Snapshots of Summer & Autumn

I downloaded my mobile phone photographs for the first time last week. There were some little moments hidden on there that I had forgotten about. So here are some random snapshots from the last few months.

I’m strangely drawn to gawping and waving at the balloons that float over the houses. We see a lot of these in Bristol during the summertime.

Slightly less pleasant, but a distinct marker in Bristol’s recent history, was the riot in Stokes Croft.

I had wandered out for a few beers and was stunned to find the Gloucester road blocked with police. After taking the long way to the pub, locals were allowed to walk back home through the barricade. All extremely eerie and unsettling.

During violent gales and thrashing rain we arrived in the pitch black at a campsite in north Devon. In the morning, we had this view instead…

In August we went to Grillstock – a festival dedicated to charring meat. The highlight though, by a country mile, was Hayseed Dixie cranking out hillbilly versions of ‘The Ace of Spades’ and ‘Strawberry Fields’… etc

To hear them, click here:  Bohemian Rhapsody

This year, I became slightly addicted to growing flowers. A sure sign I’m nearing middle age.

Getting up early to enjoy the early morning light (well, earlyish) became my little summer ritual. Cup of tea, book, sun-trap. I’m back to winter mode now and really struggle to heave the duvet off.

Everyone needs a little cake in their life. And a nice cup of tea…

To help encourage the burgeoning bicycle movement in Bristol, I have been doing a little moonlighting as a pedal walla. Have picked up a variety of characters, but these two were a real surprise. Holidaying in Bristol (not sure why) they were from Jordan and wanted to be shown around the city.

Clasping designer handbags and with a waft of sultry perfume, they gabbled and cackled away to each other, called me “sister” and tapped me every time they wanted to change direction. I got a real sweat on heaving them up a hill. This produced a fairly sizeable tip.

One night whilst listening to music and sinking red wine in the kitchen with the patio doors open, this little fella came and stood at the entrance, looking in. His head was bobbing in time to the tune…

Nailed it down to London for the ‘Last Night of the Proms’. Got cheap tickets thanks to (ahem) someone in the industry… An impressive building and the music was alright too. Apart from the big fat man sat next to me whose raspy, rattling breathing was ANNOYING.

But you can’t help but feel part of something special at this event. I challenge even the most ardent music-haters to not slightly enjoy it.

Thanks to a family wedding in Sicily there was also time for a cheeky surf at the local beach.

How fortunate.

Here’s Ben wave riding. Where it’s all at apparently. I’ll just stick to staying upright for now…

The last of my bumper crop of sweet tomatoes. Hello months of suede, turnip and red cabbage. Groan.

One evening I walked in to the kitchen to find some sort of Glee club occuring. At this point playing a bluegrass version of ‘Paradise City’… Anyone fancy a hoe down..?

More banjo strumming. But this time with booze… until 4am (the poor neighbours).

And Much. Much. Louder.

At a charity ball. Danced until my feet blistered… 

Cycling near Tintern Abbey in the Wye Valley. A beautiful spot and a mere half an hour from Bristol.

The most fabulous beef pie with pearl barley I think I have ever made. Not suitable for weight loss.

A quiet, long weekend in a borrowed house down in Devon.

Ate my breakfast with this fine view every morning.

The Kite-mare

Ok…   the person in this photo isn’t me.

(It’s Ben at Saunton Sands, seeing as I know you’re curious)

It will be some time before this is me.

A few weeks ago we went on a little trip to Brean.

This is south of our local kite spot – Weston-Super-Mare – which is a big sandy beach with grassy dunes. Not the grotty hell hole everyone seems to think it is. See below.

Here are some of the locals, relaxing and watching the surf from up on Brean Down…

And here’s Brean beach… Not bad eh. Lots of sand and lots of space.

So, it’s getting late, the light wind is running out of puff and Ben is desperate for me to get out there and practise my fledgling skills whilst he teaches his brother Tim on the beach. I’m ordered to get into my wetsuit whilst he hastily inflates and launches the kite.

“Err, are you sure there’s enough wind Ben? Feels a bit light to me…”

“Yeah, it’ll be fine..” He says while shoving the board in my hands.

“Ummmm ok… aren’t you going to get in to your wetsuit as well though? What if it all goes wrong and I need rescuing!”

“Well I’ll just come into the water in my jeans and jumper, but it’s going to be fine, get going.”

I tentatively splosh into the shore break, feeling less than confident about all this. I get riding but because the wind is so light I can’t quite make the board plane on the surface nicely. It’s all a bit stuttery and stop-starty. I go along for a bit, but then sink and have to yank the kite around to generate some power. This frustration continues for a while.

Then there’s a proper hole in the wind and my legs just completely sink into the water. BOLLOCKS.

The board slips off my feet.

Due to focussing hard on the kite, it’s only now that I realise I’ve actually gone quite a long way off shore. Ooh, yikes. I glance over my shoulder to see the board slightly drifting away from me, but I can’t deal with that now; need to keep this kite in the air.

So, I’m bobbing around up to my neck desperately trying to keep the kite flying. But eventually its inflated nose dips, the lines go slack and it flops on to the sea.

F*@K!   F*@K!   F**CCCCCCCCCCCCK.

Re-launching is not something I’m good at. I try swimming around to get the kite on its back. Reluctantly it does this and… yes… yes… yes.. gently catches the wind and floats upwards. But not for long.

Thump. Back on the sea. Soon it’s flapping around like a sodden jellyfish. My only option is to get washed up on the beach. So I start swimming.

After what feels like ages, I release the kite from me to avoid any ripping when it enters the waves.

I can see Ben running down the shoreline, and then hopping about as he removes his shoes. Soon he’s naked except for a waist harness and some very lurid underpants. This is October in UK waters remember.

He runs at the sea and then starts Hasslehoffing through the waves.

All the dog-walking old ladies, who are wrapped up in woolly hats and coats, are staring in disbelief. He swims out to the kite – his goosepimply skin gleaming in the low light – and helps me on to the beach with it. Ben insists on sorting out the seaweed strewn lines while I’m ordering him to put clothes on and yelling about hypothermia.

But now we have a slight problem. Where’s that board…..?

We spend the next half hour running up and down the beach staring out to sea. A kindly kiter who feels our pain is also helping.  An elderly fisherman thinks he saw the glint of a green fin, so in the setting sun, I go wading out to check… but to no avail.

Everyone’s adamant that the current will have washed the board on to the right side of the shore. But, the tide has turned now and is beginning to head back out, so we have to find it fast.

Tim has disappeared down to that corner of the beach to see if he can spot it. Lacklustre and with faint hope, we tell the beach warden to keep an eye out for it over the next week.

Feeling dejected we pack up to leave and drive down to fetch Tim. A few minutes later he appears, WITH MY GREEN BOARD.

Apparently, whilst he was stood peering out to sea, a jet skier arrived at the shore break with my board under his arm. He had stumbled across it way out at sea, travelling around the headland towards Weston. I can’t quite believe it had got that far so quickly.

But how lucky is that.

I’m now planning on kiting with my board cemented to my feet.

Breakfast with Storks

Not long ago we did an overnight stop at a riad in Marrakech before heading out to the coast to hunt for surf.

Riads are tall thin buildings with no gardens or outdoor space. If you want some sunshine or a view, you have to go up. So, in the early morning light we were given breakfast on the flat roof. And very nice it was too. But mid-munch, I spotted something quite large flapping through the air.

I scrambled to the roof-top edge to see a stork returning to its family that was nesting on a tower.. (if you squint you can see it on the left…) Read more

A Bicycle Made for Two

For reasons I have yet to fathom, tandem bicycles are Just Not Cool.

You don’t see many of them around, but those that do appear tend to be pedalled by flocks of elderly bearded tourers, which probably doesn’t help counteract its slightly nerdy image. But really… what could be more fun than a bike for two?

This blue beauty is currently dominating our shed.

It was bought in 1969 by my dad whilst at university – him and a mate used to rag it around the steep hills of Bristol to blow away the boredom of being chained to a desk during exam time. They must have had strong legs though because it’s only got 5 gears and weighs a ton. Read more

Mountain Biking in the Yorkshire Dales

Who’s been to Yorkshire? (except those who live there, obviously)

Come on… hands up.

Nope, that’s not many. I thought so.

This is what prompted our biking trip there in April. It often gets overlooked – everyone stops at the Peak District or blasts past it on the M6 to get to the Lakes. But Yorkshire is the biggest county in the UK – it mostly contains vast stretches of open land and sheep.

There are also hills. Big hills.

The weather was faintly unbelievable. I had prepared for slate grey skies and torrents of rain, but it was t-shirts, shorts and lashings of sunscreen for pretty much the whole week.

The cottage we’d hired in the north of the Dales was literally in the middle of nowhere. The nearest shop was 30mins away. I found myself whistling the duelling banjos tune from Deliverance as we arrived.

No internet, no mobile signal… just silence. Apart from the sheep bleeting. Constantly.

It felt good.

The only worries were: “what are we having for lunch? … can I pedal 50km today? … and have we got enough beers left for later?”

We woke every morning to the sun streaming through the flimsy curtains and the most amazing, perfect view of the valley. Oh and Adam armed with cups of tea at bang on 8.00am. He’s military. It’s very useful.

I left the route planning to the boys. They love it. Each night while supper was bubbling away on the hob (that’s my forte) they’d spread all the maps over the floor and hoo-haa over where looks the best. And there’s a lot to do in the Dales. We barely scratched the surface.

Did I mention the brutally big hills?

From Sedbergh up to the Howgills ridgeline we rode probably the most punishing hill climb I have ever done. It was on grass (very soul-sappingly hard to get up) and the gradient was insane.

Even in the bottom ring this was so tough. I thought my heart was going to pop. And the climb just kept on giving. It’s not something I hope to repeat, despite the 360 degree panorama at the top.

The Dales offer an enormous sense of vastness. It is a proper wilderness compared to Bristol (which I love by the way) where you are always so close to civilisation.

So… I’ve been biking in some pretty fancy pants locations around the world. But in a lucky weather break with good friends and fabulous flapjack, sometimes you don’t need to go far to get the perfect trip.

Genocide in the Garden

I am at war… this is the enemy.

Normally a fairly passive peace-lover, I have discovered my inner Nazi.

For years, our garden has been left to quietly rot and wither. Dead, crispy brown plants lie flopped over their pots. Death by apathy. It’s not a pretty sight and sitting outside in the summer surrounded by decay is getting to me. I am *sigh* in my 30s now, so a few weeks ago I decided enough is enough.

It’s time to perk this petite city patch up a bit. Read more

A Cheap Michelin Star Meal

Have you ever eaten in a restaurant with a Michelin star for £5 per person?

Whilst in Hong Kong we ate at the low-key One Dim Sum that serves up traditionally made Chinese cuisine at extremely reasonable prices. Unlike at the Fat Duck (where you make a reservation months ahead) you are given a ticket and wait outside until a table becomes available.

Obviously I don’t speak Mandarin, so did my best Idiot Mute Abroad impression. Every time the lady in charge shouted something at the crowd (presumably a number) I’d waive my ticket in her face. Alongside the Chinese locals grabbing a swift lunch, we waited for 40minutes… but it was worth it.

I’m not a frequent eater of Dim Sum and once inside things got bewildering. Ben and I looked blankly at each other when presented with the menu. What is it all? And there appears to be a system that we don’t understand… How much do we need to order? Ummmmm….

We were the only big blonde-haired foreigners in there. I was feeling pretty conspicuous and we clearly looked confused because a lady sat nearby offered to help us. She circled some classic dishes that would be enough for 2 people.

I’m grateful she didn’t circle chicken feet. Read more

18 Hours of Heaving Hell in Morocco

Location: Hotel Bathroom. Marrakech

Date: Tuesday 11^th May

Time: 02.00hrs

Mission: Turn myself inside out

*This contains scenes that some viewers may find upsetting

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After semi-consciously thrashing around in bed, I gradually wake up at 2am thanks to a bulging stomach and feeling unbearably full. I just can’t get comfortable. Slowly the sinking realisation creeps in that Gastric Armageddon is impending.

“Oh please no….” I mutter pathetically.

A few hours roll by. I’m completely awake and twitchy… my body is busy. Now I definitely know it’s coming and just want to get it over with. COME ON!

At 5am the droning call to prayer drifts loudly through the windows.

My skin prickles with goose-bumps. A wave of chill wafts through me, quickly followed by heat.

That’s my cue. I know the drill and have been running through the options in this unfamiliar hotel room. It is strange – you know roughly what’s going to happen… but it’s also uncertain. And you are not in control. Read more

Kowloon: the other side of Hong Kong

So… as I was saying.

Hong Kong central is a mildly terrifying vision of modernity – shimmering skyscrapers, sharp suits and champagne cocktails.

However. After a swift boat ride across the harbour, you arrive in Kowloon.

This almost feels like another country. Read more

The Madness of Hong Kong

I don’t think I have ever been anywhere quite like Hong Kong.

The most striking thing about this region, is how chaotically contrasting it is. It’s a city of two halves: East meets West… efficient, clean and modern… yet ancient, grubby and hectic… its iconic skyscrapers jammed in between mountains and beaches.

Obviously the first thing that hits you is that everything is UP. Read more