Hi folks.
Just a quickie. I’m off on my holidays now - two weeks or thereabouts in Sri Lanka, centred around Shaluki’s wedding. Should be fun.
I’ll be back to write all about it on September 10th. Until then, I doubt I’ll be online much, if at all.
Given the timescale of the day, I think it deserves a 24-style write-up…
Plink…plonk…plink…plonk…
I awake to a knock on the door of Mike and Debbie’s guest bedroom. I really hadn’t got much sleep, having tossed and turned* until after midnight. After the initial "Where am I?!" confusion, I got up.
* Fnirk.
Got changed, packed night stuff away, and groggily stumbled downstairs, where Mike was waiting to leave. In his car, and off to Stansted we went.
Oh, you lot may have to imagine the plink-plonk bits from now on. I don’t know whether I can be bothered typing them out.
Arrive at Stansted, find the others, and wait in the inordinately slow-moving check-in queue. The queue is absolutely full of 20-something blokes…I start to feel Riga-style misgivings about stag parties ruining the place.
It’s really a group of people I don’t see often enough - probably once every six months to a year…possibly even less often than that. There are always two things that strike me, though:
The clock plink-plonks its way towards 05:00…and we’ve still not checked in.
Finally, we check in. I collect my Kroons from the TravelEx desk, and we head through security…where I get searched. This was to become a feature of the trip. Well, I suppose I do meet the profile - a young(ish) male of Asian descent. It’s just a pity the security guards weren’t more female!
Much sleepy milling around the departure lounge ensues, with trips to Boots for food, TravelEx for cash (the ones in the main part of the terminal didn’t generally stock Kroons) and WHSmith for everything else.
Eventually, we meander through to the gate, where we sit down and wait for our plane to be ready.
By this point, Jack Bauer would have killed four people, seen eight people killed, and tortured information from three suspects. As such, we’ve not even gone anywhere.
Fittingly, we board the plane almost on time and, come the end of the hour, we’re sitting in a small Airbus waiting to go.
Plink…plonk…plink…plonk…
This time is spent in the aeroplane. Nothing much happens, really, as we’re all catching up on some sleep. No hijack attempts, no bombs, and definitely no snakes.
The plane flies over bits of Sweden and the Baltic. Still no snakes. Mind you, I was asleep so can’t really be sure on that point.
The pilot starts the descent, and eventually lands with only a small bump. We knock our watches forwards two hours.
Now on crazy Estonian time, we groggily walk off the aircraft and into the terminal building. Tallinn airport is a fairly small affair and, as many things seem to be in that country, eminently civilised. The Scandinavian influence is pretty strong.
No searches, but I do get asked a few questions at the passport check.
We collect our bags, compare mobile networks, and make our way to the taxi rank. Via the airport’s one cashpoint, where about half of the group withdraw some notes.
In what turns out to be a recurring theme of the trip, Iri fails miserably to grasp the "£1=22EEK" conversion rate. He also spends the rest of the trip referring to them as "Eeks". EEK = Eesti Kroon, y’see.
Estonian is a very weird language; one of the few Finno-Ugric ones, in fact, so is unrelated to anything else bar Finnish, Hungarian, and I think Japanese. Even so, the Finns aren’t close enough to be able to understand the Estonians, despite being racially similar. I was to have a conversation about this with a Finnish girl. More about her later. In 24, there would now be a cut-scene featuring unnamed Finnish girl walking along somewhere and talking to someone dodgy-looking.
Anyway, we ask how much a taxi to our hotel would cost. "Ten Pounds" was the response, which threw us a bit. We were expecting 70-80EEK, as detailed in the EasyJet magazine. When asked to clarify, "220 Kroons" was quoted. Oh well, in we got.
The taxi ride was absolutely madcap. Much more in keeping with Jack Bauer, with the driver heading through car parks and courtyards. The other two cabs in convoy with us were also spotted every so often. There was a meter, and it was heading up towards 220EEK…but I’m sure that tally didn’t agree with the distance-cost figures displayed on the window.
We get to our hotel, the Olevi Residents (sic). It turned out to be right in the heart of Old Town, a mere few minutes’ walk from Raekoja Plats, the main square.
BTW, you’ll notice that I’m not using the crappy stupid-American-redneck-pleasing PM time format used in 24, e.g. "02:00" for 2pm. That’s because it’s rubbish, and clearly incorrect. Surely anyone unable to decipher the 24-hour clock is going to have a spot of bother following Jack Bauer’s terrorist-confuddling activities? But I digress…
We were paying £75 each for a two-night stay, so I was actually quite pleased to find that the Olevi Residents was a reasonably classy joint…I was a bit less impressed when Paul and I found our room. It was down in the basement, with no window or any source of daylight! It was to get rather smelly and far too warm over the weekend…it’s just as well that I didn’t actually spend much time in the room.
I’d meant to be rooming with either Myles or Mike, with Ashley (aka Spadge), Paul’s future brother-in-law, sharing with the groom himself. Ashley, unfortunately, had to drop out due to work commitments, so a quick re-jig had be done. Phil sorted it all out.
Everyone dumped their stuff in their rooms and convened in ours. Naturally, I switched the TV (with an impressive 50-odd active channels) to Fashion TV, aka "mid-afternoon breasts". They were showing lingerie/swimwear, which was nice.
Phil handed out the T-shirts - picture of Paul on the front looking highly camp (dancing at Revival, a club night at Manchester Met during our student days) with suitable comment, and stag weekend nickname on the back. They were far too large for most of the party, but not too bad on me. Which was handy.
I think we were meant to be leaving the hotel for a drink (and lunch) at 13:45…instead, people just didn’t turn up. We were left waiting for Adam and Myles, I believe, the latter having ignored the "dump your stuff and get to room 16" command and going for a shower instead. As this hour draws to an end, we’re waiting for the last couple to turn up.
This was to become a feature of the weekend - waiting for ages while people came out of their rooms and met in the hotel foyer. But then, with a group that size, it’s bound to happen.
[cue picture of us all waiting, watching Fashion TV]
[zoom out for second cut-shot, of Myles in steamy shower]
Plink..plonk..plink…plonk…
And off we go! Out to find a spot of lunch. It’s absolutely gorgeous in Tallinn, with the sun streaming down upon us. An outside café/restaurant was found close to the hotel, and beer ordered.
The menu was limited, and not cheap - 225EEK for a bit of shish kebab! I went for Siberian Pelemenies (for only 120EEK), which turned out to be pretty much like little beef/lamb boiled wontons, served in a meaty broth. Nice, but it still represented the worst meal (in terms of value and taste) that I had all weekend…but that’s what you get if you fall into the tourist trap!
We sat around a bit, eating and drinking cold beer, watching the pretty girls go by. And Tallinn really does have some extremely pretty girls!
It should be mentioned that Little Paul wasn’t with us at this point - he was flying via Stockholm, and due to arrive sometime during late afternoon.
After lunch we broke into two parties - I think Mike, Myles, Ian and me (anyone else?) went for a short walk before heading back to the hotel.
The others just drank!
We did go for a rather pleasant pint (well, 500ml - damn you, metric system!) of honey beer (well, cinnamon beer for Mylo and some tasty-but-strong berry schnapps for Ian) in Olde Hansa, served in a proper manly ceramic jugs. Olde Hansa, just off Raekoja Plats, is a rather fantastic tourist-targetted Hanseatic League mediaeval-themed restaurant, with atmosphere permeating right through to the toilets, which featured wood, candles, and a kettle-on-a-spit rather than the more conventional tap concept. The food looked pretty nice, with specialities like bear meat on offer.
Back to the hotel, to change and then get back out for a spot of football in a park somewhere. Phil had taken an hour or so to walk around the outskirts of Old Town, looking for a decent spot of grass - there’s pretty much a ring of greenery that traces the old fortifications and moat.
After waiting for bloody ages, everyone had emerged from their rooms, including Little Paul, who’d finally arrived.
The designated football pitch was a bit of pothole-ridden slopey grass, just outside the walls. In hindsight, probably not the best place for a game.
Phil and Paul picked teams - I think they ended up something like this:
The game kicked off, and Shirts took the lead. Pretty soon, though, we had our first casualty - Myles keeling over in pain, along with comedy World Cup style writhing. Little Paul was transferred to the Shirts goal, with Myles rested, my shirt soaked in water and applied to his knackered ankle.
After Mylo’s injury we swapped ends.
A few more goals, and Ian went down with another twisted ankle. Then me, twice, after missing a couple of absolute sitters.
After a few more slight stumbles and so on, we decided that enough was enough. The Shirts had won by a few goals, I think.
Back to the hotel, Paul and Ian sharing a cab back with Myles, and it was time to get ready and go out for the evening. Which is another story…
Last weekend was Paul’s stag weekend, which took the shape of a lads’ trip to Tallinn, Estonia. Now, this is a city I last (and first) visited back in 2000, as part of Dave, Nick, Tim and my road trip around Finland (and bits of Norway) - the Tallinn leg came at the end of the trip, after we’d returned the hire car and set up base in Helsinki.
I was a bit nervous that the advent of cheap flights had turned it, like Riga, into Stag Do Hell. Fortunately, this really wasn’t the case - despite there being a huge increase in the number of tourists wandering the streets, the place’s charm and character remain intact. Which is nice.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. We were due to fly out on Friday morning and return early on Sunday afternoon. Pretty much two full days there. What could possibly happen in two days? Quite a lot, really. Enough for me to divvy this post up into sub-posts for each day, anyway.
But first, I should probably introduce you to the participants. We had:
* Popular nicknames rather than the ones that got put on the stag weekend commemorative T-shirts.
With the exception of Steve and Ian (whom I’d met about twice each), I knew most of the group pretty well. Mind you, with a lot of the gang, it’s an association that started at school and hasn’t been kept up all that much since - I see a lot of them about once a year, if that. I realised that, apart from on Phil’s stag do, I’d never been out on the town with James, Adam, Mark, Lawrence and Iri.
Anyway, that’s enough intro. I’ll start with Thursday…
Head home after work, later than planned - I had a web conference with our Philadelphia office that I just couldn’t miss. I packed frantically, and hit the road towards Bury St. Edmunds.
A5103…M56…A556…M6…and traffic. The M6 between Manc and Stafford was just painful, with Birmingham just as bad. Cleared Brum, and eventually hit the A14, which was thankfully crystal clear. Got to Mike’s place at something like 10.30pm, said hello to him and Debs, and it was pretty much straight to bed. We had a plane to catch at 6.45am, and increased security measures meant that we should turn up three hours early. Ouch!
But that’s another day. One that I’ll write up later.
So, the trip back from the Lakes after the Sca Fell weekend.
Andrew and I set off after lunch, taking the non-scenic route - it was a sunny Sunday in the Lakes, and we reckoned Wrynose pass would be heaving…and therefore no fun.
We hit the M6 eventually, heading south serenely at 70-75mph or so, happily occupying the middle lane, with TMS on the radio…
…and then, disaster!
I simply swerved out of control. Pretty sure it was a puncture on my passenger side rear tyre. Not a massive blowout, as it wasn’t all that catastrophic - instead, I just veered left, unable to go right, into the hard shoulder.
It’s at this point that Andrew, snoozing in the passenge seat, awoke to me swearing. A second or so later (probably less), we hit the kerb on the edge of the hard shoulder…and bounced straight off it, wheels skidding, back across the carriageway.
Straight across three lanes of traffic then, and into the central reservation. We hit the crash barrier with some force…which resulted in the car spinning around in a huge dust cloud. We spun once…maybe twice (I’m not sure)…and finally came to a rest, diagonally, across the outside lane and some of the middle.
Fortunately, I could start the engine and limp over to the hard shoulder again. Three out of my car’s four corners were well and truly mashed, having hit the crash barrier while we spun. The rear bumper was all but torn off, with the front one still somewhere in Cumbria.
Better than Alton Towers, but considerably more expensive!
No-one was hurt (save a bruise on Andrew’s leg, caused by his digital camera breaking on it) and no other cars were involved. I have no idea how, given that it was reasonably busy.
A couple behind us stopped and acted as witnesses, calling the police from one of the motorway phones. A Traffic Authority Range Rover had been coming up the M6 in the opposite direction - they swung round at the next junction and came along to see to things. They’d just seen the cloud of dust, and were surprised that the car hadn’t flipped over. Thank you, low centre of gravity!
A minor miracle. It could have been a full-on pile-up.
So, RIP My Beloved Little Honda, aka The Shed, aka The MahindaBus. I hadn’t expected its end to be quite so violent.
It was my first car, and it had served me very well indeed - several of my friends have now gone out and bought Hondas, impressed with The Shed’s reliability (while their Alfas and Fords kept breaking on them).
We got a tow off the motorway, and waited at the services for an RAC guy to turn up and take us (and Shed) back to Manchester.
Back to Tenby Towers, and it got left by the roadside on one of the adjoining small roads - I informed the occupants of the nearby houses of my plight, telling them that the car would only be there for a few days until the insurance sorted it all out.
I taped cardboard across the three damaged corners, covering up all the exposed sharp edges. Housemates Lynda and Andrew then helped me remove all my crap from within. Things like wedding invitations from 2001, a small microchip that I’d found in a desk drawer when I started my job, and so on.
As I walked away, I took a minute to look back at the sorry wreck of the car. I honestly did have a lump in my throat - almost seven years and 80,000 miles is a long time by anybody’s standards.
Blokey came along on Tuesday to take it away. His first words were "You’re not going to be seeing that again."
The Shed, however, sprung one last surprise. Once it was on the back of the tow-truck, I opened the door to remove the key…and saw something glinting under the driver’s seat. A bottle of Badger Blandford Fly, one of my favourite ales!
I don’t know how we missed that. Obviously Shed coming up with one final suprise.
I drank the beer on my own, having got back to the house late on August 9th. That would have been the 7th anniversary of our acquaintance.
So I cycled to work for a couple of days. It was really nice, actually - my bike’s an absolute dream now that I’ve sorted out the rear derailleur. The only problem is that I usually need to be off out in the early evening. Still, I’m targetting one cycling day a week.
My travails in the Big Gay Hire Car have already been documented, but what about a new motor?
Well, I’ve had my eye on a Mazda 6, but not just yet. My sister’s Clio had been sitting, untaxed and uninsured, in a garage while she was at university (central London, so no provision for keeping a car). Dad has taken that (diesel economy ahoy!) and I’ve got his old Beemer until further notice.
Well, until Amandhi needs a car again, at which point we’ll all shuffle back and I’ll get something shiny.
It’s an N-reg BMW 318i, so nothing too posh, but it really does handle nicely - rear wheel drive, which is fun. I remember driving it 500 miles around Scotland in the snow and ice one Hogmanay (well, a camping trip between Christmas and New Year, anyway) - very hairy but very enjoyable 
It’s all the little things that stand out, though. For example, the way the lightbulbs are held in cunning plastic holders, so you don’t have to fiddle with wires. Even the dipstick is a quality item! What with my mostly-motorway driving, it’s using about the same amount of fuel as the Honda did, possibly even a little less.
I’m getting a lot of stick for being a BMW driver…but it’s worth it!
Office discussions have revealed that I have far too many pairs of shoes:
EIGHTEEN!
Okay, so there are plenty there, but most have a distinct purpose. I’m not counting flipflops (x2) as I consider them more slippers than shoes.
The thing is, I just don’t throw things away, and my feet have been generally the same size and shape for ages now. I definitely feel a bit uneasy about having that much footwear skulking around under my bed…
Just had a bit of a "small world" lunchtime in Alty…
First, I walked into Bap (a Subway-alike type affair) to find Morose Laura behind the till. "Morose Laura" to distinguish her from "Glamorous Laura", both of whom were in the chorus for my last Altrincham Garrick panto (Aladdin, in case you were wondering). Despite the unflattering sobriquet, I quite like her - she was only Morose because she tended to mope across stage, shoulders dropped, deep in 14-year-old angst. She’s a lovely kid once you get to know her. Whereas Glamorous, despite being the same age, looked about 22. Scarily so. Obviously, they’d be a bit older now.
I don’t think Laura’s co-workers are going to let her forget the panto thing now!
Then, I was bidden hello by Dave, who happens to be one of S____’s close friends - I met him when we went bowling on Wednesday, and he’s a bit of a Karaoke King. It turns out that he works in Timperley, and was in town buying a pair of red braces for an 80s party. We chatted, and it was definitely a bit awkward. S____ has been trying to convince him that he should join SMAOS. To be honest, he’s perfect for it, and I pointed him towards the website.
Lastly, Ex-Workmate Sandeep walked past while Dave and I were talking. Just a wave and general hello for that one.
Okay, after killing my beloved little Honda, Direct Line gave me a maximum of 14 days with a hire car.
The insurance covered me for a dinky little Daewoo…a Matiz I think…but I was given the choice of two slightly meatier motors* for just £2 a day extra:
* Okay, so I could have treated myself to something nicer, but I decided that £28 for the two weeks was quite enough.
I looked up to the skies. The sun beat down upon my upturned face…
"I think I’ll have the Micra, please."
I figured that I’d rather stay cool than look cool. Anyway, it had a CD player ("…player player player", as the song goes, even if it didn’t have leather seats or look anything like a Jaguar).
Now, speaking as someone who’s often observed the tendency for Micras to be at the front of 62% of Peak District traffic queues (tractors make up just over 30%), I could probably say that I’m not really a fan of the cutesy Nissan offering. However, I was pleasantly surprised - it was very roomy, full of little cubby holes and clever features, e.g. a back seat that could shift forward if more boot-space was required - guess which position I had it in!
The 4-speed (I counted them, but never actually checked) automatic gearbox did its best with what it had (i.e. a rather small engine) and the handling was very crisp indeed. You could chuck it into bends and it did reasonably well. One strange thing was the way that the steering goes superlight at low speeds - I almost fluffed up big-style the first time I reverse-parked, thanks to not realising this at all.
Still, a powder blue Micra is about as camp a car as you can get. What exactly is the smiley for "slightly limp-wristed"?
The woman wot lives next door was quite amused, too, calling it "cute". Now, if that doesn’t administer the kiss of death to any masculine aspirations a car may have, I don’t know what does.
Oh, it’s only fair as well for me to recommend Enterprise Car Rentals to anyone and everyone - they were absolutely excellent, and genuinely seemed interested in my convenience, rather than how much money they could squeeze out of me. That goes down to them offering me trade rates on alternative cars, cheaper petrol (as opposed to being caned if you return a car without a full tank), and general happiness. It comes as no surprise that, apparently, they’re something of an international gold standard for customer satisfaction.
So, what’s happened during the last few weeks..?
We’ve got new housemates! I’ll have to tell you more about the hunt later.
I met up with a lovely girl, whom I shall call "S", in the Red Lion one Sunday afternoon. An interesting mix of the spiritual (reiki, etc.) and scientific (post-doc geologist), with added belly-dancing to boot! Actually, that last line probably makes it pretty easy to identify her if you know her. Never mind…
So, I thought we got on rather well, despite me being somewhat drunken (ooops*), and I tagged along with her, her housemates and some friends last Wednesday when they all went bowling.
* It was a sunny day, I’d met Alsion for a pint beforehand, and I just didn’t realise how much I was drinking.
I had a good night, and got along with everyone. We somehow ended up in the Stockport branch of Brannigan’s on karaoke night!
We actually arranged to meet up on Thursday too, which was nice. Unfortunately, S had a bad migraine so cancelled - her "I can hardly type" email was so disjointed that my work spam filter ate it.
Then I got an email on Friday that said, amongst other things, that S thought we’d never be more than friends. She enjoyed my company but that was about it.
Oh well. She was a good one, too
I even managed to get a few games of tennis played. The discovery of (albeit lumpy) grass and clay courts at Fletcher Moss Park, for merely a modest insult, came as something of a revelation!
MUCH more fun than the lack of fence and metal nets of Fog Lane!
We were on the clay courts on Adrian’s birthday - a fairly low-key birthday evening that comprised a bit of tennis and then a few drinks in The Didsbury. We’d planned on going for the grass courts, only to find that the buggers had set up an open-air theatre in them for the evening - grrrrrrr! That explains why they’re so damn lumpy. It turned out that Sarah was taking Pete for a surprise date at said play - Romeo and Juliet, I believe. Oooh, very romantic 
I got a new racquet (thank you, JJB Altrincham 50% off closing-down sale!) and used it with great glee. I’m definitely getting better at tennis…mind you, there’s a lot of room for improvement!
The usual stuff in Platt Fields, of course. Skill levels have been on the increase, and I’m finding it a bit of a struggle at times. Attendances of late have been small, so it’s been quite like the old days of Platt Fields hockey - much like the first season, it’s been bone-dry "pitches" and 4- or 5-a-side. Fun, but knackering!
It has, however, been getting a bit dangerous. As people are developing more skills and hitting ability, so uncontrolled and lifted shots are becoming more commonplace. As there’s been little or no coaching, there are a lot of bad habits. I’ve tried recently to get people pushing (or slap-hitting) the ball around, to the extent of banning full-blooded hits except on goal-hits, and it seems to be working.
Whether that persists through to September, when the grass gets longer and wetter, is a different matter.
Also on the cards has been the summer 7-a-side mixed tournament at Belle Vue. I’ve been playing for Sale, of course, and had a pretty good summer - not sure exactly how I do it, but there’s been a strong correlation between me being on the pitch and us not conceding goals…which is nice.
Tuesday was finals day, and we had two matches. The first, against Salford Uni, was fairly even. The first half saw us go 2-0 down, through two breakaway goals. I came on for the second, and we drew it back to 2-2, before going out 4-3 on penalties (it went to sudden death). Grrrr!
The 3rd/4th place play-off for our group was next, against a Trinity side that we’d dominated in the group stages. They’d gone out on penalties too, to an Urmston (I think) team featuring a big ginger lad who, although an excellent player, was a bit of a twat. I’d been quite looking forward to taking him on, but it wasn’t to be. Anyway, I played the whole game, and put in my best performance of the summer. We won 2-0, but it could have been eight!
Still getting the hang of my new rifle, and the general post-weekend tiredness is really affecting my eyes. Well, "eye" if you want to be pedantic. I seem to be between 93 and 97 at the moment. I really want to be 95-98 though. It’ll come. Hopefully.
Si’s also started shooting with us, bringing the MUGSS contingent up to six - me, Clare, Tim, Paul, Jonathan, Si. Eeek!
It’s all gone a bit sports report, hasn’t it?!
I went kayaking for the first time, courtesy of work, at Trafford Water Park. I seemed to do okay, with one exception - no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t go in a straight line! My dominant side would vary every few strokes - sometimes, I’d be paddling with my left side only and STILL be turning left. All very bizarre, but I reckon it’s more to do with balance in the kayak than the actual paddling.
Definitely fun though, and it even sorted out my monster hangover - in great Mahinda tradition, I turned up with a carton of fruit juice and a very sore head, it being the early afternoon after the morning after the night before…which was a classic Tenby Towers barbecue…
We had a barbecue to see off the three girls, Little Helen, Tall Helen and Lynda, all of whom move away this month. Lynda and Little Helen to Nottingham, and Tall Helen to live in a cosy little flat with her boyfriend, Jonathan.
Rather than inviting the world and his wife (and MUGSS!), it was kept a fairly small affair - I think we had a total of about 25 people walk through the door, with probably no more than twenty or so there at once.
The garden was cleaned up brilliantly by Housemate Andrew, along with Tall Helen and Jonathan (who pretty-much singlehandedly dismantled Steve’s Big Green Monstrosity*), and a good time was had by all.
* The Monstrosity. Ex-Housemate Steve fancied himself as a bit of a DIY expert and, being a Civil Engineer, we had little cause to doubt him. So, he decided to build a bike shed to house his, Stubie’s and my bikes. It was going to fit into the "alleyway" bit of the garden, and he was using materials (offcuts, etc.) filched from the construction site he was managing. Unfortunately, it was someway off Steve’s original vision, being too large to fit into said section of garden and, well, a bit rickety really. It had been occupying a fairly large portion of garden ever since. It came apart fairly easily, in the end. No great surprise there
Aided by Lynda and Little Helen, I made potato salad, dozens of beefburgers (half chilli-and-garlic, the other half herby, with loads of rosemary, thyme and parsley), thymey veggie skewers and Encona-marinated chicken skewers. I think it’s fair to say that the food was excellent
The weather, unfortunately, was not. After two weeks of solid sunshine, it decided to rain. Fortunately, Al had a tarpaulin in his car…and then went home to fetch a gazebo! With Tall Helen’s string of lanterns, it was all very jolly indeed - our back yard somehow managed to acquire a fantastically Bohemian atmosphere. Or maybe that was just the Pimms!
Pimms. MUCH Pimms was consumed, with the two Helens preparing jugs of the stuff. I was very much on the beers, too, and an awful lot of wine was added to the mix.
It was all fairly civilised until about 1am, when it turned into a raucous kitchen party. Not sure how, given the size of our kitchen, but it did. Tall Helen was on fine form, which is always…interesting, and New Housemate Paul (who moved in just a few days ago now) was spectacularly drunk, along with Housemate Andrew. Lynda and Little Helen weren’t far behind at all, either, and neither was I!
A bottle of Vana Tallinn was brought out, and promptly consumed. Several people are blaming that for the ensuing extreme drunkeness.
I ended up in bed around 4.30am, utterly sozzled. All in all, another legendary Tenby Towers party!
After the kayaking trip, I went home and cycled over to Adrian and Emma’s place for Emma’s birthday barbecue. All very jolly - I had some left over burgers from ours, and more beer was consumed.
We ended up playing Cranium (good) and Kaboodle (bad).
Cranium was brought to a premature end basically because one of the barbecue guests was utterly trollied. I cannot remember her name, but she was an intensely annoying drunk who seemingly reverted (I don’t know what she’s like sober, so I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt here) to a five-year-old state. To say that she was a little grating is like saying that Quasimodo wasn’t exactly a handsome chap.
Anyway, Emma, Nick and I formed one of the three teams, and we were winning at close of play. I’ll fail to win a game of Cranium one day!
Kaboodle, on the other hand, is a game that I really didn’t like. A card game aimed at the younger market, it’s like a cross between rummy and old maid. Basically, there are 12 Kaboodle cards (or something like that), each with an animal, a colour and one, two or three dots. These are dealt out on the table, face up.
You then get dealt cards that (mostly) have one of the three properties, e.g. "green" or "fish" - there are also wild cards and cards for taking/resisting other people’s Kaboodle cards. You take turns to draw new cards, and if you have any sets of three that match a Kaboodle card, you can exchange them for that card, which then goes in front of you.
You can also use a "take" card to steal another person’s Kaboodle card. They get the chance to resist you with a "resist" card, but only if you don’t cunningly finish your turn first.
The game ends when the last Kaboodle card is taken from the middle.
In practice, it’s a game of luck followed by who’s the quickest and cunningest at stealling other people’s cards. Not my sort of game at all
Way way back in July, I went to the Lake District for Howell’s birthday, with the plan being to ascend Scafell Pike, the highest mountain in England. Howell had done Ben Nevis and Snowdon for his two previous birthdays, so this represented the hat-trick!
BTW, this is another entry to which I will be adding pictures in due course. Need to catch up a bit first, though!
Left work, did some food shopping, picked up Torkjel and Andrew, and headed up to the Lake District.
Even before we got to Nether Wasdale (where we were to camp), the weekend got interesting - we took a route straight through what is known as the Wrynose and Hardknott Pass. Absolutely stunning scenery, and a serious challenge to driving ability - in parts the second steepest road in Britain*, with many twists and turns.
* Although I still reckon Winnats Pass is steeper - and I think my little Honda may agree.
Fortunately, there was precious little by way of oncoming traffic, so I got a good blast at it, and pretty much spent the entire drive with a grin on my face. One day I might revisit it with a slightly sportier car!
Anyway, we eventually got to Church Stile Holiday Park, in Nether Wasdale, to find Henry waiting for us. None of the others had arrived, including Howell and Antony, who’d set off quite some time before us.
I gave Howell his present (a Jamie and the Magic Torch DVD), and squirted him with a water pistol.
The others turned up eventually, and much barbecuing was done. I ended up playing chef - it seems that, whenever I go to a barbecue, I’m doomed to spend time manning the grill. I don’t know why; I just do.
Chatted for a while, and headed to bed fairly early.
Awoke at 10pm, unusually late for a day with a long walk planned. I found that I wasn’t even last up, and headed to the shower while someone (Howell? Antony?) cooked bacon for breakfast. Made some butties and packed them into my daysac, along with two litres of water and my water pistol.
Water pistol? Yes, Howell, being the birthday boy, had decreed that we should all be armed for the weekend. I ended up buying a pack of four assorted ones from Argos:
But I digress.
So, it was a little after 11am when we set off. Ant, Howell, Torkjel, Andy, Henry and I were to head up Scafell Pike via Sca Fell itself, with Steve (dodgy knee) and Gemma (didn’t fancy it anyway) consigned to a day basking in the sunshine and swimming in the lake.
Now, our campsite was some five miles from the start of the ascent of Sca Fell - we’d decided to start off with a steep ascent up Greathall Gill, to the top of "the Screes" (big steep scree-laden slopes that border the southern edge of Wastwater). Now, this was nigh on 600m straight up, and we were doing it in the hot noonday sun. Ouch.
Halfway up, and Andy had already finished all his water. He was trying out a new 75-litre rucksack in preparation for a Norwegian excursion, and was overheating badly. He decided, sensibly, to head back, join Steve and Gemma, and possibly find a nice pub for lunch. I can’t say I wasn’t slightly jealous!
And then there were five. We got to the top of the Screes (or Whin Rigg to give it its proper title, I believe) and walked along on the almost-flat for a mile or so, before getting to the summit of Illgill Head. Which does sound like a rather unfortunate accident, if you ask me. From there, we could see, with some trepidation, a 400m descent before us, followed by 700m or so back up to the top of Sca Fell.
The sun beat down upon us like a demon, and we were all drinking much water. At one point, we pooled some of our supplies so that Howell could make up some dehydration stuff for himself. I lent him my hat, as he was starting to catch the sun rather badly, despite the liberal application of suncream serving to make his face look unnaturally ghoulish in its whiteness.
Sca Fell was steep. Very steep. We sort of cut a route straight from Illgill Head to Sca Fell - shorter but steeper than the path, which would have necessitated quite a detour. We joined up with the path eventually, which I think meant that we were going up Sheepfold.
Eventually, very hot and extremely thirsty, we left the grass behind and hit the loose rock at the top of the mountain. I was all but out of energy - I really should have remembered to buy some chocolate!
After what seemed like an age, we reached the craggy top, and had a break. The views were fantastic, it being such an unbelievably clear day! We could see clear past Sellafield, right to the sea. There, floating ghost-like in the sky over the cooling towers, was the Isle of Man - it really did look like a flying mountain.
Sca Fell itself really is a pretty impressive mountain. At the top it’s all a jumble of rock faces and sheer drops - proper "I coud imagine myself falling off and plunging to my doom" stuff, rather than your namby-pamby shallow gradients culminating in a smooth peak. Just gorgeous.
Even more impressive, perhaps, than the mountain itself, were the climbers clinging on to the sheer rock faces. Hundreds of metres up, with absolutely obstruction-free drops to their doom should they fall off. Of course, it’s all pretty safely done with ropes and technical stuff…but it’d still take balls the size of melons, IMHO.
While on the top, we got a call from Andrew, who was at that moment at the top of Illgill Head. it turns out that he’d gone back, loaded himself up with water, and gone for a second attempt. I think I’d have just gone to the pub! We were all running pretty short of water by this point, but the water pistols proved a very handy method of cooling down…and even provided some plasticky-flavoured emergency drinking water 
So, the plan was to drop down a bit and head up Scafell Pike. I was to have no part of this anywhere, being pretty much knackered. First, of course, we had to get down.
Attempt 1. Led on by Ant, down we went, negotiating tricky boulders and steps. Tricky for us, anyway. Fortunately it was dry - many of the rocks sloped outwards, so slippery wetness would have made it a nightmare. Some climbers passed us, and told us that we were headed for a Grade III scramble…and we were going to go down it! This, I found out afterwards, was Broad Stand - basically, a route between Scafell Pike and Sca Fell that’s notorious for catching out unprepared walkers. It starts off tricky, but gets even worse - and by that time, people have gone far enough to make the risks seem worth it. Eeek!
Anyway, while the climbers did offer to help us out with a rope, we decided against it.
Attempt 2. Back up we went, a little, then downwards a little bit over. Not as far down as Foxes Tarn (the traditional safe route), but down more than the first attempt would have taken us. We encountered more climbers, and a seven/eight-foot drop. Ah. Ant, the most experienced of us, had a bit of trouble, which didn’t bode well. Fortunately, it was dry so the out-sloping rock wasn’t anywhere near as tricky as it could have been. We managed it with a bit of help from the others, to be faced with a narrow crevice. Fnirk.
I just managed to squeeze through the crevice - just as well I’m a bit slimmer than usual at the moment!
So, there we were, finally, at Mickledore, the ridge linking Sca Fell and Scafell Pike.
At this point, with late evening fast approaching, Henry and I decided that we’d had enough, and were off down to the pub. So off we went, leaving Howell, Ant and Torkjel to complete the walk.
Little did we realise what the way down was like. Lord’s Rake, apparently. A big long scree slope - definitely easier to get up than down, I reckon, especially with Henry and my dodgy knees. Once I stopped sliding down on my arse, I actually had quite a lot of fun - if you’re confident, you can sort of scree-surf your way down, jumping around, arms out for balance, and descending in a miniature version of the pattern a snowboarder would use to get down a ski slope. If you see what I mean.
Once down the scree, there were still a few miles to go before we got to the Wasdale Head Inn…were we glad when we finally got in sight of it, complete with huge "INN" painted on its side!
We were considerably less glad, however, when we got in and found that, it being about 9.20pm, we’d missed last food orders by almost an hour. Bugger. Still, they had some rather fine ales, which was nice.
The others caught us up in about 40-50 minutes’ time, having gotten up Scafell Pike reasonably easily and been able to descend by a much easier bridleway. We also bumped into two other MADwalkers in there, who’d seen the rest of our party earlier.
So, last orders approached, and we investigated the route back. Not one of us fancied the five-mile walk home, so we asked the bar staff about taxis. There were none. Instead, one of the bar staff would drop the five of us home for the princely sum of £30. Or was it £20? Either way, it was definitely daylight robbery!
We eventually climbed into a very clapped-out car. Can’t remember what it was exactly, but it might have been a Carina. We just about managed to wedge ourselves in, and off we went, on a very bumpy journey home.
Back at the campsite, we of course had no proper food. Still, we managed to feast on Howell’s impressive range of snack food - that man is truly the King Of Snacks! Jalapeno crisps, wasabi nuts, random other stuff. Excellent. Beer, Aquavit (Swedish firewater, basically) and Vana Tallinn was consumed, and we eventually retired to our tents, knackered.
As an interesting footnote, Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s travels in Eskdale, led the great man himself to descend Sca Fell by a route not too far off our own experience…
There is one sort of Gambling, to which I am much addicted; and that is not of the least criminal kind for a man who has children and a Concern. It is this. When I find it convenient to descend from a mountain, I am too confident and too indolent to look round about and wind about ’till I find a track or other symptom of safety; but I wander on, and where it is first possible to descend, there I go - relying upon fortune for how far down this possibility will continue. So it was yesterday afternoon…. the first place I came to, that was not direct Rock, I slipped down, and went on for a while with tolerable ease - but now I came (it was midway down) to a smooth perpendicular rock about 7 feet high - this was nothing - I put my hands on the ledge and dropped down - in a few yards came just such another - I dropped that too, and yet another, seemed not higher - I would not stand for a trifle so I dropped that too - but the stretching of the muscles of my hands and arms, and the jolt of the Fall on my Feet, put my whole Limbs in a Tremble, and I paused, and looking down, saw that I had little else to encounter but a succession of these little Precipices - it was in truth a Path that in a very hard Rain is, no doubt, the channel of a most splendid Waterfall. So I began to suspect that I ought not to go on, but then unfortunately tho’ I could with ease drop down a smooth Rock 7 feet high, I could not climb it, so go on I must and on I went…
…the next 3 drops were not half a Foot, at least not a foot more than my own height, but every Drop increased the Palsy of my Limbs - I shook all over, Heaven knows without the least influence of Fear, and now I had only two more to drop down, to return was impossible - but of these two the first was tremendous, it was twice my own height, and the Ledge at the bottom was so exceedingly narrow, that if I dropt down upon it I must of necessity have fallen backwards and of course killed myself. My Limbs were all in a tremble - I lay upon my Back to rest myself, and was beginning according to my Custom to laugh at myself for a Madman, when the sight of the Crags above me on each side, and the impetuous Clouds just over them, posting so luridly and so rapidly northward, overawed me. I lay in a state of almost prophetic Trance and Delight - and blessed God aloud, for the powers of Reason and the Will, which remaining no Danger can overpower us!
O God, I exclaimed aloud - how calm, how blessed am I now - I know not how to proceed, how to return, but I am calm and fearless and confident - if this Reality were a dream, if I were asleep, what agonies had I suffered! What screams! When the Reason and the Will are away, what remain to us but Darkness and Dimness and a bewildering Shame and Pain that is utterly Lord over us, or fantastic Pleasure, that draws the soul along swimming through the air in many shapes, even as a Flight of Starlings in a Wind.
I arose, and looking down saw at the bottom a heap of Stones - which had fallen abroad - and rendered the narrow Ledge on which they had been piled, doubly dangerous - at the bottom of the third Rock that I dropt from, I met a dead Sheep quite rotten - This heap of Stones, I guessed, and have since found that I guessed aright, had been piled up by the Shepherd to enable him to climb up and free the poor creature whom he had observed to be crag-fast - but seeing nothing but rock over rock, he had desisted and gone for help - and in the meantime the poor creature had fallen down and killed itself. As I was looking at these I glanced my eye to the left, and observed that the Rock was rent from top to bottom - I measured the breadth of the rent, and found that there was no danger of my being wedged in, so I put my Knapsack round to my side, and slipped down as between two walls, without any danger or difficulty…
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, letter to Sara Hutchinson
August 1802
I’ve dithered far too long to write about Sunday in any great detail. Suffice to say that, once we were up and packed, and moderately fed*, we headed to the pub for lunch. The Screes Inn obliged us with fantastic ale and superb food - filling, tasty and reasonably-priced. Bonzer!
* I sampled one of Antony’s "Fakon" rashers - vegetarian bacon, which looks a bit like a child’s drawing of bacon…and tastes pretty much like it too!
After lunch, we went our separate ways in the sunshine. The sun was still beating down like a demon, to round off a weekend that I will never forget.
And there I shall stop. For now
Sorry for the recent lack of updates, folks. What can I say except that it’s been a PARTICULARLY busy time of my already busy life.
In the last couple of weeks, I’ve managed to write off my beloved little Honda and lose three of my housemates (well, two of them are about to go). Those two facts are definitely not related!
The upshot of those has been that I’ve been spending my lunchtimes looking at insurance stuff and trying to find new housemates, rather than blogging.
What with hockey, tennis, shooting and so on, I’ve hardly even had time to breathe! I’ve got two trips abroad coming up in the next few weeks, too - Tallinn (stag weekend) and Sri Lanka (wedding), and I’ve done absolutely no preparation for them. Bugger.
Off Down South tomorrow, for the Great British Beer Festival. Which’ll be nice
