to dig a hole beside the pointed end of each of the six posts. The windbreak would then be lifted and inserted into the six holes, which would be refilled and compacted to provide the securest of underpinning. Simple but effective!

Grandma and Grandpa joined us for the day on this occasion

Digging holes at Studland wasn't confined to windbreak erection, however. Sand excavation constituted one of the major activities throughout all of our Swanage holidays. Paul was the most accomplished practitioner of the art, able to sustain the concentration and willpower to bore down to incredible depths, but in truth none of us were at all shabby in our hole digging capabilities. After a couple of years honing our skills, a new expertise emerged. Two adjacent holes would be dug simultaneously, and these would then be joined below the surface to create a tunnel that we would then crawl through. A kind of precursor to the Channel Tunnel if you like. Looking back from these days of over-zealous health and safety regulations, such undertakings seem outrageously dangerous and ill-advised but at the time they just felt like a bit of harmless underground fun and adventure.

Going underground

Another favourite activity was cricket, a game of which would sometimes go on for hours. The sand at Studland was wonderfully soft and deep, and so all deliveries were of necessity full tosses, which narrowed down the choice of bowling styles but enabled spectacular diving catches to be attempted with very little danger of sustaining an injury.

Cricket on the beach

Our clothes for the beach were made to measure, no less. Distinctive too. Our paternal grandmother, Nanny, was an absolute genius with a sewing machine and could knock up a tee shirt or a pair of shorts in not much more time than it took to make a cup of tea. Every Thursday morning she would rise with the lark in order to secure the best choice of bargains from the fabric stalls in Bromley market, from which she produced many of our outfits over the years. Many of these were entirely tasteful, but floral prints were usually preferred for beach shorts and, although the style of fabric we sported all those years ago is not dissimilar to that commonly seen on beaches in 2011, back in the 1970s our shorts were by some margin the lairiest ones on show. Quite simply we were ahead of our time.

Where did you get that hat?

After a year or two, I can't remember precisely when or how, we made the discovery that about a mile towards Sandbanks from where we pitched our windbreak, in amongst the sand dunes, was a nudist colony, and what's more, every now and then naked people would break cover from the dunes and take a dip in the sea. Well, teenage boys being what they are, suddenly going for a long walk or run along the beach in an easterly direction became a popular addition to the activity menu. I can't actually remember whether we ever saw any naked bodies, which means that we probably didn't. In my mind, at least, I think there was something of the saucy postcard or Benny Hill in my image of what we might come across. Quite how we would have reacted or what we would have done if we had suddenly stumbled across a large group of cavorting naturists is anybody's guess. In all probability we would have turned away in embarrassment and ran back at great speed in the opposite direction.

85a Ulwell Road.

Our base for all five holidays was 85a Ulwell Road. It was a strange bungalow with only a tiny garden and consisted largely of a series of rooms either side of a rather gloomy corridor. It belonged to a couple from our church, Mr and Mrs Coverly, who I think planned to live there in their retirement. There wasn't a television, so board games and reading were the main entertainment after dark. It was at 85a Ulwell Road that I first read the Diary of Anne Frank, a book that made a profound impression on me as a 14 year old, the same age as Anne Frank when she kept her diary. It's a book I have read numerous times since.

Swanage town centre, which we visited every morning and sometimes in the evening too, was where we got to spend our holiday pocket money, the bulk of which was supplied by our kind next door neighbour Mrs Stringer. Lillian Stringer and her brilliant but reclusive husband, Fred, who was fluent in many languages but rarely left his own study, let alone his house had lived at 119 Farnaby Road for many years before we arrived next door at the end of 1966. Mrs Stringer, in particular, was to become a big part of our lives, and we hers over the next twenty years. Originally from Liverpool, Mrs Stringer had something of the Hyacinth Bucket about her and liked to name drop, especially in relation to the work that Fred did at the BBC. She had a heart of gold, though, and was generous to us as a family in many ways. Every Saturday morning all six of us would accompany her the half mile of so to Shortlands 'village' where she would do the rounds of her weekly shopping, which memorably included buying a few slices of tongue for Fred from the deli counter at Harrisons. As Dad worked every Saturday at this time, these weekly 'Saturday Club' outings gave Mum a welcome breather for a couple of hours. The pay off for us boys was the money we got to spend in the sweetshop – I think this started at sixpence, but then increased over the years, thanks to index linking I assume. Anyway, the night before our holiday to Swanage Mrs Stringer would present each of us with two envelopes, one labelled 'first week' and the other 'second week', both containing sufficient money to spend on ice creams, Dickie's Donuts, crazy golf and the amusement arcade amongst other holiday consumables. How lovely is that!

Nanny, Mrs Stringer, Auntie Jim and Uncle Will

If it ever rained while we were on holiday in Swanage, then I can't remember it. Certainly there wasn't a single day that we didn't go to the beach, even though I can recall a handful of days which were more overcast than sunny. It's often said that people  recall the sun shining through most of their childhood summers, and there may be an element of this in my reminiscing. However, I would be very interested to access the met office records for our five fortnights in Swanage, and would be extremely surprised if they didn't corroborate my assertion that for the 70 days that we were there Swanage was rain-free.

Happy memories of happy holidays.