Trips North Trips South

Greetings Nosepickers!

A long time has elapsed since the last installment of the not-very-regular regular bloggin' thing that I do when I can't remember what the hell I was doing the night before or why I came into this room.

Sinth the latht epic, I and my Australian friend/carer have taken a trip up to the Lake District, Stavely, to be exact. Upon arrival at Windermere Railway Station (following a convoluted journey that took in four different trains by four different rail companies - there's cohesion for ya!), we hired a taxi to take us the five miles to our pad. It was beastly cold and deeply dark, with much menacing rain mercilessly wrecking the peace. The place we stayed in was a converted barn, made of stone and it was a three-storey affair that meant, oddly, the bathroom/shower was on the ground floor, as well as a spare bedroom. The living quarters were on the second tier and our bedroom was at the toppermost of the popppermost. To say the least, it was effing cold that night and we used whatever electric heaters were at our disposal that night, as well as extra duvets!

We awoke at around 5.40-6.00am, and looked out, hoping to spot a chink of light that would give us some idea of what, exactly, we had come to. Slowly, and with gracefully slow pace, the day began to dawn upon us. Both of us amateur photographers dashed out to take pics of the emerging scene, buzzing excitedly at every new wonder that appeared. As light began to submerge and consume the dark, we were stunned by the quiet dignity and utter perfection of our surroundings. The hills were dotted with seemingly motionless sheep, fields merged into each other separated by hedges that seemed to have been naturally arranged. As we took in the views, we snapped away, googling (in the pre-Google sense) over every spot of wonder that we saw. It was light Christmas Day, a fantastic pressie just for our own eyes.

After breakfast, washing and dressing (yes, we were out there in the cold, in our pyjamas....and woolly hats!), we made a slow descent down the meandering road to Stavely village. It was a stunning jaunt, much snapping went on, much cooing and wowing, much fun, much lovely times. Some three hours later, we found a great place called Wilf's Cafe, a place of stunnin drinking chocolate (armed with marshmellow and flake...........SORRY, I HAVE JUST DRIBBLED OVER THE LAPTOP). My Brisbanish friend treated me to a caramel shortcake. After having an orgasm of chocolate opulence, we realised that it was nearly 2.30pm and we had just over an hour to get back home before the total, unrelenting darkness and cold fell upon the helpless landscape. After some minutes trying to locate a taxi that was prepared to take us to our temporary home, we resolved to start a steady, but time-conscious trek back UP to home. When I say UP, I mean, UP, and UP doesn't really do justice to the pain in my calf muscles!

After about halfway (and I'm being generous, it was less than that, really), I stopped the walking thing and began on the chucking-me-guts-up thing. At this horrible time, my lovely lady friend jumped into the path of an oncoming car and, mercifully, we were greeted by a very kind and friendly young lady who was only too happy to take us back to the barn.

The next day was totally blocked out by fog. Fog like fog has never been shown in Redforde. You could barely see your own eyes, for it was sooooooo thick. Thicker than a Yorkshireman.

Coming home on the Friday, we were immediately let down by our first train, taking us from Windermere to Lancaster and run by Trans-Pennine Express Billocks Company Whatever. We were to get on a connecting train at Lancaster at 11.02, but, and this is where our strifes begat more strifes, we arrived at 11.09. Thus, and thus again, we were directed to go to Manchester, home of the Mancs. This section of our journey passed without incident and we settled ourselves to getting back home a little bit later than we noped. Upon arrival at the dreaded Leeds (explanation too vitriolic to explain right now, will write more when the angst has passed) we found our connection train to Retford, on the way to London Kings Cross. Unfortunately, we didn't get there in time and ended up missing the bugger by a minute. Now my deaf friends, I don't mind missing a train by an hour or two, but a minute? FFS!!

This meant that we had to get another sodding train to Duncaster, from which we were to get another effing train back to Rettieland. All in all, it added two and a half hours to our trip. We were knackered, to say the last.

My lovely, lovely lady friend from Australia assures me that no journey in these fine Isles is a long journey and she finds the British Rail system mystifying and bloody expensive. Given that Britan can be fitted into Australia more than twenty times, you might get some sense of scale and why going to London or whatever you fancy is NOT a long journey! It's the system that makes it long, by inefficient services, expensive tickets and incohesive companies. Can we have just ONE British Rail comany, please???

Right, I'm bejiggered now so I'll leave it beeeee for the thyme beeing.

There is more to write, not least about our trip to Londinium and the delightful folk who live there. Such kind, considerate people, it's a wonder nobody hasn't shot them all, ahem.

Onward to the future, it's all we have.