Going to the Zoo, Zoo, Zoo

By Elizabeth Johnstone

I enjoy being a tourist in London.  Armed with my Super Off-Peak Travelcard plus Network Card, I like to take the train into town on a Saturday and visit one of our many attractions. Recently, I used the 2-for-1 discount offered by the Days Out Guide in association with National Rail.  Provided you travel by train, you can get two full price entry tickets for the price of one.

Meerkat at London Zoo

London Zoo seemed like a good use of this scheme. A single full price adult ticket, including a 10% “voluntary donation”, is an eye-watering £28.10.  Discounts are available for children, seniors, disabled people, groups etc but none are as good as two for one. My husband and I took the train to Finsbury Park, then a 29 bus to Camden followed by a pleasant 15-minute walk to the zoo.

Our first stopping point was Penguin Beach.  One of the newer features, it had raked seating so we could look down on these delightful creatures. Several “portholes” in the side of the pool showed off their streamlined underwater prowess. Readers may remember the Modernist Penguin Pool designed by Lubetkin in 1934.  It is preserved as architectural heritage but the penguins now enjoy a much more sympathetic environment.

Next, we explored the new “Land of the Lions”.  This huge, Indian-themed area includes a railway station, crumbling temple clearing, high street and guard hut.  Seeing the actual lions was harder.  A group of lionesses snoozed contentedly on heated rocks, but the male was well hidden somewhere in his spacious and protected habitat.  Ideal for him, less so for the customers.

Artworks and statues are too numerous to mention.  I liked the “Big Clock” outside the aviary.  It sprang to life on the hour with a charming mechanised interpretation of the Victorian attitude to animals.  Small animals were easier to spot.  Who doesn’t love a meerkat? An adult stood on guard duty on top of the burrow.  Even better were the black-capped squirrel monkeys, whose enclosure we could walk through. Plenty of keepers were on hand to prevent problems between curious monkeys and over-enthusiastic toddlers.

The venerable Galapagos tortoises lumbered purposefully around. The Komodo dragon glared balefully. We ate our sandwiches in “Australia”, eye-to-eye with emus.  Kangaroos dozed in the shade beside huge “termite mounds”.  We were in time for a presentation of the tigers and looked down on these fantastic animals from a viewing station.

By chance, we were visiting on Vulture Awareness Day.  Apparently, vultures are uniquely susceptible to an antibiotic routinely used on cattle in the sub-continent, with the result that over 99% have been wiped out. Vultures no longer devour disease-ridden carcasses and those diseases are spreading among the human population.  London Zoo has a programme to re-populate the vultures, to which we gladly contributed.

Another top exhibit was the vast and superbly appointed “Gorilla Kingdom”.  The enormous male slumbered in an equally capacious leather hammock, while the female relaxed on a branch.  She kept an eye on the baby whose eagerness to explore was not matched by its expertise.

At the end of the day, we had walked far enough, so used our Travelcards to hop on the 274 bus to Camden, where we picked up another 29.  We made it in time to catch the next train home from Finsbury Park, all pretty seamlessly.

Opinions are divided on zoos.  Some consider them unacceptable in any circumstances and I freely admit that the relationship between humans and animals is a complex one.  All I can say is that London Zoo appears to operate to the highest standards of animal welfare, conservation and education.

First published in VISA 131 (February 2017)

Angels, Fairies and Wizards

By Rachel Kruft Welton

It was a long way, so we (Saskia, Eartha and I) set off early, collecting Lynn, Faye, Megan and their friend Sarah on the way. The top box was still on the car from our trip to Norway, and we managed to fill it, despite only planning to be away for two nights. The trip to Northumberland was 285 miles, which is why we haven't been for years. It takes less time to get to pretty much anywhere in Europe, even including checking in time at the airport.Highlights of the journey included ordering ‘Dulux’ hot chocolate at a Little Chef (Eartha's mispronunciation) and eating our picnic next to some propane tanks at a petrol station. There were probably better, more photogenic picnic spots available, but we felt we hadn't properly adopted the mantra of “It's Grim Oop North” if we went about looking for pretty bits all the time. As we got back on the road, we passed a caravan with a sign in the back window reading: “WE ARE SORRY FOR HOLDING YOU UP. UNLESS YOU ARE JEREMY CLARKSON.”

Poison Garden at Alnwick Castle

Driving along, we suddenly saw signs to the Angel of the North. This huge iron sculpture has been guarding the A1 at Gateshead since 1989. I have always wanted to see it, but it hadn't occurred to me that we would pass it on the way. We swung off the road and went for a nosy.The Angel is 20m tall, made of rusting red steel and spreads its wings 54m, making it look as though it is top heavy. We sat on its toes for a while, then went down the hill to take photos. You have to go right to the bottom before you can get the whole Angel in the picture. A gaggle of Chinese tourists were down there also taking photos, and they took some of us too. We did some stupid Angel poses, much to their amusement.

We arrived in Rothbury by about 4pm and settled into the bunkhouse by the river. We were in a room of seven bunks above a cafe. It was crowded but not uncomfortable. There wasn't a huge amount of room to put things, but it didn't matter for just two nights. Lynn, with a foresight I hadn't possessed, had cooked and packaged some bolognaise and brought some pasta to cook for us all. On the down side, the kitchen contained one egg saucepan, a pair of hotplates that didn't get hot, no colander or saucepan lids and enough plates for a small army. Lynn stormed downstairs and threatened the chef in the main cafeteria that she would disembowel him with a fork if he didn't hand over some equipment pronto. The chef produced a large saucepan, developed a fear of cutlery, and went home sharpish as soon as he could. By the time we realised we needed a colander, he'd legged it out of the building.

Options for straining boiling pasta when you have no lid or colander:
a) the wastepaper basket. This fine wickerwork item will certainly separate the pasta from the water, however it may suffer water damage and is not all that hygienic.b) the plastic cutlery tray. Small holes in the bottom of this tray may allow straining, but pasta and water is likely to slop out all over the sink, as the tray is not very deep. Precision and patience will be required.c) fishing out the pasta from the water with a fork. Life is too short to chase seven portions of slimy pasta shapes around a large saucepan. If you do choose this method, the finished product will be stone cold by the time you have collected it all.d) a plastic container holding cleaning items under the sink. With a good scrub, this item could be the answer to your prayers. Its sides rise to a depth of around 4" and a floral cut-away design allows good drainage.We went for option d, once Lynn had disparaged my other suggestions. Necessity, as they say, is the mother.We needed to stretch our legs a bit, after so long in the car, so we went for a wander around Rothbury, which has a selection of the weirdest shops I have ever had to try to describe. There was one selling plastic animal figurines and stuffed taxidermy specimens, another sold skulls and dumper truck toys. Maybe the small boys of Northumberland have a peculiar taste in toys. We took some photos on a bike tied to the railings outside a shop with a huge wallpaper coated giraffe in it. The whole village was full of little shops, established before the outbreak of war (possibly the Crimean). Only the Co-op seemed new.   

  
We skirted the gas-lamp and memorial before taking a look at the river. Back at the hostel, the girls painted their toenails for a while, except for Sarah, who flaked out immediately in all her clothes and didn't move again until the morning.

Breakfast was served in the cafe downstairs. The petrified chef didn't make an appearance, but sent out extra toast. We purchased some ham and wraps in the Co-op and then left Rothbury on a road called Town Foot. I couldn't make it up.After a couple of loops of Alnwick, we eventually found the entrance to the car park and made our way into the castle. The place is quite sizeable and the gardens are worth a day trip on their own. It quickly became apparent that we wouldn't be able to see it all. One of the reasons for coming to Alnwick had been to see the Poison Garden. It is actually quite a small, fenced area to one side of a cascade of waterfalls down a hillside. We had to wait for a guided tour, as for some reason they don't like people wandering around, fingering the lethal foliage.

The tour was around 15 minutes, and in that time we learnt how to inflict pain, suffering, blisters and possibly death using various methods and diverse plants. Some of the species we saw included the mundane: rhubarb, catnip and rosemary; the illegal (Kat and cannabis); and the less well known, in the form of angel's trumpet, giant hogweed and castor bean. I shall no doubt be using my new found knowledge to off some unwanted characters (in my writing! What did you think I meant?).The next area we took a look at was called the Serpentine Garden. It's theme was water and it was very cleverly done. Each fountain or water feature explored a different characteristic of water. Water formed a vortex here and a curtain there. It bulged with a meniscus in one place, and reflected off its surface in another. The hydrostatic pressure fountain took a long time to fill, and we spent the time listening to cruel parents telling their offspring that they wouldn't get wet if they stood right in the centre. Judging from the dampness of the floor where the children were standing, I guessed the parents were lying. They were, although many seemed to have brought towels, so I guessed they'd played this joke before. The pressure reached the top of the tubes and with a whoosh, the entire area shot fountains up from underfoot, soaking the children, who ran about with squeals of delight.

Our teens explored a bamboo maze, while Lynn and I sat and had a cup of tea and a sneaky bit of cake (the girls will never notice). Afterwards, we decided to spend some time over at the castle, before coming back and doing some more of the gardens.   The castle has been the home of the Percy family for many generations and can be spotted in series such as Downton Abbey and the Harry Potter films. After lunch on the wall, we toured the grand state rooms. I spent some time admiring a pair of ornate 400 year old cabinets with Sarah. I also want a library like theirs, with ladders and balconies.

Eartha and Saskia discovered there was a lion trail. In each room, a small stuffed toy lion was hidden and they needed to find it, in return for a badge at the finish. Needless to say, they would have collected the badge anyway, regardless of the answer. I sometimes forget, when they are with their older siblings, that they are only 12. Sometimes it is good for them to have some time apart from their siblings, so they can just be their own age, instead of trying to be three years older than they really are all the time.On that thought, we found ourselves out in the courtyard watching a group of children and several adults being taught how to ride a broomstick.  It was the area where the same scene had been filmed in the first Potter movie. There was a lot of running up and down with brooms between the knees and humorous banter from the chief wizard and his sidekick. After a while, Saskia and Eartha joined the end of the line, quietly grabbing unclaimed brooms from the cart. We managed to get some decent pictures of them making their brooms float, and finally both of them flying, once they had got the hang of it.Lynn and I split up at that point, as my two wanted to continue with some of the children's activities and the older girls (all 16 already) were less interested in such things and wanted to visit the dungeon and meet the Duchess. Saskia, Eartha and I headed off to the Knight's Quest, past Sir Henry Hotspur and the girls got to dress up in medieval princesses costumes for a bit (even though the dresses were a little small). They made soap from what looked like lard, porridge and bits of lavender and saved Ralph Percy from imminent destruction in the Dragon Quest. By the time we'd managed such heroic deeds, the dungeon had shut and we headed back to the gardens via the gift shop.There was still much to see, but the day was getting late. Eartha wanted to do the Fairytale Trail, which involved a route around the entire site, I think. I loved the ornamental garden, and the musical bench, which played a tinkling sound if you held hands across it (forming a circuit). There was a tree with three blind mice in it, and a long zig-zag through the cherry trees. Humpty Dumpty sat looking glum; a lion lorded over the path and fairies hung in tree branches. There was a room of mirrors and a little witches hut. It would all have been better at a slower speed, but the place was closing. 

We never did get to the Treehouse and cafe. That will have to wait for next time.

First published in VISA 125 (February 2016)

Read more of Rachel's travel blogs here.

Where Am I? In the Village

By Neil Matthews

The file is slammed down on the desk and he strides out of the office, back to freedom. The accelerator feels good beneath his feet as the car eats up the miles. He is unaware that another car is following...as he packs a suitcase in his flat a feeling of wooziness overwhelms him. His last conscious thought is: gas. He awakes on the floor, pulls aback the curtains and sees...

I have a theory that part of the reason for the popularity of The Prisoner lies in its expression of a wish we've  all harboured from time to time: to walk away from a job, telling our employers to get stuffed. Or, then again, maybe not. But, having seen the TV series, a chance to visit the location for its filming, Portmeirion in North Wales, was too good to miss.

If only somebody had done the same for my wife Helen and me as they did for Patrick McGoohan and spirited us straight to Portmeirion. As it was, we struggled  up the M40 through hail and driving gales, pausing only to shudder as the lorry in front of us overturned...still,  the rest of the journey was pleasant, passing through Shropshire on our way over the border. The Welsh road to the coast is long and winding and extremely pretty.

By this time, we were tired and ready for bed. The next morning, I pulled back the curtains and saw...well, not quite the same view as that credit sequence. But it still sent a shiver down the spine.

The bell tower,  just as  steep and forbidding as expected; the dome (no longer green, due to a redecoration a few years ago);the Roman remains; the pool in the centre of the Village; all combined to produce a theatrical effect. It was hard not to think of the surroundings as a giant set, awaiting a cue,  even in broad daylight. The architect of Portmeirion, Sir Clough Williams-Ellis, once said that he wanted "to show people, with a sort of light-opera approach, that architecture could be fun, could be entertaining, interesting, intriguing."

The Village is all of those things. If the art lies in concealing art, then the Village is a work of art; a architect weaving all the tricks of his trade,  concealed by natural beauty. Look at the buildings, breathe in the sea air, walk down to the estuary through the palm trees and you could be by an Italian lake. Yet one of the most startling qualities of Portmeirion is its ability to deceive. False perspectives, fake windows, life-size figurines are everywhere. Two-storey houses turn out to have only one floor. The walk up the hill is steeper than a casual glance might imply. Even the small shops have a vaguely unreal air to them; the assistants might be speaking fluent Welsh or,  then again, they might not.

Although one can take a walk through the nearby woods or go down past the hotel to the stone boat near the estuary, everything revolves around the Village. Given enough sunlight, a peek through the Camera Obscura at the southern end of the resort will produce a clear image of the Village, as if viewed through a television camera.

It was a pity when the moment came to wave goodbye to Portmeirion - farewell to fantasy, back to drab reality. At least once in a lifetime you should resign your top-secret job and come to see the Village. Who knows - you might never escape.

First published in VISA 16 (1995)

The Postcode

By Elizabeth Johnstone

SW1A 1AA. Did you recognise that post code?  It belongs to only one building in Britain, Buckingham Palace. Did you know that it was originally the site of a mulberry garden planted by King James I to rear silkworms?  But I digress.

Photo: Helen Matthews

In August and September, when Her Majesty enjoys the bracing pleasures of Balmoral, it is possible to visit the State Rooms at Buckingham Palace. The public rooms of this busy working palace are used extensively by the Queen and members of the Royal Family to receive and entertain their guests on State, ceremonial and official occasions.  The tour comprises some nineteen rooms including the Throne Room, used for investitures, and the Palace Ballroom, used for State banquets.

It is what the shopping channels call a ‘considered purchase’.  My ticket for the State Rooms alone cost about £20.  Pricier options combined the State Rooms with the Queen’s Gallery and the Royal Mews. Guided Tours, including ‘Garden Highlights’, sold out almost immediately despite an even heftier price-tag.  There is a considerable appetite for our royal heritage out there!

Huge numbers of visitors are processed, with timed tickets and full airport-style security. It is enormously popular with tourists: I read that about 300 are admitted per 15-minute slot.  A young, enthusiastic and extremely vigilant staff ensured the smooth running of the operation with minimal security risk.  However, armed police also patrolled outside at regular intervals.

At the beginning of the tour, you are given a multi-media guide i.e. the traditional audio-guide with some extra films.  All very classy and informative.  About two hours is recommended for the tour.  It probably takes just over an hour to walk through the rooms at a moderate pace, listening to most of the audio-guide, but there are benches for those who wish to linger amongst the historical treasures.   Photography inside the State Rooms is expressly prohibited.

Summer 2015 featured a new exhibition ‘A Royal Welcome’, describing the organisation of State banquets.  Exhibits explained the minutiae of catering, service and etiquette on such grand occasions, not forgetting some of Her Majesty’s gowns and jewels.  The Palace Ballroom was set out for a banquet, replicating the visit of the President of Singapore.  It was, by far, my favourite room.  I also enjoyed a description of the garden parties in another room.  I now have a very good idea of the Queen’s height and figure, with more dresses and hats displayed on life-sized mannequins.

Splendour followed splendour, until we reached the hospitality section at the end of the tour.  The Garden Café catered to the inner loyal subject – at a price.  ‘Toilets’ would have been too downmarket.  We were directed to the ‘Lavatories’.  A royal flush, maybe. I did not investigate the Family Room, but this avid Postcrosser picked up a packet of postcards in the amply stocked gift shop.  I saw one small child persuade his mother to buy him a replica bearskin hat.  I’m not too sure how long he wore it in the 25° heat.

The final part of the tour followed a pleasant path skirting the gardens, past a stall selling ice cream made from the milk produced by the Jersey cows on Her Majesty’s Windsor estate.  My husband selflessly – and patriotically - pronounced it delicious.  At the exit, there was a booth where tickets could be stamped for a free extra visit within the year.  You then found yourself rather unceremoniously out in the street, half way along Grosvenor Place, from where it was a ten-minute walk back round to the front of the Palace.

It was the weekend of the Prudential Ride London cycling festival.  Roads were closed off, and marshals had to operate a ‘lollipop’ system for letting us cross the road amongst the never-ending streams of cyclists.  Green Park was full of every sort of cycling-related activity and sales opportunity. The throngs of cyclists mingled with the throngs of tourists.  It was a lively atmosphere but not an experience for those who are nervous of crowds.

An entertaining postscript to our day out was provided by the youthful revellers taking the train to the Eastern Electric Festival at Hatfield House. The genre was ‘underground, house and techno’ and the vibe in the train was pure Ibiza!

First published in VISA 124 (December 2015)

Devon Jams

By Helen Matthews

Overbeck's

Our luck ran out about half-way up. We were on our way up the single-track, winding, road, and another car was coming down.  Both cars stopped.  The driver of the other car refused to move.  We couldn’t back down as there was a line of cars behind us.  It seemed that the impasse might last for some time, until the driver of the car two behind us got out.

“You’ll have to back up” he told the driver of the downward-facing vehicle.

“But I can’t” she replied.  “My engine isn’t powerful enough to reverse up this hill.”

“Well, I’m not reversing all the way down again.  I only live round that corner.” He pointed to a nearby driveway. “Why don’t you go in there until we’ve got past?”

She didn’t look happy, but there was nothing else for it.  We all reversed a few feet, she manoeuvred into the driveway, and we inched our way on up the hill, hoping that there would be somewhere a) to park or b) to turn round when we reached the top.  Fortunately, our luck had returned, and we took possession of the last space in the tiny Overbeck’s car park.

“This had better be worth it” muttered my white-faced husband, as we showed our National Trust membership cards at the kiosk and looked for the Tea Room.  If ever there was a time for an emergency cream tea, this was it.

I had received some strange looks when I told my friends and colleagues that we were going to Devon for our summer holiday this year. “Isn’t that a bit, well, mainstream, for you?” was the usual response.  Maybe, but we had something more exotic planned for December, and a complete set of membership cards (National Trust, English Heritage, Art Pass, Historic Houses Association) burning a hole in our pockets, so we thought we would go and make use of them in a county neither of us had really visited properly before.

In our innocence, we thought that Torquay would make a good base. It is a well-known resort, so there would be a good choice of hotels and it seemed to be more or less central to the various places we wanted to go. What we failed to realise was that it is impossible to drive more than about three miles out of Torquay in any direction without encountering a traffic jam.  This meant that our ambitious plan of historic house visiting had to be curtailed somewhat, as driving times were much longer than we had expected.

Powderham Castle

Our first excursion, the morning after we arrived, was a simple potter up the coast road to Powderham Castle, and from there to Cadhay, near Ottery St Mary.   It took us half an hour to get through Teignmouth, but we managed to reach Powderham just in time for the 11.00 a.m. guided tour.  The seat of the Courtenay Earls of Devon, Powderham is a genuine medieval castle. But although the current building was started in 1391, the parts that look the most medieval are in fact Victorian. The various additions and improvements over the years have led to some interesting architectural challenges including a fireplace with a window immediately above it.  As curtains are not possible, there is a retractable mirror that can be rolled across at night, though a good set of muscles are needed to work the mechanism.

Cadhay

Cadhay is a much smaller place: a Tudor gentleman’s residence, with Georgian additions.  Its opening days are less frequent than Powderham as its main business is as a holiday let and wedding venue; we had to visit that day or not at all. The house and gardens were both charming, and the tea room served an excellent coffee and walnut cake and sold pots of home-made jam. A particularly unusual feature was the ‘Court of the Sovereigns’ at the heart of the house: each wall is adorned with a statue of a monarch: Henry VIII, Edward VI, Mary and Elizabeth I. If they all seem similar, it is not just the family resemblance – the same body was used for each of them and only the heads are different. I’m glad we made the effort to visit, though the return journey, through the Friday evening rush hour in Exeter was not pleasant.

Torquay Museum

The following day we opted to leave the car behind and explored Torquay on foot.  I already knew that Agatha Christie had been brought up in Torquay, and was keen to visit the Torquay Museum to see the gallery devoted to her life.  To my joy, not only did our National Art Passes entitle us to free admission, there also was a special exhibition about science-fiction, and a Dalek in the entrance, providing instant husband –appeal.  I was also impressed by the Time Ark – a child-friendly permanent exhibit about the geological history of the planet, told from the perspective of a (time) travel company. Our pedestrian-only day in Torquay also gave us time for a visit to Torre Abbey and a game on its pitch and putt course. No English seaside holiday is complete without a round or two of a putting green. This one had the added attraction of the possibility of actually hitting the proverbial barn door with a wayward shot. The course is right by the Spanish Barn, where the crew of The Nuestra Señora del Rosario, a ship of the Spanish Armada that was captured by Sir Francis Drake were temporarily incarcerated. (More on that story later.)  Torre Abbey is a former monastery which became a private house after the Dissolution and is now owned by the local Council and run as an art gallery and museum. 

The Spanish Barn at Torre Abbey

  

I had read that Greenway, the holiday home Agatha Christie purchased in later life, had very limited parking. Other means of transport were preferred. So the next day we drove only as far as Paignton, in order to catch a steam train for a short ride to connect with a shuttle bus. Once I saw the narrow approach roads, I was glad that we had left the car behind.  

From 1944 to 1945 Greenway was used by the US Coastguard as part of the D-Day preparations. When the property was finally returned to her, Agatha found they had left a mural in the library (which she kept) and 14 extra lavatories, which she insisted were removed, despite the authorities arguing that they were an ‘improvement’.  Greenway is owned by the National Trust, and presented to look as it did in the 1950s – as if the family have just popped out.  As all the family members were avid collectors, there is a great deal of stuff, from china to hats in evidence.

Greenway was used as a setting for some of Agatha Christie’s novels. It appeared as Nasse House in Dead Man’s Folly (with a corpse in the Boathouse), and Alderbury in Five Little Pigs (with the murder taking place on the Battery). Both the Boathouse and Battery can be visited. 

Greenway

Aside from the murderous connections, the grounds are worth exploring in their own right. Agatha Christie’s son-in-law developed the gardens considerably, but the historical interest of the Greenway estate, overlooking the Dart estuary, pre-dates Dame Agatha by a considerable way.  There has been a house on the site for over 400 years. The crew of the The Nuestra Señora del Rosario were put to work in the gardens at Greenway when the owner, Sir John Gilbert, was given responsibility for them whilst their ransom was negotiated.  I hope that they found this work more congenial than incarceration in the ‘Spanish barn’ at Torre Abbey.

As we made our way out to catch the shuttle bus back to the station, we were told that there was a problem.  The shuttle bus had broken down.  Taxis were being arranged to take us back to Churston station. When ours turned up, we found that the driver was one of the talkative type. She was just explaining about her bad week (the events of which had, worryingly, included being rear-ended by another car), when, in a narrow lane with no room to pass we came nose to nose with another taxi from the same company.  No one moved.

“It’s Turbo Terry” our driver announced. “He’ll have to go back.”  

Churston Station

Terry meanwhile seemed to think that our taxi should reverse, so we sat there a bit longer.  Eventually, by sheer force of will, our driver managed to persuade Terry to reverse to the nearest passing place.  He didn’t seem best pleased, especially when our driver took the trouble to stop and point out that he had a faulty brake-light.   Fortunately, we still made it back to the station in time to catch our train.

The following day we set off for Coleton Fishacre, an Arts and Crafts house built by the D’Oyley Carte family of Savoy Opera (and hotel) fame.  We found the Art Deco interior strangely lacking in character – maybe because much of it is a re-creation. It was more like a show house than a home, despite its glamorous past as the venue for society house parties between the wars. This time we were driving and it turned out that the approach roads were just as narrow as those for Greenway.  But at least they were straight, unlike the approach to our next port of call.  Overbeck’s  is named after Otto Overbeck, an inventor whose creations included the ‘Rejuvenator.’ The house itself is of no particular architectural merit, but came as a package with the gardens, which are the main attraction: sub-tropical plantings with stunning views over the bay. The interior is a museum for exhibits which include Otto Overbeck’s natural history collections and other artefacts, including a couple of examples of the ‘Rejuvenator’.

After the hair-raising drive up to the house, we were in need of rejuvenation ourselves, but made do with the aforementioned cream tea. The scones were huge, light and fluffy, though the tiny pots of Tiptree jam were a bit of a disappointment. Still, it was just as well that we had fortified ourselves. On the way back we encountered yet another Devon (traffic) jam on our way through Totnes.

After that experience, we spent more time exploring the delights of Torquay, including Living Coasts, a combination of a zoo and aquarium dealing with sea life both above and below the water, Babbacombe Model Village and Kent’s Cavern, a prehistoric cave which also featured in one of Agatha Christie’s novels (of course) with a café which also serves a delicious cream tea.

The moral of this story is that if you are going to Torbay, there is plenty to do just on foot, ferry, steam train and local bus.  Leave the car behind, and spend more time in the tea shop.  Just remember that the cream goes on first, then the jam.

First published in VISA 124 (December 2015)

The Laird's Tour

By Anne Rothwell 

There’s a great package organised by Caledonian MacBrayne ferries in Scotland, called the ‘Hopscotch’. This allows you to island hop with your car around the Western isles. There are several different routes and we have tried two. The first was to the Outer Hebrides -Barra, North and South Uist, Harris and Lewis. The other, less far flung, was to Arran, Kintyre and Islay.

Although Kintyre is a very long peninsula, not an island, it’s a convenient stopping place by boat between Arran and Islay.At the southern tip, near the Mull of Kintyre, we stayed in a farm B&B upa very narrow country road and way off the beaten track. Looking out at the sweeping rural views from our bedroom window gave an almost physical balm to the mind, far away as it was from the rat race.

However, the most memorable event of our trip occurred as we were travelling north up the west of Kintyre when we came across Glenbarr Abbey. As I’d read something about this place and the fact that the laird (head of the McAllister clan) showed people around personally, we turned up the drive, drove through the trees and parked in front of a beautiful large ivy-clad house.  

As I got out of the car, the front door opened and a lady with grey hair, tartan trousers and an American accent came out to greet me - the laird’s wife no less (lairdess?) She told me that her husband did a continuous circuit of the house, that one joined at any point and left when they reached that point again. She took me upstairs to join the group of two, who shortly left, leaving me to my personal tour with the laird.

He was quite impressive in his kilt with all the accessories, and it was clear that his spiel was memorised word for word through constant use and it took a few moments to realise that he wasn’t always being as serious as he appeared, but had a dry sense of humour.  

The house astounded me. Although there were obviously valuables and family heirlooms, much had been sold off and he was clearly struggling to make ends meet. Much of the space was filled with his wife’s collections -one of dolls, one of thimbles, one Christmas arrangement on a mantelpiece which he said she’d insisted should stay up all year. 

There was also a very amateurish portrait of them, which had been painted by a friend. But the pièce de resistance was a model railway running round one of the drawing rooms. None of your ‘OO’ gauge either; this was ‘O’ gauge for you train buffs. Who says the English have a monopoly on eccentricity?

First published in VISA 120 (April 2014)

The Ozymandias Complex

By Neil Matthews

Editor's Note: This article was written following a TravelSIG visit to St Pancras Chambers, formerly the Midland Grand Hotel, in 1997. At that time, the future of the building was uncertain. Now, it is restored to former glory as the Renaissance Hotel. 

There are surely few more depressing sights than a once-proud building fallen into disrepair. St Pancras Chambers, formerly the Midland Grand Hotel, is a prime example and was a good subject for a recent TravelSlG event. Twenty two people, including a number of London Mensans, gathered in the heart of London on May 10 for a stimulating guided tour.

The origins of the hotel lie in the great days of rail travel, back in the nineteenth century. A London terminus was an attractive option for the various competing railway firms and the Midland Railway Company had not acted quickly enough to secure one of the most attractive sites viz. King's Cross or Euston. So the company opted for St. Pancras. At the same time, Midland decided to build a Station Hotel bigger and better than those already in existence. Sir George Gilbert Scott won a competition to design the new hotel - which would also be the Midland's headquarters.

By October 1, 1868, when the first train ran into St Pancras, work on the new hotel was well underway and the first part of the hotel was opened in 1873 - there were both technological and financial obstacles to overcome. The hotel prospered until the 1914-18 war, after which the railway system was depleted. It gradually ceased to be viable as a hotel and was converted in 1935 to office use - it was used by British Rail in later years. It was closed in 1980 after failing its fire certificate inspection, but was a Grade I listed building. BR has spent over £10 million restoring the outside of the building (but only £130,000 has been spent on the inside to date).

The inside is something of a curiosity. Scott was essentially a Church architect and this shows in the dramatic Grand Staircase and the vaulted ceiling of blue spangled with gold stars. There are also allegorical paintings of the Virtues and of railway heraldry. Yet various parts of the inside are a jumble of architectural styles, from Baroque to Gothic to Romanesque. Some of the red Devonshire limestone is so highly polished that it passes for marble to the casual glance. There is an array of fine metalwork and the hotel also used the recent invention of "ascending chambers", namely water-powered lifts!

Perhaps the most intriguing aspect of the old Hotel is its possible future. As with the design of the building, this will be decided by competition - this time, run by the current owners, London & Continental Stations As St. Pancras becomes the London link to the Channel Tunnel early in the next century, the building could be used in a number of ways, most obviously as a hotel again. Due to its size, it may have more than one use - what odds on it becoming the home of the promised successor to the Greater London Council ...?

First published in VISA issue 25 (summer 1997).

Chalk Flew Up! A Day out at Wimbledon

By Elizabeth Johnstone

Getting tickets for Wimbledon is not a simple matter of buying them online. They are so sought-after that you have to go into a ballot.  There is a public ballot, and the LTA also allocates a number of tickets to tennis clubs. We were lucky enough to obtain tickets through my husband’s tennis club.  I hasten to add that you still have to pay (handsomely) for them – they are not a prize!

We struck gold in getting tickets for Centre Court on the Monday of the second week.  Even if it rained, we would be guaranteed play because of the roof.  In fact, we had been at the very first full match played under the roof in 2009.  Andy Murray (whatever happened to him?) beat Stanislav Wawrinka, finishing after 10.30pm. Chaos ensued when no-one could find their cars in the open-air car parks in the dark, and the local transport was overwhelmed when everyone left at once.  But I digress.  Back to our day out.

We took the train into London then the Underground to Southfields, where the London cabs have a fixed-price shuttle service to the tennis, with a marshal organising travellers into taxis in fives.  Henman Hill was crammed with spectators, most of whom were enjoying upmarket picnics featuring products from Waitrose or Marks and Spencer.  You get the picture.  As did the spectators, literally, from the giant screen facing the hill.  A modest amount of alcohol may be brought into the grounds and from all sides you could hear the gentle popping of champagne corks. I bought a few postcards to feed my habit (I am a Postcrossing devotee) then it was time for some serious tennis.

Maria Sharapova played Angelique Kerber in the first match.  These women are goddesses! Tall, lithe, athletic.  Sharapova, the favourite, was defeated by the German after a mighty tussle. Next, Rafael Nadal faced the latest wunderkind from Australia, 19 year-old Nick Kyrgios.  The youngster pulled off a stunning victory, blasting his opponent with fast and heavy serves before the Spaniard could get into his game. I don’t know if he was helped or hindered by the fanatical Australian support, half a dozen Aussies who stood up, cheered and chanted for their man between each point.

I used my binoculars for celeb spotting – Sir Cliff Richard sat in the debenture section for the whole afternoon, and Rory Bremner was a few rows down from us.  Veteran lady champions Billy Jean King and Maria Bueno were in the Royal Box, as was Michel Roux Jnr.

Before I saw live play at Wimbledon, I didn’t realise how flat and hard the shots are. The players skim the net trying for ever tighter angles.  Sooner or later one of them makes a mistake.  Hawkeye is great entertainment and prevents McEnroe-esque protests. 

So many tennis puns to choose from – OK, our day out was ace!

 First Published in VISA 2014

Big Bus Safari

by Janice Booth

It was too good to miss. When the new pensioners’ England-wide bus pass was announced early this year, we decided to celebrate in style. We sharpened a pencil and drew a beautiful straight line on a map of England, linking the far west (Land’s End) to the far east (Lowestoft). The other half of “we” was my friend Hilary Bradt, of Bradt Travel Guides, whose journeys more often involve exotic destinations like deepest Madagascar; but she gulped bravely and down-sized.

Our plan was to start from Land’s End on 1 April when our passes became valid and take eight days travelling along our pencil line to Lowestoft, using various local buses and with spots of walking and/or hitching thrown in. We checked out the main buses via www.traveline.org.uk and www.visitbritain.co.uk, pre-booked half of our overnight stops and planned some “treats”, otherwise left the details to chance. Carrying just small backpacks made us flexible.

Land’s End on 31 March was grey and stormy. Avoiding the brash, unappealing tourist “attractions”, we reached the cliff path that would take us down to Sennen Cove for supper. On the way we passed England’s true southernmost tip: the hunk of rock called Dr Syntax’s Head. As the views unfolded, wind in our hair and breakers lashing at the rocks below, we spotted a pair of choughs and our spirits rose. Over supper we watched surfers in the bay, playing the waves like a pack of exhibitionist seals. Our B&B (Weavers) was a chance “blind date” that quickly became a friendship: traditional farmhouse, cosy room, friendly owners and lots of thoughtful touches.

1 April was even stormier. Hilary was to write the trip up for The Observer and they’d sent a photographer; cold, windswept and dishevelled we posed for him against stone walls, bus stops, sign posts and the bleak horizon. Our bus arrived, and the driver submitted – with some surprise – to being photographed as we flashed our passes at him. Then we were off, along one of Cornwall’s prettiest routes, heading for St Ives. Our Big Bus Safari (safari means “journey” in Swahili) was under way.

The sun began to squeeze through the clouds as we rattled along narrow, twisty roads, between high hedges, past hidden hamlets of pastel cottages and finally through the beautiful, golden landscape near Zennor, with its soft hills and open fields. No time to stop and visit Zennor’s mermaid, but at St Ives we swapped wheels for feet and took to the South West Coastal Path, stripping off anoraks and sweaters under the now hot sun. We pampered our feet by paddling along Porthminster beach and eventually spotted the spire of Lelant church – our next bus location – in the distance. Never able to resist an old English church (St Uny’s dates from Norman times, and a few centuries ago was almost buried by sand blown in from the shore) we went inside, and found the choughs had followed us from Land’s End: there they were again, in one of the stained glass windows!

What with the sun and the paddling and enjoying St Uny’s we’d become over-relaxed about timetables; our bus from Lelant reached Truro too late for our planned connection to Bodmin, our overnight stop. As we were walking to the central bus station to look for alternatives, we spotted our Land’s End photographer on his way home to Tavistock – and begged a lift to Bodmin. No, it wasn’t cheating: we’d always intended to hitch if necessary, and how could we possibly ignore such blatant good luck?

In fact we did then end up in jail, but only because the old Bodmin jail (www.bodminjail.org) houses one of the town’s best restaurants. The imposing jail itself, already a popular tourist attraction, is being imaginatively restored by its present owners, both as an educational resource for schools and – eventually – as a Museum of Cornish Life. Completed in 1860, on the site of an older jail built in 1779, it was in use until 1927. It’s among the UK’s most haunted buildings (you can spend a scary night there...) and, during World War I, the Domesday Book and state papers were held there for safety. In the dark, atmospheric warren of passages are tableaux and panels illustrating the Victorian conditions: treadmill, oakum picking, diet, punishments, executions and suchlike. The prisoners’ stories are documented and some are sad; for example, one young woman killed her child because she had no home or money and couldn’t feed him, and juveniles were jailed for small crimes like stealing apples. Of the 56 hangings at Bodmin between 1785 and 1909, only 26 were for murder; others reasons included sheep-stealing, forgery, bestiality and burglary. A 23-year-old man was hanged for stealing a watch. Harsh times...

We also ended up in a really super B&B (www.bedknobs.co.uk – just say “Bedknobs B&B in Bodmin” quickly a few times and you’ll remember): a rambly 168-year-old house, carefully renovated, wrapped in a deep-green garden with secret corners. Landlady Gill entered wholeheartedly into the spirit of our safari (we’re still in touch) and has just emailed proudly to say she’s been listed in Alastair Sawday's 2009 Green & Organic Europe Guide.

Bright sunshine the next morning gave us itchy feet; we abandoned our bus in a village just beyond Liskeard and set off along smaller lanes. From the bus we’d spotted The Hurlers, a group of local villagers turned to stone by St Cleer many centuries ago because they’d skived off from church on a Sunday and gone hurling, so we were careful to think good and sober thoughts. Our aim was to walk for a couple of hours cross-country to Callington and catch a later bus from there. It was a green and golden landscape, the sun picking out the beginnings of spring and fields stretching gently into the hilly distance.

Now, Hilary has this tiresome adventurous streak. She’s 67 to my 69 and doesn’t she know it. Just as I’ve settled into a comfortable rhythm and am ambling along happily, a glint comes into her eye and she veers off piste. In this case, she took a sharp right turn down what looked to me like a gully carved out by a flash flood: steep, wet and stony. Not uncomplainingly, I followed. It ended in a stream. Hilary insisted it was a legitimate footpath (actually she was right) so we took off our trainers and waded across. Clear fresh water, sunlight, mossy tracks, birds, the whispering of woodland around us – and I stopped grumbling.

However, we were cutting it fine for our next bus. A couple of muddy fields or so later, we hit a road and decided to hitch. A woman in a capacious 4 x 4 beamed happily at us as she revved past, but an elderly Sir Galahad was kinder, piled us on board and stepped obligingly on the gas. It wasn’t his fault that we missed our bus by two minutes. We bought hot pastries and munched them in Callington’s bus shelter beside the Town Hall – which sported a neon decoration of Santa and his sleigh. Well why not, in April. Passers-by stopped to chat and our next bus was superbly punctual. As usual, the driver examined our passes with interest: the first he’d seen.

We were into the swing of it now. In the mornings we caught the first bus for which our passes were valid, then sat back and enjoyed the passing views until we wanted to stretch our legs or explore. These were small local buses, winding their way through villages, so there was always something to watch: gardens, trees, thatched cottages, old churches, small market towns, farms, strangely named pubs and just the gentle beauty of rural England. We were never bored. People were friendly and chatty, both in the buses and at bus stops, and most days had some new treat built in.

The next of these was Glastonbury, which I had feared might be tacky or over-hyped but which won me over completely. The view from the top of the Tor is a stunning panorama of greens and browns and misty distance; while among the ruins of the massive abbey, where H V Morton wrote in 1927 that “the shadows of the yews lie in long pencils over the smooth grass”, echoes still linger of the town’s ancient importance as a religious centre and place of pilgrimage. Frances Underwood described it so well in VISA 80 that I won’t start again here; but yes, as she says, “whichever way you look, the people are different”, and the sense of history and legend is very strong.

Avebury (photo: Helen Matthews

Avebury took us even further back in time, with its prehistoric stone circles. Part of the village is actually inside the biggest of them, up to 400 metres across, originally consisting of almost 100 rough sarsen stones averaging 3–4 metres high. They were placed around a deep circular ditch whose bank rose nearly 17 metres above its base. Inside are two smaller circles. From the large circle, an avenue with up to 100 pairs of stones stretches southeast for about 2.4km. Although many of the stones are missing, strolling among the remaining great, grey guardians of this ancient landscape is still a heart-stopping experience. There’s also a good museum, and a peaceful little church, St James’s, dating back to about 1000 AD. The National Trust owns 1,500 acres of Avebury land, and manages the museum and archaeological sites in tandem with English Heritage (www.english-heritage.org.uk). Nearby is mysterious Silbury Hill: it’s the tallest prehistoric man-made mound in Europe, but no-one knows why it was built.

The helpful little Tourist Information Bureau, tucked away inside a church, recommended us another gem of a B&B (www.tealcottage.co.uk), just outside Marlborough, for the coming night. Our bus driver dropped us at an obscure turning; we crossed an old stone bridge over a stream, passed a tiny village green, and rounded a corner to find a stylish, welcoming stable conversion in a pleasant garden. Later we strolled along leafy lanes and across a river into Marlborough for supper, and in the morning ate far too much breakfast because it was so good.

That afternoon, we watched the Grand National in a betting shop in High Wycombe! Two wrinklies with backpacks didn’t quite match the rest of the clientele, but they shifted up companionably to make room for us. Of course we didn’t win. The following morning we awoke to a cold white world, and crunched our way through deep virgin snow to our first bus stop. In Aylesbury, damp and frozen-fingered, we found a Café Nero complete with hot croissants. After more coffee and cake with friends near Leighton Buzzard, we arrived at Whipsnade Zoo; it was planned as one of our “treats” but turned out a pretty chilly one, with animals crouched in dejected huddles and ring-tailed lemurs trying sadly, arms agape, to bask in intermittent rays of wintry sun. Delays for roadworks in Luton meant that we watched our connecting bus pull away just in front of us, despite our kind driver flashing his lights to make it wait. We dived into a nearby Pizza Express for more comfort food – it was that kind of day – and sheltered there until another bus came. This wasn’t exactly the prettiest part of our trip and it was hard to feel enthusiastic about stopping somewhere for the night, but in Hitchin the church bells were ringing a Sunday serenade out over the central square, so we settled there.

Until now, local buses had gone wherever we wanted, with only small deviations from our pencil line, but getting from Hitchin to Bury St Edmunds without using National Express, where our passes wouldn’t be valid, looked harder. Traveline told us by phone that we’d have to go via London, which seemed silly, so we caught a bus to a few miles beyond Hitchin and then – yes, started hitchin’. Sorry. A businessman took us to Saffron Walden, choosing the scenic route in order to show us various attractions. I remembered the etiquette of hitching from almost 50 years ago: make conversation in such a way that the driver enjoys your company and feels good about having stopped for you. In Greece in the 1960s, I even learned enough Greek to praise the car and its performance, which was always a winner! Maybe I’m a touch more sophisticated now.

After a stroll around Saffron Walden, and a visit to St Mary’s (the largest parish church in Essex), we found our bus stop – complete with chatty fellow passenger – and continued towards Bury St Edmunds, via Haverhill and (unexpectedly) Cambridge, because we missed a connection at Haverhill and had to improvise; this was the only time during the safari that our bus was crowded, with afternoon shoppers and commuters. In Bury there was still just enough daylight for us to explore the extensive ruins of the old Abbey, hazily grey in the dusk, where birds treated us to an evening concert, before indulging in our biggest luxury: the Angel Hotel (www.theangel.co.uk), just across from the ruins. It has been sheltering travellers and pilgrims since the 15th century, and does it in great style and comfort. Good restaurant too, with prices lower than the quality suggests.

The Bury tourist office bustled helpfully the next morning, setting us off on one of my favourite days: visiting village churches. I love these peaceful, patient little buildings, blending so completely into the English countryside, some crouched low in their graveyards, some with spires peeping above the treetops, all filled with the centuries-old ghosts of worshippers who trod the same path to their doors as we tread today. I hope the ancient craftsmen who built them, lovingly, stone by back-breaking stone, can look down on their work and feel proud. Visiting them is an endless pleasure; each one offers some different charm or quirk or discovery. Partly by bus and partly on foot we went to All Saints’ in Beyton, its churchyard a designated wildlife site with more than 50 species of wild flowers and grasses; St Ethelbert’s in Hessett, with medieval stained glass and lively original paintings; and wonderful St Mary’s in Woolpit, with wing-loads of benevolent carved angels and a fine medieval porch. I’ve since discovered the very browsable website www.suffolkchurches.co.uk, full of temptations for a future trip to the area.

At the approach to Hessett village, a sign had warned us to “Beware of Children” (whatever do they get up to, those Hessett kids?), but far more intriguing were the green children of Woolpit. Sometime in the twelfth century, so the story goes, harvesters found two frightened children crying in a field. They wore strange clothes, spoke an unknown language and their skins were green. Initially they would eat nothing but beans. The boy soon died but the girl survived; eventually her green colour faded. When she had learned English, she said that she and her brother had come from a land of twilight where the sun never shone and the people were green. The legend appears in various forms; it’s well covered on http://anomalyinfo.com. A similar event allegedly occurred seven centuries later, in Spain, but descriptions of it are suspiciously like those of the Woolpit tale.

We were due in Lowestoft that night and time was running out. Hilary had arranged with BBC Radio Suffolk that we’d reach Lowestoft Ness, the official easternmost point, at 10.00 the following morning, where they would interview her live by mobile phone. We caught a bus to Eye (beautiful church) and another to Diss, but onward connections from Diss’s bleak bus station weren’t promising. Traveline suggested we go via Norwich, arriving in Lowestoft late at night, which wasn’t appealing. A woman waiting at the bus stop for her husband spotted that we were in trouble, popped us in her husband’s car when he arrived, and drove us to Harleston. There we unearthed our black felt marker, wrote our hitching signs “Direction Lowestoft, please”, stuck out our thumbs and waited, smiling sweetly, beside the relatively busy A143. Three lifts later we were in Lowestoft, in good time for supper.

The next morning we walked from our B&B to England’s easternmost point and reached the end of our safari. Hilary had her radio interview. A student was sitting in a car, revising, and we roped him in to take our photos by the marker plaque. Then – I hesitate to admit it – we caught a train back to London and went our respective ways.

Had it been fun? A resounding yes! Would I do it again? Like a shot! We’ve already had one “bus day” since then, just catching buses and walking in between routes, out of nostalgia. We plan to do it in the Lake District, round the Cotswolds, in Northumberland... the possibilities are endless and enticing. What did we learn? So many things! That the English countryside is wonderful (well, we already knew that), that the Traveline phone number (0871 200 2233) given on bus stops is a good source of information, that it’s wise to go to the loo whenever the chance arises, that missing a bus needn’t be a disaster if you’re flexible, and that strangers can be wonderfully kind and helpful. We’d worried that we might be taking seats from fare-paying passengers, but this never happened; many buses were half empty. Despite government subsidies, some district councils have expressed concern about the cost to them of refunding bus companies for so many non-fare-paying passengers, and who knows what cuts may be made in the future; so, if you’re old enough for a bus pass, do make 2009 the year that you dust off your backpack and climb aboard...

First published in VISA 82-83 (Dec 2008 - Feb 2009)