Seaside Adventures.

Weary starts seem to be a Monday morning regular now, as I find myself rising on auto pilot and making my way to the tube station without even realising. The heat finally seemed cooler overnight so I was hoping for a smoother night’s sleep but with the summer vacation of one flatmate reaching its end, and bringing a friend from home to stay, we’ve got a busy space. Add to that someone who turns sides in her sleep like a volcano erupting and a sleep talker who is constantly mid-sentence with his “primo buddies” and my previous vehemence towards the heat slid away.

So despite a restless night’s sleep in which I felt like I was trapped in an earthquake simulator while being awoken by a boy I had actually not yet meant who seemed adamant that we were “going the f’in wrong way, man”, I woke before my alarm with the sun streaming in the windows. 

The morning rush and tube dilemma’s seem all the more bearable when followed by such a long and wonderful weekend at the seaside. I rode the Piccadilly line in comfort; oblivious to the balding, sweaty men and latest Heathrow arrivals with their bulky suitcases and lack of spacial awareness, for I had bruised ribs, sore arm muscles and shining memories of a well spent weekend to delight in.  

THE road trip to surf began late Friday; I was late. Work seemed to stretch out the length of a week in a day before ending suddenly as the mention of a drink at the local pub signalled an early start to the weekend. Gliding along to the local pub, unable to believe my luck; myself and two colleagues drunk cool beverages under the glorious early evening sunshine; chatting like old school friends. The time passed so quickly it soon became time for one of us to rush for the train home, while I realised my flatmates were probably at home waiting for me while I guzzled wine spritzer’s in the sunshine; but it was work, right?

I made a mad dash through the throngs of other workers enjoying their cool beers and weekend prospects outside dark pubs and joined the packed tube to inhale gallons of underground toxins before sprinting the final stretch home. I packed as quickly as possible, ticking off my internal checklist as the boys’ patience lowered and then fizzed out completely. Chucking a sleeping bag in at last minute (because it took up residence at the bottom of my list; beneath music, tennis racquet and road trips snacks) we descended into the Friday night traffic that spread out in front of the setting sun. 

Newquay, Cornwall is at the South West end of England, and around 250 miles from London; meaning we bopped to the beats for around four hours, watching the sun light the sky brilliant shades of pink and purple before being cast completely into darkness. Arriving into Newquay we managed to find our campsite with surprising ease and we tucked into some G & T’s in the warm outside air to celebrate our successful arrival, with only an emptying campsite bar filled with intriguing seniors for company. As the camp lights dimmed and then switched off entirely; we felt we had been unwillingly cast into a bad horror movie and didn’t wait long before heading back to our site and heading to (air)bed. I pulled my sleeping bag tight around me with all my layers worn haphazardly on my body and still woke up continuously to be made aware I was still freezing and there was still nothing I could do about it, before rolling off into sleep again with the melodic sound of our neighbour’s snoring.

Waking up in a stuffy tent with way too many layers of clothing on, a rhythmic tapping let me know the others were up and ready to move; I discarded a few layers, zipped my pop up tent shut and we drove into the beautiful Newquay morning. 

Walking down the typically beachside lanes, the aroma of pasties an ever present linger; we grabbed a delicious, fuelling breakfast (I chose a more ‘feminine’ porridge with berry compote with tea, amongst the super-sized male breakfast deluxe teeming with sausages, eggs, toast, beans and hash browns.) Bursting with energy, we drove to the beach and quickly hired wetsuits and boards before walking excitedly along the small stretch of sand to the (high tide) ocean.

The waves looked fun, the water looked amazing and the beach was packed. It seemed there were more people in the ocean than out of it, and we headed straight out into the waves before being blasted by the beach intercom to come back in and make our way to the designated black and white flagged ‘surfers’ area, which translates to the area where they pack in all the out-of-towners and learn-to-surfers so the locals can rule the rest of the beach. While the others stayed a little closer to shore, J and I headed out the back to join the hassling and heckling for waves. Paddling out, gliding over the top of forming waves and getting bashed about by the whitewash felt so good after almost a year’s absence and it was enough just to feel the stroke of your hand glide smoothly against the cool rush of water. The water was a perfect temperature in a wetsuit and we were able to stay out for hours.

After almost getting run over twice on my paddle out, the session was off to an interesting beginning, but the first wave and the feeling of soaring down the face was enough to keep me out there for days. Manoeuvring amongst the chaos with learn to surf boards flying at me from every direction meant there was less focus on the wave and more on making it to the end alive. The majority of the crowds were learning and there wasn’t an inch of whitewash left to spare which meant it was impossible to ride the wave to the very end and I found myself constantly pulling off the wave before it broke completely in order to avoid the mayhem that was closer to shore. With sizeable lulls in the action, we found ourselves drifting about on our boards enjoying the ocean, but allowed me to notice the difference between Fistral beach and home; a noticeable absence of tranquillity and stillness amongst the crowded jumble of surf chatter.

It was amazing to be out with a surfboard beneath my body and after a couple of waves I felt right at home as my balance slowly came back to me. After a good couple of hours we headed in for a delicious healthy, energizing smoothie followed by fish’n’chips (obligatory English seaside snack) before walking along the path around to the top of the headland and admiring the stunning coastline view that stretched for miles in both beautiful directions. The numerous inlets, bays and coves could be seen for miles and the ocean was a vibrant blue beneath the peeking sun. We clambered down the steep rocks to get back before finding ourselves at the mercy of a rising tide and as our path got trickier and I got significantly wetter; sacrificing my only pair of shorts, I turned back and took the seaweed covered rock route instead. The water had completely drenched my bottom half and I was sliding precariously close to rocky outcrops barefoot. 

After practically rock climbing my way back to solid ground, I was more than ready to get back into my wetsuit and out into the surf. Grabbing a board with a bit more length due to the dwindling swell, we decided to risk our chances and headed in the opposite direction from the black and white flags, towards the ‘locals’ area we had previously been kicked out of. The waves were considerably nicer and I was already dream riding my way along the unbroken surface.

A couple of waves later and we felt we had successfully merged our way into the locals line up, almost high fiving each other in our triumph; before being almost ridden over by a lunatic lifeguard on his jet-ski, shouting that learn to surfers can’t surf there and practically staring down anyone he decided to. J and I managed to avoid his wrath but the others were cast back to shore, to walk the length of the beach and endure the whitewash circus that was the learn-to-surf brigade. Sargent Jet Ski decided to stay and circle, patrolling his prey and observing rides; ever ready to unleash his blasphemy on a nose dive, a bail or the smallest quiver in the surfer’s ride. I caught one wave that Mr. Crazy was circling so close to that I encountered a giant bump in the wave’s otherwise smooth unbroken surface and just managed to ride it out; my anger bubbling at his careless approach to surfside patrol. He finally migrated to the body boarding area where his shouting could still be heard; followed by his victim’s wailing, crying and the consequent reluctant trip to shore.

Despite this one-man Hitler performance, we had another great session and the slightly longer board I chose meant I was able to paddle myself into a few more rides; my lead-like arms thanking my quiver choice as their power quickly subsided. After a few more hours our surfboard hire was almost up and the day was nearing to an end. I could barely lift my arms at a ninety degree angle, let alone use them to direct myself out of the path of the Newquay local surfers and so we headed in.

Well spent from a fantastic day in the ocean, we headed back to the campsite, had a shower to empty the buckets of sand we had unknowingly accumulated and played a bit of Frisbee before loading up on BBQ supplies and timing our outdoor dinner on the beach with the giant raindrops that swiftly began to fall. We searched for shelter and the best we could find was a cluster of trees overhanging a small space of pavement which we piled into; four bodies and a whole heap of BBQ equipment in a space designed for little more than a toddler. Our instant BBQ’s didn’t fare too well under a broken sky, and our dinner became a long awaited procedure; complete with endless billowing smoke and an absence of heat. We broke into our burgers and sausages eventually and the rain stopped long enough for us to eat them in peace; a dinner with a spectacular view of the ocean, and a house on its own island, complete with 90ft high foot bridge suspended on the horizon.

Heading back to Fistral beach, the location of our surfing triumphs; we watched the few lone surfers ride their last waves before the darkness blanketed the ocean; catching the lasting beauty of the setting sun across the rhythmic rush of the ocean advances. As the raindrops once again began to fall, we turned our back on the coastal wonder; bidding goodnight to the sea and letting the crash of the waves fill the still night-time air.

Waking early inside the stuffy tent after a slightly more bearable night’s sleep, I was the first to rise; and while contemplating the most alarming way to wake the others, they sensed the threat and all opened their tent flaps bleary eyed. We quickly packed up our tents with the darkening sky a foreboding threat as the rain begins to sprinkle. My ‘pop up’ tent, which takes all of 2 seconds to assemble (one step instructions: bend and throw) has an eight step plan to follow to put down and took all four of us a good 10 minutes to manipulate/force back into its case.

J’s expert knowledge of the town directed us to a cute café for breakfast that was perfectly placed in a surf town. A haphazard mixture of brightly coloured furniture, much of it apparently child’s size, surf images hanging from every available wall space and patterned bunting adorning the fireplace and bay windows. We relaxed into the easy atmosphere and attempted to choose breakfast amongst the delicious array of options. I opted for a pot of English breakfast tea and organic muesli with soy milk, yogurt and honey. The boys all got hearty breakfasts while I devoured cranberries, blueberries, strawberries, sunflower seeds, macadamia nuts, almonds, shredded coconut; the works! With an utterly content stomach, J led us down to the harbour, located in a small inlet where the many boats fill the tranquil bay. The sun shone long enough for us to get a taste of the scenery bathed in sunshine before we headed back to the car to avoid the next ensuing downpour.

With the weather packing in, we decided to forgo another day of surfing (an audible sigh of relief could be heard emitting from our arm muscles) and decided to take a scenic route back, making numerous stops along the English coast. Our first stop was Fowey; a small harbour town bustling with energy that reminded me a lot of the Marlborough Sounds in NZ. A small bay dotted with boats and a backdrop of green mountains rolling in to the shore. We wandered through the old town and admired the many pasty shops, clotted cream cafes and even took a visit inside a spooky antique shop complete with 1920’s exercise equipment and matching leather shorts (we asked, thinking it was ancient torture apparel.) From Fowey we caught the car ferry (!!) about 20 metres across the water to continue our journey to Looe (its real name, promise), which we reached by taking another car ferry to Plymouth. Real life English car ferry experience! I couldn’t help feeling sucked back into the early 1900’s, thankfully minus the horse and carriage and laborious attire.

We reached Plymouth around lunch time where we caught up with J’s University friends who still live in the town he studied in. Another gorgeous harbour town that instantly reminded me of Bristol, old stone buildings lined up on the foot of the water; boats bobbing up and down as the cool wind swings through. We caught the town in the middle of a Jazz and Blues festival and wandered to a restaurant for a late lunch with the melodic sounds providing a rhythmic beat. 

We chose a delightful looking Seafood and Pasta restaurant and encountered the waitress training day, or so it seemed. A half hour wait to get served, an easy 20 minute wait for drinks followed by another 20 for the meal; luckily, the food was delicious. A spicy Cajun chicken sandwich (and they do mean spicy) with home-made fries and a delicious salad. Chatter drowned the music and we took a walk around the small central town, up to the Hoe (the aptly named top of the hill) which afforded views of the Navy barracks, the Lighthouse and right out into the expanse of ocean that rolled as far as I could see, before our parking ticket expired and we were back on the road; winding our way through beautiful English roads, towering green trees lush from the rain flashing past.

Getting stuck in bizarre, intermittent traffic in the middle of nothing seemed to sum up the venture home, but we managed to make a slight diversion to hit Stonehenge before dark – my very first visit! We arrived to a ‘closed’ road sign which we swerved around and headed down anyway. The rabbits had obviously been made aware of the road closure and taken it as their liberty to commandeer the area. This meant they were running around the road with careless abandon, and unfortunately, one such floppy eared, soft furred cutie met its fate that night. Discussion was split as to whether the preceding swerve was to target or avoid the rabbit, and I’m still unconvinced it was to spare its life, rather than end it.

Scarred and stunned; we arrived at the gate to Stonehenge with yet another closed sign, and decided now was no time to be discouraged and refused to turn back. Scaling the fence and running across the damp, untouched ground; we managed to squeeze in one photo before encountering a large, bearded man who actually appeared out of nowhere. For a vast field with nothing but giant, untouchable rock in it; I have absolutely no idea where this large man was waiting. Nevertheless, we were practically chased from the grounds; but with one photo happily tucked away for future proof.

Passing our road kill on the road back was awful and I couldn’t help but look at the forlorn face, squashed into the middle of the road mid-run. The only mild solace is hoping its fate was quick and painless, with a thought sent to its bunny family; awaiting its return. 

Despite more traffic queues as a reminder we live in an over-populated country, we finally arrived in London past bed time; and after a quick recall of our latest adventures with our freshly returned (and seriously tanned!) flatmate, we all scurry into bed and collapse, the sleep talking filling the humid night air and a whole stack of memories tucked away into the depths of our thoughts.

 

 

Intended for Nowhere: Thoughts to Spare.

Dentist appointment: Wednesday 3PM, catches your eye as you open your diary on Monday morning to check the week ahead. There are other appointments, meetings and various plans but this one sticks out. It is dreaded. 

Who doesn’t flinch at the prospect of a trip to the dentist? The mere thought produces near anaphylactic spasms for me. My heart races, my palms become sweaty; heck, I can practically feel the cold, metallic acid taste in my mouth of those feared instruments. With one of the highest suicide rates of any profession, the dentists themselves aren’t exactly having a day at Disneyland. So why is it that dentists are dreaded and the act itself is collectively despised and yet we continue to go (or not go, the real problem) without attempting to change this embedded stigma?

As an on-going obstacle throughout life, the dentist is like homework; you can avoid it all you want, but you know thatsooner or later it’s going to have to get done. There will always be someone or something nagging at you (potentially your own inner conscience, but often the ‘voice of eternal reason’ comes in the form of a parent) to stop procrastinating and bite the bullet. The worst part is that at least you can outgrow homework; the dentist is like that bad Snapchat you hastily send then regret, it always manages to wriggle its way back into your life.

So why is the dentist such a reluctant activity? It could be the cold, sharp atmosphere the moment you walk in the door, the smell of metal and misery while you sit in the waiting room, or perhaps it’s the whizzing and whirring and accompanying discomfort of having numerous, odd metal rods and foul tasting equipment shoved into your mouth at the dentist’s will. But who knows? Maybe it’s the décor.

I like having clean teeth. I like looking after myself where I can, and I like knowing that I’m doing what I can to delay the inevitable dentures I’ll receive for my 70th birthday (along with my back problems and inappropriate dress sense). It is these intangible qualities and this pride of self that keeps meand many others paying extortionate amounts to go through such displeasure. Oh, the ironic benefits of being Susan Boyle.

Dentists rely on this need of each individual for regularpersonal grooming. Without our selfish desire to reduce cavities, limit grizzly smiles and avoid the cataclysmic realities of having a gap filled grin, they would be without jobs; enjoying the utopia that is living without spending their day mumbling numbers and letters mixed into some kind of code that can only be understood by those holding weapons of mouth destruction.

There is nothing more comforting than lying in the dentist’s chair with a light beam shining directly into your eyes, the blood rushing into your head with its proximity closer to the ground than your feet and a couple of tubes shoved in your mouth while hearing “we’ve got an N11 and a 477, I’m going to have to use a J9 for the 5F7.” My stomach lurches and my eyes widen in horror as I arrive at the only logical conclusion: “ALL MY TEETH ARE GOING TO BE TAKEN OUTWITH A HAMMER!” 

While always announced in a calm, placid voice as if the dentist is sharing the evening shopping list, it can only mean that the couple of days I forgot to brush my teeth and the abundance of coffee’s during the stressful days at work has now meant I’m getting a face full of fillings and I’M NOT EVEN GOING TO KNOW ABOUT IT BECAUSE THEY ARE TALKING IN CODE!”.

I feel like having a word to Evolution that we spent all those years learning a common language only to revert back to communicating in irrational staccato. What is with creating a barrier between dentist and patient with all this use of unexplained language? Wasn’t this “how are you?”, “how are the children?”, “are the renovations on the pool house finished yet?” we just went through an attempt at joviality? Weren’t we breaking the barriers between patient and worker to create an illusion of warmth and comfort in this unnatural, foreign, mutually detested space?

Hidden beneath the hideous glasses to protect from the lights (though an obvious excuse to mask the shell shocked glare ofpatient fear) my face is blanketed in terror, the only escape from the awful feeling of grating and pressure that the dentist is obviously mercilessly unaware I’m currently tormented to, is imagining the next 12 months without the tiniest mention of ‘dentist’ in any dimension. I can look at my calendar without forebode, I can open and close my mouth when and how I feel like it. I can foresee a yearlong future without uncomfortable, strange metal instruments thrust forcefully at me as my body tenses and contorts in distress against that nightmarish chair.

As the pressure lessens and the tools are removed from my distraught mouth, the chair is returned to a natural angle, the codes stop filling my hearing and the sunglasses are removed so I can see normal vision, the dentist turns to me. 

The face is emotionless and empty; “I’m afraid we’ve found a few things that concern me”, it muses. “I’m going to have to ask you to come back for more work next week.”

I actually think I’d quite suit dentures.

 

Filed Under 'Experiences'..

If walking down Oxford St on Christmas Eve is one of the busiest and most stressful things I’ve ever done, then walking down Oxford St during the Friday evening post work rush under a blazing hot sun, laden with bags and attempting to dash through bustling crowds to catch a train is a very, veryclose second. Not to mention, far more sweat producing.

As the hordes of revellers around us headed to their rooftop drinks, their evening dinner parties or whatever the beautiful Friday night had waiting; I was sweating, stressed and regretting not only my commitment to working a weekend (I was obviously under some sort of ‘crazy curse’ when I agreed to that one), but regretting the colour of choice for my outfit: black. I was to the sun what Lindsay Lohan is to drugs; I was its magnet, and it an inescapable object.

After inhaling the tangibly toxic air of the underground, (face planted against the open tube window and tongue wagging), we arrived at Paddington station to a delayed train and a building more resembling Wall Street’s Stock Exchange with the frantic moving, shouting and hand waving going on, the eager bustling of escaping the city heat in full swing. Twenty minutes later and the sun was streaming in our train window, the air conditioning working overtime to bring our body temperatures back to normal. The views afforded were glorious as the setting sun illuminated the beautiful countryside effortlessly gliding by and we read horoscopes and talked endless nonsense (think horoscopes and ‘heroes’)until our destination was being announced on the speaker and we were frantically grabbing our belongings ready to dart off. Approaching the door, a last minute memory burst occurred to remember that the camera and drinks were still lying untouched on the overhead racks. With the ‘doors closing soon’ beeps starting, the dash to grab the camera and drinks was stressful to say the least, but as soon as our feet landed on the concrete platform; the laughing and guffaws at our unfortunately matched ‘Leo’ qualities melted the stress away instantly.

Our friend had directed us to get a taxi from the station to our hotel, and after stepping outside the platform we swiftly realised we were in, well, the “wop wop’s” (this brought about considerably more giggling as I learnt from the expression of C’s face that ‘wop wop’s’ was a strictly Kiwi phrase). As we started to walk we soon noticed that the other exit from the station was far more active and actually had, thankfully, taxi’s. Real British, black cabs. Saviours.

Some wonderfully non-awkward (because it’s never awkward when you’re laughing) taxi chatter while gazing at the Welsh countryside (which I feel like I was doing just not that long ago!) and we were pulling up to our typically Welsh (ie. Not much else in the vicinity) accommodation. It was late by this stage, but we had free food waiting so we tucked into a delicious three course meal (garlic breaded mushrooms, tikkamasala curry with naan and poppadoms and a banoffe waffle) but not quite making it to my dessert as the tired eyes set in before its arrival.

We packed ourselves into bed, with the sheets thrown off as the heat of the day lingered, an exhausting day wiping us out before the heat could keep us awake.

Saturday brought about an early morning start as the alarm I am so used to hearing went off (the benefit of forgetting what it’s like to sleep in is that you forget what it’s like to sleep in) and we tucked into a divine breakfast (granola scattered with dried banana, dried apricots, dried cranberries, sunflower seeds, fresh berries, apple, pear, pineapple and orange topped with vanilla yogurt and enjoyed with a cup of hot tea) - the fuel you need to get you through an unexpected day in the middle of a field with only the constant presence of arelentlessly hot sun.

I arrived to a giant field. 

A giant field, packed with trucks. 

There were big trucks, small trucks, colourful trucks, patterned trucks, trucks with giant faces on the side, and they were all shiny, sparkling and polished to perfection. We rolled up to the Eddie Stobart section, by far the largest there with three huge trucks and a couple of marquee’s selling merchandise. The stand I was working on was selling raffle tickets and memberships to both the adults and kids clubs. It had no shade. And by 9AM I was sweating. 

Story of the weekend.

The event opened at 9.30AM, technically. But people were allowed in beforehand and by 9.10AM a queue had formed in front of my stall. People were already coming up and asking about the drivers. Listing the names of a variety of drivers, I was baffled by their knowledge and excitement towards seeing these men. The marquee was opened behind me and some of the drivers had arrived and were changing into their work shirts in the back. Before I realised this, a small crowd had formed in front of me and girls were whistling, phones out capturing the moment, as the men took off their shirts. Their names were called, there was whistling and so was my introduction to understand the bizarre swarm of mayhem that was to follow these drivers that weekend. I was officially perplexed.

The day ran smoothly; we sold memberships endlessly and the opportunity to join a driver in his deliveries, name a truck, or win £150 of Stobart merchandise (in that order) was an apparently highly sought prize in the raffle and tickets were flying out of our sunburnt hands.

While the work wasn’t outwardly interesting, the people more than made up for that. If truckfest was a representation of the Welsh people, I will have to make my trips back short. The people were, unique. 

I had been warned that truckfest people are like nothing else, being told that I would have to wait and see what the event involved because the people that go are unexplainable. They were right. I could not explain the types of individuals I encountered if I wanted to (which, actually, I don’t. Ever.)

I was similarly stunned by the reaction to the drivers. Picture this: a shade less field, the searing sun burning down and with monster truck shows, ice cream trucks and drinks stands located elsewhere; and people were queuing for miles to meet, take photos with and get autographs from these drivers. These queues were around 2 hours long and stretched back further than I could see. Keep in mind, this is Wales. These people are not used to an over 20 degree sun, let alone over 27 degree.

I spend the day chatting (or being chatted to, my voluntary speech is significantly limited with a one sided conversation more than satisfactory for truckfest individuals), and gawking at the “celebrity status” of these drivers. Men who eat too much, smoke too often, speak too loudly and in every way, shape and form are your average middle aged, mid class man; yet they attract Hollywood significance at this unique festival.

When closing time rolls around the queue remains long and there is autograph signing and photo taking long after the day is ‘finished’. I give them all props for staying out to grant people’s wishes with sunburnt bald spots and sweaty shirts. 

We pack up, our weary, sun tired limbs aching as our t-shirts stick to our sweating bodies; the absence of shade plastered across our shining faces.

Dinner is a lavish affair, in the three course meal sense, as we load up chicken strips, garlic breaded mushrooms, tikkamasala curry and banoffe waffle, which I finally try! But after a couple of wine spritzer’s and a full meal, it is only bed that is calling our name. I collapse into bed as the heat of the day casts a shadow on my eyes and sets me to sleep.

Another early morning wake up call for the final day’s work; a delicious breakfast before a day spent under the sun, a much more jovial approach to the final day. The heat is stronger, the queues are longer and the customers lining up in front of the stall become more and more red as the day stretches on. 

Memberships and raffle tickets fly off the shelf, and before the sun has time to cool, we are packing up the tents and listening in awe as the monster truck show demonstration exudes exasperated gasps and we catch sight of the giant truck upside down as the fire and safety crews rush out to find an adrenaline high driver unscathed.

A truck breaks down to top off the otherwise faultless weekend, but before long we are back on the road and driving the couple of hours back into a hot and sweaty London; my eyes closing furiously intermittently throughout the drive. I experience my first English ‘services’ where we load up on M&S salads and sweets to keep us going, before I arrive home to a stuffy flat and a delightful evening, the stubborn sun finally deciding to hide behind the hills as I roll into bed, defeated.

When London forgets its England.

Woah, London. Chill out. Literally. I'm trying to function here. 

Summer Lovin'

Weekend success: cinnamon and sugar scones (zomg!), new Nike sport shoes and a late evening in the garden eating fresh fruit and talking, talking, talking followed by movies before bed. Falling asleep (or trying to..) to the sound of French wafting through the humid night air. 

Only in London.

Contentedly walking home from work through Mayfair, the hot sun shining down while I listened to music, when a dark skinned man came out of nowhere, stood right in front of me, pointed and said "you have red hair". He then walked off, briefcase in hand, his tie billowing out behind him. 

Apartheid is long dead, children. 

Tennis Fever.

Feeling like a real Brit, swept up in Wimbledon fever cheering Robson on! Sneaking live scoring updates while working. Tension!! She took down the Kiwi so she better win now... 

Nothing like tennis fever when your whole body still hurts from a 3 hour marathon game the day before. That beautiful sound of ball hitting the racquet can be heard all across London these days. Oh, and the painful sound of strings breaking on Millie's racquet. Impersonation of Federer: fail. 

But the highly anticipated girls vs boys match took place under the scorching (and I mean, scorching!) sun, aaaaand the girls WON! Yew!! 6-2, 6-3. Nailed them. ;) 

The win felt good, the cost to use a tennis court in London? Not so much. 

Come on Robson!!! 

(Lengthy) Recollections of a Welsh Weekend.

“There’s nothing there. I wouldn’t bother” had been repeated to me countless times in response to a mere mention of visiting. “I’m not quite sure what you’re actually supposed to do there” others had mimicked. So as the evening sun shone strongly through the humid London pollution, I was eager to set my own description to the blank canvas painted for me of Wales; country of, seemingly, nothing.

 Our beautiful family wagon (quickly dubbed ‘Herbert’ for no reason whatsoever) allowed our crazy, mixed, dysfunctional family of seven to all hit the road together for a weekend of adrenaline, experience and adventure. After the last of us had finished work for the week and two days of freedom stretched ahead, wide and unchartered, we joined the queues out of London, blasting a medley of tunes and playing the Royal Mail car game. (The aim is to be the first to spot and shout out ‘Royal Mail Post Box’ or ‘Royal Mail Lorry’. The winner adorning the crown of ‘most annoying’.)

 After getting lost, or touring Derbyshire along the exact same way multiple times depending on your outlook of optimism, we eventually made it to destination numero uno: Jordan’s house! We arrived after the sun had set (which was late, this was the longest day of the year, no less!), weary eyed and stiff limbed, we quickly realised how many of us there were when we managed to steam roll the entire living room with our presence. It was wonderful to relax back into the ease of a family home with matching china, fully stocked cupboards and living animals. (Not as opposed to dead animals, just any animals at all.) After managing to remain upright and coherent through utter tiredness long enough to observe and ridicule embarrassing baby photos, we quickly established our plan for tomorrow and dragged ourselves off to bed for an early morning wakeup call, the laboured breathing heard before the lights turned off.

 The morning sun beamed through the skylight and the birds began to chirp (an obvious reminder we were no longer in inner city London) and we awoke to a promising day. We snuck in some breakfast, consuming a large portion of the household food together as a large group, and followed the 15 minute drive to Alton Towers; tracing the beautiful windy back routes while pheasant searching and beating the traffic. We arrived as the clouds took over the blue tinged sky and the rain quickly followed, and despite being ‘summer’ it quickly became clear almost all of us were inadequately dressed. Nevertheless, the threatening clouds were meaningless with the adventure that waited.

 The wonderful and most unique thing about this giant theme park is the inability to see it. It is completely invisible from the road and upon arriving at the car park; you cannot see any of the rides, nor is it evident that there is anything present nearby other than a dense forest. The park is quite a distance from the car park so there is a themed monorail to the entrance (ours was jelly beans) and the Alton Towers theme song pumps up the anticipation. Gliding along surrounded by towering trees felt more like we were off on a hike than heading to a theme park. Then flashes of bulky metal and technicolour rails flew into view and our stomachs lurched pre-emptively.

Arriving at 9.30 for a park that opens at 10, meant we could get inside and line up for rides before they actually opened. Our plan was to head to the newest ride, opened in May 2013, The Smiler – 14 loops of terror! We rolled up to find a huge line and a sign labelling the wait as 2 and a half hours long. We elected to return later, our excitement for thrills unable to hold out for the extended line. As the rain began to pour, we joined the lines for a number of crazy rides; a complete soaking was a small price to pay for outrageous adrenaline and, at times, pure fear. Ride number one was ‘Thirteen’, a foray into the unknown, a roller coaster with a surprise. (Spoiler Alert! It stops in pitch black which is assumed to signal the end of the ride, before dropping straight down and hurtling backwards! I think I literally gained air in the rush to grab my companion.) Rita was next, a roller coaster that took off at such speed I momentarily forgot where I was (and looking across, observed a very, very pale acquaintance), before regaining my neck muscles and trying Air; an incredible, and perhaps my favourite, roller coaster which instead of being in a seat at a 90 degree angle; the seat was lifted up so that you were parallel to the ground. Talk about blood rush to the head! Nemesis, the quintessential Alton Towers roller coaster gave us a jolty ride and perhaps several added neck injuries; loops and swoops performed with your legs dangling and swinging about at odd angles. The Sonic Spinball hurtled us through the rain over dazzling tracks as our seats spun constantly, forcing us backwards and forwards before our eyesight blurred and there was merely a mess of disjointed track behind us.

 The continuous fear had our bellies grumbling and we headed to an all-you-can-eat Pizza and Pasta buffet (because if you can’t eat badly at a theme park where can you?) and unleashed our hunger fury on the unsuspecting chefs. Impressively, more than one of us consumed a whole pizza. Filled to the brim, we decided to take a more humble approach to the rides with a stomach full of food, and queued for the white water rapids ride, typically one of my favourites! Especially fun when it’s already raining and there is a chill in the air that makes the simplest splash of water a perilous threat. We all got wet. Most of us not from the splashing, but from an evil lookout point where people pay £1 to use powerful water guns that are placed in a hidden corner and allow for pin point accuracy as the innocent riders come down the rapids! One of the little brats hit me square in the head, needless to say after that my ear was waterlogged and mission: payback to evil 10 year old began.

 We ran through the easing drizzle to the Charlie and the Chocolate Factory ride, a must-do after having seen the London show several days earlier and after riding down a chocolate river we were able to go in a real, moving glass elevator! Talk about dreams coming true. We followed this with a visit to the Ice Age 4D cinema where we got pelted by air from beneath our legs, snowed on from above and rocked back and forth as fire-breathing dragons and inscrutable mammals threatened our livelihood. I even made a real life friend with an over-excited 11 year old who took my energetic laughter as a sign of a potentially solid friendship. (Update: unfortunately, after the show ended we went our separate ways.) A shoot out through a haunted house (which was unspeakably terrifying for one of us – which the photo evidence of the ride proved hilariously true) before we headed to the extensive line for The Smiler, the grand sum of fear at Alton Towers. We arrived just before the park closed at 5.30pm, knowing that once you were in the line you were guaranteed a place on the ride of doom. It was the longest wait by a long shot at over two hours; and the fear gradually subsided as the wait prevailed. We kept ourselves entertained with ‘four pictures one word’, an iPhone app that sounds a lot less difficult than it is, keeping us suitably occupied until we neared the front and fear lashed hold once again.

Approaching the seat felt like a death wish and my knuckles turned white before we had started, with only the question of ‘why’ at the forefront of my anxious mind. As we lurched into blackness, we instantly plunged into the ground at a hurtling speed before stopping completely and being pulled up high into the sky, where the whole grounds were visible to the nervous eye. But there was no time for visual appreciation as the view streamed past at frightening speeds; we were looping, spinning, backwards, forwards, sideways and upside down. The ride stops momentarily to climb vertically up the track before folding back into its terrifying speed and stomach lurching loops, the cackling, petrifying laughter of ‘The Smiler’ an ever present haunting soundtrack. The ride ends after an impressively long time and the smiles and adrenaline take over as the stomach settles back to normal position. By far the craziest roller coaster I’ve ever experienced.

 The sun finally shone brightly as we left the park, illuminating the excitement, adrenaline and pure fun of the day passed. Collapsing into the car utterly exhausted, we ate homemade flapjack and ‘whoopie pie’ as we navigated our way into Wales for my first visit! It was raining. The whole time we were there it barely stopped; plummeting forcefully into the ground and adding to the lush vegetation that swarmed the landscape. We followed the picturesque, unruly coast to our hostel and admired the mountain ranges we passed, attempting guesses at which was Mt Snowdon in amongst the fog (we were all wrong.) We made it to the hostel with surprising ease and were met by a wonderful (and wild) view of the ocean on our doorstep and the mesmerising Welsh accent of the owner. We quickly settled into our room, dumped our wet belongings and set off into the quaint, stone town to find a pub. As should be in Wales, we found a pub without any difficulty and joined the Saturday night revellers, eavesdropping in awe at the spoken Welsh we found everywhere; a hypnotic tangle of Irish and English spoken with rapid intensity. We ordered cider’s and relaxed into the welcoming atmosphere of the winding, narrow pub furnished with endless Welsh flags and bizarre stone sculptures; the beautiful chatter of our Welsh companions a serenading reminder of our location.

 When in Wales, do what the Welsh do; the night disappeared and was gone before we could recall it and soon we were finding our way back through the beautiful empty streets; the cobblestones treacherous and wonderful and illuminated by the large bright moon. Collapsing into bed with only a handful of hours before our rise, the open window invited the calls of the birds and the crash of the ocean to create a lullaby for our drifting minds.

 As dawn peaked and the birds noise grew to inescapable strength, we were up early courtesy of a pleasant nature absent in London. Grabbing a fuelling breakfast in the underground kitchen (complete with fake moose head filling the space overheard the fireplace) in preparation for our mountain climb; and we left the hostel in almost arctic conditions, returning to the realisation of how ill equipped we were to complete scale a mountain. We loaded into Herbert and navigated our way to the bus that would take us to the foot of Mt Snowden, joining a few other fellow climbers at the bus stop, fully kitted out in thermals, hats, rain jackets, hiking boots and water proof everything. We felt like we had turned up at a swanky party having missed the ‘cancelled fancy dress’ memo. We soldiered on.

 We began the walk with utter stillness and calm for company with only sprawling green hills rolling into the distance ahead of us, an unspoken serenity emanating from the landscape. Oh, and some of the most intense lashing rain I’ve ever encountered. We soon were so drenched that the rain was no longer a bother and we kept ourselves (somewhat) warm by singing camp songs and national anthems. After walking for about two hours, we were reaching serious heights and as the path suddenly disappeared we realised we were lost. Trying to scale a mountain of rocks, it was not only the wrong way but extremely dangerous. We liaised with another group which had foolishly followed us before turning back and eventually finding the rock face that we were to follow (having previously written it off as “not a path” due to its vertical gradient). At this height the fog was so dense, it was only possible to see about 15 metres in front, and others were mere formations in the distance; a hollow silhouette within a sea of cloud. Keeping close was vital, newspaper headlines were flashing across my vision with every added metre away from the group “Idiotic Kiwi Girl Lost on Mountain”.

Another hour or so of seemingly rock climbing our way to the summit and we had reached a narrow plateau stretched out ahead that was managing to assemble the wind from every direction and churning it into a tornado like event; with sheer cliff faces to heighten the fury. Momentarily stopping to access the likelihood of making it across alive; the deciding factor was realising there was nowhere else to go and needing to reach other side of the mountain; we braced ourselves. Sheer real fear like no theme park ride could emulate, we linked arms for added strength and weight against the wrath of wind. The desire to run was outweighed by the recognition that it was more likely to lead to being swept off your feet; so we forced our heads down against the lashing rain and concentrated on each solid footstep. After about 20 minutes but a seeming lifetime, we reached the utmost summit where a small rock plaque is placed on a raised platform to signify the top. Feeling as if scaling this was necessary to officially have ‘climbed’ Snowden, we literally put our lives in the hands of fate as we gripped the stone steps while climbing to the top. Quickly touching the top, we timed a lull in the wind and crouched down to lunge back to the side and take the steps down as safely but as quickly as we could.

 Reaching the indoor café and taking a deep, “I’m still alive” breath of gold, the last couple of hours felt like one giant underwater marathon, and by the looks of us a 21km swim was what we we’d just braved. If seeing a ghost is an apt description of the aftermath of shock; we’d just seen the whole village. Drenched from head to toe, ravaged by the howling gale and exhausted from climbing a sheer cliff when we’d expected a friendly dawdle, to say we were flabbergasted is an understatement. If it wasn’t for the cliff top café, we may have never made it down. Lacking enough money to pay for the train, we had only enough cash to all buy a hot chocolate and a toasted Panini and needed every inch of the warmth and fuel it provided. After lengthy pep talks to motivate us to leave the safe haven of the café, we trekked out into the wettest, windiest, foggiest world I have ever known and begun the descent down. Three of us decided we wanted nothing more than to be at the bottom as fast as we could, and took to running down when the strength of the wind allowed. The path was slightly perilous and the side of the mountain we descended was directly exposed to the open gales and downpours so as we ran down the rocky path the side of our faces open to the elements were battered and bruised by the fury of nature.

Flying past others in their single minded determination to also reach the bottom, we were stopped twice by other groups heading up asking us if it was safe to continue to the top. We passed one group of five, solidly built, middle aged men decked out in full hiking kit only to be stopped and asked how much further it was and whether we thought it was possible to go all the way and reach the café. We told them yes, it was where we had just come from, and the small part of their faces I could see around the warm, waterproof covering revealed an odd mixture of fear and embarrassment. We were ill dressed females who had just taken on the elements they were hesitant to embrace. That’s either girl power, or sheer stupidity.

 As we made our way closer to the foot of the mountain, nature relented and the fog cleared to allow us to see the beautiful views of Mt Snowden. We were even able to make out the train as it hurtled alongside us, creating a formidable sight. Amazingly, we managed to beat the train to the foot of the mountain by mere minutes and the one of our group who had opted to take it down was impressed by our sheer speed. There is nothing like being petrified, freezing and pelted by relentless painful raindrops to persuade you to descend a mountain at a cracking pace. As soon as we reached the car park and found the car, we encouraged our limbs to co-operate despite the feeling of frostbite and difficulty with movement, and changed into the only dry clothes we had left. Needless to say, we looked like homeless foreigners in an odd assortment of garments, who had just fallen into the ocean and been attacked by sharks. We were a mess. We loaded into the car, pumped the heating on high and comforted ourselves. Mission accomplished. One peak down, two to go. (If the other two are anything similar, I think ‘three peaking’ may be a death wish.)

 Driving back towards England (the roundabout way; we had time to spare upon learning the zip wire was cancelled due to bad weather, not that we were surprised after our hazardous climb) we made a small detour to Port Merion. A beautiful tiny town, we entered between rain squalls to observe a village designed by a man now passed on, and looking like Mediterranean reincarnate. It was hard to believe that people actually lived there as it seemed like untouchable art, beauty for the eye. We had tea at a quaint little café and walked through the town and down to the shoreline before driving once again through lush, green scenery; our eyes closing intermittently as the long day caught up with us and the rhythmic lull of the car took hold. Awaking ravenous, we managed to find a great restaurant on the border of England, startling our fellow customers with our appetite to eat and inhaling our much deserved food before back to the car and the long drive home, the large shining moon our resolute companion.

 With my first journey into Welsh territory now passed, I can reason with those who informed me of the “nothing” I was visiting. They were right, there really is nothing in Wales; but that’s what makes it so beautiful, that’s what makes it Wales. The ‘nothing’ is the everything. Beauty is everywhere in Wales; the nature, the scenery, the untouched landscapes and the humble spirits of residents proud of their nation; patriotic to the ferocious red dragon. There is no famed theme park, no infamous memorial and no world renowned monument, but it is Wales, and it’s everywhere you look; a refreshing authenticity, a spirited genuineness and a treasured simplicity held within the rushed, complex fibres of the modern world.

Summer Seasoning.

As the ‘jumpers’ are thrown away, the trees bare their green proudly and the flowers stop cowering away from the frost and rain to blossom into full colour, summer is on the tip of everyone’s tongue. 

It’s the water cooler conversation du jour; the prospect of sun, outdoor drinks after work, evenings spent lounging in parks; but does it ever really feel like summerhere? 

I’m beginning to wonder if summer in London is merely an illusion, an elaborate creation to get middle class residents through the brutal winter without the expensive tropical escapes to the Mediterranean, and without the fabricated ‘plages’ shipped into the inner city.

The very first time I questioned (and worried about) the English summer I have been hanging out for was when the Celsius scrapped 15 and the central city parks looked like a sunblock giveaway convention in central Ireland; the green grass was barely visible beneath the sea of teeming vitamin D deficient bodies. Yes, the sun was peeking out from between the clouds but the breeze in the air was swinging straight from Iceland and my arms remained safely tucked into my jacket.The beautiful view outside my window as the towering naked winter trees bloomed vibrant and green belied the outdoor reality. With the indoor heating masking nature’s true temperature, I was forgiving my preconceived notions of a frosty English June and was beginning to think the warnings I was given were communicated in vain. The echo of “England doesn’t do summer” and the cynical laugh at its suggestionwas going to be lost in the glare of the sunshine and mild evening picnics.

Well, reality is a bitch and the outdoor chill stung like the falling blossom in your eye. Nature was in the throes of its summer cycle whereas the weather was the troublesome toddler, throwing a tantrum and refusing to follow the rules.

The rare summer days are relished; outdoor pubs fill to bursting and the beer can be heard spilling from clattering jugs long after the sun has set. London receives a normal person’s definition of summer about 7 days in the year (these statistics come from The National Library of Hanna; use with caution) and the city becomes a real life replica of Rapunzel’s bedroom, shut down and trapped from its own making. The heat becomes the sky’s comforter, a blanket that encapsulates the heat and reflects it, a humid intensity fit for a tropical rainforest. Lacking a refreshing escape and instead surrounded by towering brick buildings, the city is bathed in similarities with that of a sauna; a sauna in which the door is locked and the key has been eaten.

The variation of summer in a big city is that unlike Paris, in London you get to take your clothes off. Paradoxically, if you want to take all your clothes off, the beaches of France are your remedy, but if you want to disrobe to a level of comfort for the hot temperatures, head to the English speaking capital. In Paris, wearing shorts and a t-shirt is like eating escargot with your hands or not appreciating a merlot; it is simply not the way du Français. If someone is seen in anything less than a reasonable layer of cover (or a less covered but fashion forward summer style) you can be sure any Parisian will merely assume you are an unaware tourist. Shorts? Singlet?You must be American. (French attitudes to Americans fitnicely with the French outlook to tourists in general).

Reversely, in London if you wear anything more than shorts and a t-shirt (especially if its fashion forward), you can be sure to get a contemptuous raised eyebrow from the Brits. It is July and the temperature is in the double digits; take off a layer. It is easy to spot the English walking down a street in the summer time, not merely because like the stigma surrounding vampires they reflect the sunlight, but they are the ones wearing the least and sweating the most.

When the sun is shining and the layers are discarded; you would think that everyone was on holiday. There are more people on the streets, the parks fill to bursting and the threat of diminishing alcohol at pubs is a very real possibility. But most of all, the highly wrung individuals pacing the pavements, the vigorous pushing to make the tube and the stern, stressed faces occupied by suit wearing office workers all gets lightened and mellowed by the sunshine. The rays illuminate inner happiness, decanting the reports, meetings and stress of the day and awaking the euphoria of the sun.

The sun may not grace the skies of London very often, clouded away by a haze of pollution and ever present rain; but at least when she does appear, she is appreciated. Outdoors becomes a haven of invitation, a sanctuary of freedom and a release from the uptight individual that London can encourage. When the sun arrives, it transforms the city; and the people transform along with it.