One long party

Martyn harvesting the last of his Bramley apples

...or so it seems this August.  Unusually for a Bank Holiday weekend, the weather has been warm and sunny, and we have made full use of it.  We had a branch of Martyn's family here for the afternoon on Saturday, and we catered excessively as usual, even though there were twelve of us on parade.  Not wishing to be shackled to the barbecue (which is out of gas anyway) I made four pizzas and a pasta salad.  Martyn did a big plate of crudités and dips, a green salad and a potato salad.  He also made an apple pie, a lemon drizzle cake and a bowl of apple and raspberry compôte.  (Apples from this year's copious crop).  His other brainwave was to order up a badminton set, which kept numerous generations entertained for a couple of hours while the rest of us lurked in the shade of the willow.

Next day it was off to Faversham for Christine and Steve's annual bank holiday bash, where we got to meet old and new friends, including one of Martyn's classmates whom he hadn't met in the meantime.  Traffic was somewhat Bank-holidayish, but the queue for the coast started only a mile short of where we'd to turn off for Faversham, so didn't trouble us unduly - but we came home across country, avoiding motorways and trunk roads.

Monday's agenda was undemanding, so we got the laundry dry and the bread baked, and knocked out a chicken casserole later (using up the leftover crudités, of course).  But in the hot weather, we opted to hold over the resulting dish for a day or two, from which casseroles always benefit, and finish off some of the cold stuff instead.

Today has seen a happy and sad occasion: Celia's last day at our shared hobby.  Fulsome praise from all concerned, and rightly so, remarking on her firm, fair and humane chairmanship.  The first time I observed her from the gallery, I decided that hers was the approach I should try to adopt when the time came, and I hope I approach her standards now and then.  We took her a little bunch of appropriately named roses from the garden.  We're taking her and Andy to Gatwick on Thursday for their week away in Tuscany - her birthday treat - so will learn then how the rest of the day went.

Back at the ranch, more leftovers scoffed: sausage, potato and mushroom omelette.  I shed a tear at slinging out other leftovers - you can take the boy out of Scotland, but...

Should have gone to Sp3cs4vers, eh?

I think not.  Four journeys into town, plus a visit to their Whitby branch, have failed to correct the poor fit of my new glasses.  I spent the best part of an hour in the shop yesterday, concluding that the frames were just not adaptable to my head.  Both the varifocal glasses and the half-moon readers left grooves in my temples, becoming really uncomfortable in next to no time.  Worse still, the shop had nothing else in the style I wanted that would fit me for the varifocal pair, and not one alternative half-moon frame.  I left feeling like some sort of freak, but at least a reimbursed one.

Yorkshire

A civilised start from home by taxi at 10:15 last Thursday to catch a train to London Bridge, then a longish walk, towing the suitcase, to the bus stop for the No 17 to Kings Cross.  Just about everyone else on the bus had either elbow crutches or a walking stick, so we were in similarly aged company.  One old chap got on, cursing and swearing and thumping the oyster card reader so hard as almost to dislodge it from its moorings! 

We had time to pause for a refreshment at the station, so went to the upper floor of the new hall, and were shocked to see so many morbidly obese people.  The person at the table next to ours was wearing a shocking pink shirt, which kinda compounded the felony.  We are hardly sylph-like ourselves, I should add, but felt less ashamed of our shapes in such company.  The train was a venerable HS125, such as I used to use between London and Dundee in the 1980s, but re-engined in the meantime, and no slouch.  Looking and feeling rather tired, though, and the experience was not helped by the presence nearby of the usual screaming brat.

Annie met us at York, and drove us across the moors to Whitby.  At this time of year the heather is magnificent - at the viewpoint above Horcom Hole we could see for miles across vast sweeps of purple.  We hope someone has put some bee hives out! 

Whitby Abbey shortly after dawn

We are staying in Annie's late husband's first wife's holiday cottage in a new development on the right bank of the Esk near the centre of Whitby.  It has views down the estuary and up to the ruined abbey, as well as across the river to the station whence steam trains leave for Pickering on the North Yorks Moors Railway.

Annie's friend Chris joined us for supper, so the four of us legged it into town to get fish and chips.  Very good, but we later formed the view that generous portions thereof, cooked in beef dripping, are not the greatest idea for bolshy old innards.  A poor night's sleep, in a small double bed with too warm a duvet.  We took the duvet out of its cover at some point in the restless small hours, and cleared the single bedroom next door in the morning.  We're a bit too big to share a 4'6" bed...

We took a stroll into town on Friday, and walked to the end of the pier to enjoy the views out to sea and along the beach, where kids were having donkey rides.  Thence to the local branch of the optician chain I probably should NOT have gone to for a last attempt to get the new glasses to fit comfortably on my big 'ead.  Failure, so they're going back next week.  Home via the pie & mash shop, and a soporific lunch.

Whitby Abbey and St Mary's church yard

We took a ride up the hill to the Abbey later, and thence to the fascinating St Mary's church.  Architecturally quite complex, with bits of pure Romanesque and some quite modern windows.  Inside it is curiouser yet, with high box pews and galleries.  And a clock with a decent Westminster chime, though less good time-keeping.  (Hence not a candidate in the BBC's search for a substitute for for Big Ben during the long refit.)

Saturday was our steam trains day, which we thoroughly enjoyed.  Out from Whitby at 10:00, arriving in Pickering through the woods and heather in time for lunch.  And just in time for a downpour, so we hung around in the station before puddle-jumping up to the White Swan for lunch.  Variously, steak sandwiches, with the meat done authentically French-style rare, or bacon chop, aka Kassler Rippchen. 

Art deco saloon car, North Yorkshire Moors Railway

We took three trains back down, stopping at Goathland and Grosmont.  On one leg of the journey we travelled in a fabulously restored Art Deco saloon car, with the most comfortable seats I expect ever to encounter in a train.  We paused at Goathland, but didn't scramble up to the village centre as time was limited.  We did have time to admire the nicely laid out borders in the station.  There was a time when railway stations competed for awards for their gardens.  A pre-Beeching, pre-Thatcher time, of course.

At Grosmont, we went along through the pedestrian tunnel for a look at the engine sheds and the yard.  Noted. 

Esk estuary from Abraham's Quay

When we got back to Whitby, the town was clearly en fête, with huge crowds there for the folk music festival, which included morris dancers and all sorts of other diversions.  It was also regatta weekend, hence the bunting on the house next door.  Having walked a lot during the day, we were content just to amble back to the cottage for a simple bit of supper.

On Sunday we took a look round a car boot sale, where there was also a good fresh veg stall.  That apart, it was largely the usual tat, so, although Annie bought a few bits and pieces, I stayed close to my bawbees as usual.

Saltburn funicular and pier

Monday saw us heading for Saltburn, where we walked the length of the pier (at low tide, unfortunately) and then took the funicular up the cliff.  Interesting to watch the down car taking on just enough water to counterbalance the up one.  As we walked along the front, a class of surfing pupils were being drilled in paddling out and then standing up on their boards.  We only saw the dry land exercises, but they were going out on the water as we went for our walk at the higher level.

Attractive town, with some elegant buildings looking out to sea from the cliff.  There's a bit of seaside tawdriness here and there, but it's very limited.  We walked down through an attractive park from the bandstand to the car park, pausing for tea at a little tearoom on the way.  The tea was brought in hopelessly dribbly pots, and the milk jug was perhaps just worse, but the tea was fine, and both the service and the non-matching selection of bone china were rather charming.

Heather at Moorsholm

Thence up on to the high moor, pausing to admire the heather again, then over to Egton Bridge for a pub lunch and yet more tea at the home of a friend of Annie's. 

Fireworks marked the end of the Whitby Regatta on Monday evening.  Excellent 15-minute show, clearly visible from just outside the cottage, though far enough away for quite a delay between the flash and the bang!

We were mightily lucky with the weather.  Apart from a sharp shower in Pickering just as we arrived, it was fine and mild much of the time.  As we left on Tuesday, it was just starting to drizzle, and we had a wet, foggy drive across the moors to York.  We were there in plenty of time for our train to London, so nursed a cup of tea for the hour or so in a cafe overlooking the station.  The train was another old HS125, but operated by a different company, and rather better fitted out.  We expected to be joined at our four-seat bay by a passenger getting on at Newark, but as the drinks trolley was between him and us at Newark, he took an unreserved seat further down the coach, leaving us with plenty of elbow room.  The rest of the journey was unremarkable - bus, another train and a taxi - and the weather had improved steadily as we came south.  

As usual, however much we enjoyed the trip away, it was good to be back to our familiar, spacious surroundings.  The garden had been busy: the rudbeckias are finally putting up a good display, and it looks as if we might even have a few courgettes to eat before long.  The grass has also grown, of course, but I'll defer the pleasure of dealing with that for a day or two.

A social life? Us??

Unusually for us, we've been out and about quite a bit lately.  We had a very wet trip to London on Wednesday to meet Annie and her friend and ex-colleague Helen, both of whom were in London for a day trip to see the BP portrait competition entries at the National Portrait Gallery.  We set off in fine weather (but with waterproofs at the ready), and our train ran into heavy rain at Sevenoaks.  (It's quite common for there to be a substantial change in the climate either side of River Hill.)  A lot of people had clearly paid no attention to the forecast, and got thoroughly soaked in consequence.  The signalling gear at London Bridge seemed also to be water-soluble, and our train was diverted into Cannon Street, of blessed memory.  This slightly longer than usual journey was not helped by a noisy family group on a day trip to the capital.  I wish I understood why some people think the entire carriage needs to be entertained by their inane prattling.  Our tickets let us use a rather smart District Line Wimbledon train to the Embankment - the new rolling stock is light and airy, with full-size connectors between carriages.  A far cry from my commute from Parson's Green in the 1970s.

Next, a wet walk up Villiers Street, where we paused for lunch, then on up to the gallery to wait for Annie to arrive from King's Cross.  The exhibition was quite crowded, but included a lot of excellent stuff in a range of styles.  Too many portraits were far too photographic for our liking.  The technical excellence is undeniable, but we prefer to see a spot of artistic interpretation.  Of the tightly drawn pieces, the artists had generally worked wonders with the lighting, with two large group paintings looking almost three-dimensional.  Glad to say that we disagreed vigorously with the choice of winner and runners-up!  We took a look at the permanent collection of C19 and 20 portraits, many of which were rather gloomy.  HM is reputed to hate her portrait by Annigoni - we're with her on that.

On Thursday, which turned into a beautiful day, we had lunch with Richard and Claire in Tonbridge.  It's some time since we've been to their place, in which they have been investing a bit recently.  Claire has redesigned their small garden so that it's now made up of distinct compartments of great charm.  They have extended the garage to make a studio for Claire, who has been doing some fine work in mosaics.  Richard prepared lunch, starting with a tray of delicious tapas, served on a huge platter that he had turned himself from a piece of plane.  They are such a creative couple!

Yesterday we had a slightly more boisterous lunch at Dawn's - another fine day, and eighteen of us sat down to a fine buffet at a couple of long tables in the garden.  The day degenerated into a raucous boules tournament, and the wine was flowing pretty liberally when we left around 5:30 (yr obed servt, being driver, toyed with a glass and a half over the first two hours and then stuck to water).  Great to be out of doors, but the hay fever is up a notch, unfortunately.  Them's the hazards.

Another lunch date today with Christine and Jon at East Peckham.  At this rate, we'll soon forget how to cook!  More fresh air next weekend, but at the seaside in North Yorkshire.  (We're going by train, our more recent attempts at longish journeys through English traffic having been quite simply hellish.  Annie will pick us up at York.)  We'll just about have time to get our breath back from that before we motor off to Switzerland and France for a couple of weeks.  We're strong believers in presenting a moving target.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the water heating has been a bit hit and miss of late.  Tepid showers yesterday, and no hot water at all in the tank early this morning.  And yet the boiler kicked in again normally at 06:30, and has heated the tank.  We had the same experience last weekend, and called in Jez the plumber.  Just like the tooth that stops aching as soon as you get it to the dentist, the boiler performed impeccably when Jez was here on Tuesday.  The programmer appears to know what day it is, but doesn't appear to offer different programmes for different days.  I may be obliged to RTFM (Read The Manual).  But then, maybe it just feels entitled to a rest on Fridays and Saturdays.

Deep sigh from a BT Pensioner

I thought I'd got it all wrapped up on Tuesday, and archly warned Martyn to expect a mystery parcel on Wednesday.  All this was for a new phone for himself, ordered - or so I thought - via the on-line chat function offered by my ever-loving ex-employer. 

It was therefore not a great delight to find, on returning yesterday evening in heavy traffic and pouring rain from an unusually dreadful day at the hobby in my less preferred location, that no parcel had arrived.  At this point I thought it best not to build disproportionate expectations, so spilled the beans as to the contents of the said mystery parcel.  Nothing having been heard here by this morning, I went back on the chat service, connected purportedly to the same 'Christian' I'd communicated with on Tuesday, who advised 'It'll be delivered today'.  Some hours later, having heard nothing, I called customer services, gave them my account number, and learned that there was no trace of the order. 

Well, after over twenty minutes of music on hold and blocked incoming calls, I think I've placed the order again with a living, breathing person in Canterbury.  I have not yet received a confirmatory email.  I may feel tempted to write to the person who signs the matesy letters to us when she's trying (and failing) to sell us banal TV sport packages. 

I have just had a call from someone in an overseas call centre purporting to be BT, and seeking to validate the delivery address, all of which I'd already given on ordering.  Hung up.  SMS some minutes later, asking me to call an 0800 number to confirm the delivery address, despite all this being linked to the account number I'd quoted.  Done, with the best grace I could summon.  Watch this space.

What else to report?  A wet washing day, and a trip into town this morning to order up some new glasses, since my current ones are now badly scratched after less than two years' service.  The sight test and examination revealed no new awfulnesses and, predictably, an improvement in my distance vision and a deterioration in the reading prescription.  Auld age disnae come its lane.  The new glasses are to be about half what I paid last time, with a free pair of half-moon readers thrown in.  This time I've chosen a frame that won't dig furrows in my temples, I hope.  We'll see when they are dispensed whether I 'should have gone to' the big name I went to this time.