A few days off: Ondres

Mrs PJ and yours truly decided to take a bit of a break and offed to northern Spain because:

 a) neither of us had been there for more than a fleeting visit
b) that was  way back in the mists of time
c) we have not had a week away from email since 2004
d) it is only a few hour’s drive from Chicken Hill.

Didn’t quite make it to Spain first try and arrived at the beach at Ondres on the French coast just in time to miss the sun setting into the Atlantic, so parked up and opened a bottle of Sancerre. When it was too dark to see anything I decided to have a look at the beach a few metres from the car park. It turned out that the beach, although only a few metres in a horizontal sense was about ten metres down in a vertical sense. From my vantage point I could see the white of the surf breaking on the sand, and with the aid of the torch I had remembered to bring could just make out an object of considerable mass on the beach but was unable to determine exactly what it was.

I returned to the car park and sampled the Glen Grant single malt (ludicrously cheap and just a little moreish from our local InterMarche) and thought no more about it. The following morning was altogether a better time to look at beaches what with it being in daylight and all. The hulk I had seen looming out of the dark the night before was a WWII pill-box (that is a concrete gun emplacement from the 1939-1945 war for younger readers – and they think they invented linguistic economy with texting. Hah!).

Unlike Alexander the Great, Napoleon Bonaparte and that bloke played by Russell Crowe in the film Gladiator, I do not number military strategy or tactics among my accomplishments. However, I could not see the strategic or tactical advantage of having a gun on the beach when there was a perfectly good cliff edge, offering the usual advantages of an elevated position, only a few metres away.

Also, bearing in mind that the threat was expected to come from the sea and not the good folks of Biarritz a little way down the coast, I was unsure why the gun window (or is it gun port?) gave a nicely framed view of the one-time gambling capital of the French Atlantic coast, now a popular hangout for le dudes de surf.

Inside revealed the grim surroundings which one might expect from such a place...

but time had added a mellow, rusting appeal to the steel-banded roof. 

There were also some very useful rings for hanging things from. One must assume the things in question to be bulky shells, but who knows what a bored gunner might get up to...

A trip around the other side provided a clue as to the present location and orientation of this solitary brick in the Atlantikwall (an extensive system of coastal fortifications built by Nazi Germany between 1942 and 1944 along the western coast of Europe as a defence against an anticipated Allied invasion of the mainland continent from Great Britain). 

The foundations were clearly visible and in no way as the designer had intended.

The jaunty angle of the gun window was not as I had surmised, to give a little quirkiness to this otherwise austere construction, but a result of the displacement of the entire structure. It is clear that at one time it had been at the top of the cliff until forces unknown, but presumably tidal, had persuaded it down to its present, more submissive, position.

Indeed, I found several more further along the beach had enjoyed the same fall from grace but could not be arsed to walk up the beach to inspect them.

Two more bricks in the wall (and in the distance)

 The locals appeared oblivious to them, possibly as a result of familiarity or may be due to the cunning application of camouflage...

...which looks a little like the oysters I would find attached to a concrete breakwater the next day in Hondarriba.

Anyway, the place was pretty much deserted except for a surfer...

...a child-minding dog walker...

...someone on a horse...

 

...and a couple doing a bit of fishing

Well, he is fishing and she is watching dutifully. Looks like she’s in for a fascinating day (discuss)

Verdict: a fine Sancerre and a very acceptable single malt.

Lawn (I don't really) Care

“I remember a tip of dad's:  The old boy had a thing about wasps,
and always wore bicycle clips while mowing the lawn”

Vivian Stanshall – Rawlinson’s End

When I was a kid I would see adverts in National Geographic Magazine showing glamorous Americans cruising the turf on lawn tractors relentlessly beating their splendidly smooth lawns into submission. A ride-on mower was a serious object of desire and I could not imagine the circumstances where I might have one.

Well, now I can, and several times a year I use a 20hp, V-twin, grass mangler to attack our meadow. Subtleties like evenness, alternating stripes and neat borders are no part of my plan. My sole aim is to hack the stuff back to a level where it is no longer a fire risk. 

MTD 75th anniversary edition, shown to great effect
on a sample of our respledent lawn

 

It takes an hour to do the top part of the meadow because is quite steep and there are loads of trees, and it takes a  couple of hours to do the bottom part because it is quite big. The result is an hour of 45 degree manic tree avoidance followed by a couple of hours rather tranquil plodding back and forth. Mowing on a hill involves lots of shifting from one side of the seat to the other in order to maintain a more or less vertical sitting position. Anyone who has seen a motorcyle sidecar rider in a hill climb will be familiar with the movement (if the foregoing sentence is a complete mystery, check out this clip from You Tube).

The process of switching from one side to the other is referred to by our neighbour, Alain, as 'Le danse du canard'. And he should know as he does a lot of mowing and is also something of a canardier. I have yet to see him danse but will assume that like most Frenchmen around here he has a certain terpsichorian ability. 

Plodding uphill toward the hornet magnet.

Plodding is an ideal opportunity to see what critters are skulking in and around the herbage. The grass is crawling with crickets, grasshoppers and praying mantises (Google them if you want to know what they look like) as well as a number of beetleish and millipede type things. There are also butterflies and other  flying things. 

Three flying things spotted while mowing the meadow.
I stopped and got off the mower to take these.
(compare with hornet pix below)

As you can tell entomology is not my strong point.

One thing I do recognise is a hornet. They come in several varieties (Asian, European, domestic, diesel etc) but I do not really want anything to do with any of them. If it looks like a super-sized wasp then it is to be avoided. Last time I cut the meadow I was stalked by one. Stupid as it sounds I even took a picture of it.

It's just there, by that bit of grass...
...next to the leaf

OK, it’s not going to win an award for wildlife photography but you can see it here in this close up and it is on an intercept heading.

 

For some reason it gave up chasing me and concentrated on a hornet-magnet somewhere deep in the grass. It was still there when I came round the next time, and the time after that – on each occasion I took a photo to reassure myself that it was the same one and that there was not part of a squadron forming for a mass attack.

Back at the computer I looked at the evidence, and on blowing up the recconaisance photos discovered that I have taken a three pictures which would not have looked out of place on a plane identification chart from the second war ARP handbook.

Top, side and front views.

While I am satisfied that it is the same beast, they do tend to have certain physical similarities. Identification of individuals is not helped by poor quality photographs. It hardly needs saying that focus and framing are likely to be severely compromised when shooting a malevolent insect single handed from a ride-on mower on a rough bit of pasture – but then, as some of you know, there are times when I simply can’t be arsed.

Crapstone – what’s in a name?

My sister, Grace, and her family live on Dartmoor.

Dark, brooding and mysterious are some words which are often applied to this dark, brooding and mysterious place.

So is picturesque (there's a shedload more scenes like this I could not be arsed to take any more photos of them - that's what postcards are for).

Dartmoor is probably best known for its prison...

Note the high security gate.

and ponies.

and not so well known for layabout punk sheep…

 

…and the Paperweight  Centre...

...which is home to “The Broughton Collection”.

Grace and Co live in the village of Crapstone…

…which is a fine(ish) place with a proud(ish) heritage involving the RAF and to a lesser extent the RAC.

The RAF had a base here and there is a war memorial commemorating the Great War. I suspect most of those named were navy or infantry and some were from Crapstone...

on the monument they refer to the wider area of Buckland parish:

The RAC have an advert featuring Vinnie Jones reluctant to say ‘crap’ in front of (presumably) his daughter. For what it’s worth, while I was looking for the advert, I searched for the AA... The advert was, and may still be, here.  If not there is a copy here [You will need a FLV player to play this clip – you can download one from here - Ed.]

The fount of some wisdom and not a little misinformation, Wikipedia, notes that: “The industrial hub of the town is found in the Crapstone business park, while the chief financial district is located at the banking counter within the local post office.” Reluctant as I am to dis this most worthy of undertakings, I suspect that the writer was not paying attention. It seems that the industrial park is also reluctant to speak its name:

There may of course be a second
business park in this tiny village.
If so please email me

On the topic of reluctance, the Dartmoor promotional web site http://www.discoverdartmoor.co.uk/ does not list Crapstone. This may be because they think it is not in the Dartmoor National Park which is true. However I have stood with one foot in Crapstone and the other foot on Dartmoor without a hint of discomfort. Whereas to do this from Yelverton, Tavistock or Exeter (to name just three) would require legs several miles long - and they are listed.  

One theory is that inclusion of the word Crapstone would reduce the number of hits on search engines – which may explain why Scunthorpe is known locally as Scunny and is not such a popular tourist destination.

Laundrette Chronicles - Wey Hey! It's Weymouth

Welcome to (literally) sunny Weymouth, home to a floral fountain...

...sand and sandals...

...and an unfeasibly large ice cream.

Weymouth looks like many English seaside resorts with little hotels, pubs and boarding houses ('within easy reach of the sea') proliferating.

Natch, there is an amusement arcade and a gift shop...

...with added Chinese restaurant appeal to entice the peckinsh punter.

Round the side is the tradesmen's entrance. They appear to have had some problems with stuff getting broken when being delivered and have taken high-tech precautions to prevent claims that they broke it themselves. 

It seems a little paranoid to me, but then I do not own a gift shop (or a Chinese restaurant).

I could not be arsed to take any more pictures of the town’s many attractions but I am sure you can find some on the Wey Hey! It’s Weymouth web site

 Weymouth is also home to the Twirl n Whirl launderette.

I don’t suppose there is a truly correct spelling of launderette. Some spell it Launderette and some Laundrette. The one I grew up with in Carshalton, south London, was a ‘real’ Launderette

And that is (almost) how they spell it at the Twirl n Whirl

I would not be surprised to hear that Launderette™ has sued some establishments for huge sums infringement of copyright - took them to the cleaners, as it were - so they changed the spelling.

Anyway, the T&W is much like any other coin-operated fabric washing service (no duvets or dyeing please) and includes those little bits of personalisation that differentiate independents from fast food outlets and the other ubiquitous chains which make out high streets so confusingly similar. There are times when I don’t know where I am until I pass a sign saying “Thank You for visiting [name of town]” on the way out.

It has some fish related décor…

OK, whales and dolphins are not fish, but you get the idea.

Other elements of personalisation include a small collection of laundrette-related photographs...

…a very reasonably priced drinks and snack service…

 …advice on how not to blow the place to smithereens…

…and  they close early for Carnival...

Which is all very considerate except maybe for the odd passing clown, who, having spilled jelly down his trousers while entertaining carnival crowds, is looking to clean up before his next gig. It wasn’t carnival day when I was there so this is just a hypothesis.

Talking of clowns, there is also an invitation to drop your pants…

Delightful.

Lost Property - Glastonbury Festival 2011

I lost my Canon Ixus75 digital camera at Glastonbury this year. I had taken the precaution of sticking a label with my email address and mobile number on the battery and was surisingly optimistic that I would get it back. But to increase the chances I thought I might as well report it to the good people toiling in The Wagonshed lost property office.

And several days later it was handed in which says a lot for the honesty of someone, or else they didn't want an old digital camera with no memory card and only 7.1 mega pixels, but I prefer the honesty thing...

A picture of me taking a picture of me....

...taking a picture of me taking a picture of my camera.

So that's all right then - and many thanks to the Wagonshed Folk (sorry guys, you'll have to wait until 2013 for the chocolate)

The Laundrette Chronicles

The Big Chill area is blessed with a couple of laundrettes. The Malvern offering, presumably run by a Mr. Patel, is called the Patel Laundrette. According to the Big Chill information service the Ledbury facility is less decisive:

Cambridge Folk Festival - Part 3 – It's a clean machine

The Cambridge Folk Festival is in Cherry Hinton Hall close by the suburb for which the hall is named. Despite sounding like location from an Agatha Christie murder mystery, Cherry Hinton is a pleasant enough environment and, despite the quaint name, most of it looks like it was built since the 1960s. I was not really paying attention but my impression is that the high street comprises a pub, some shops and a few local amenities (well, they look like amenities in as much as they are not Tesco or fast food outlets). One of the more useful establishments for those of us who travel without washing machines is the launderette.  It is called the clean machine (not capitalised)

It is as clean as its name suggests and has a couple of notable features. Rather than have coin slots in each individual washer and dryer there is a CENTRAL PAYPOINT (which is capitalised). The advantage is that you only need one quality security lock on the CENTRAL PAYPOINT rather than one flimsy lock on each machine which the manufacturers of coin-operated laundry equipment usually install and which are invariably retro-fitted with some clumsy upgrade adapted from a warehouse roller shutter or Sercuricor van, which makes the place look as thought the owner doesn't trust you.

 

You stick your cash in the slot and then press the button corresponding to the number on the machine you are using. The unwary, or excessively clumsy, can easily add a few extra minutes to someone else’s drying time. 

The Central Paypoint has a clock attached which, the label says, is one hour and two minutes slow…

This precision is admirable, or would be if it were accurate.  The picture above was taken at 07:47. The clock reads 00:46, if this was indeed one hour and two minutes slow the real time would be 01:49 - even I can think of better things to do at Silly O'Clock in the morning. 

Besides which, the clean machine (not capitalised) would be closed as indicated by a notice on the door which proudly proclaims that it is open from 7am until 8pm and that there is an automatic lock on the door. They suggest therefore, that you do not start a new wash after 7pm. "A-ha!", you may think, "I can just wedge the door open thus defeating the fiendish automatic operation of the latch and happily launder away all night". But further reading of the notice reveals that the water is automatically turned off at closing time, so that particular subterfuge is scuppered.

Usually this sign would mean that the machine in question includes a cash box.

 

But there is a CENTRAL PAYPOINT, so I assume that the tumble dryers are actually in some distress.

Being a semi-rural area the proprietor has identified a problem with which city dwellers are unlikely to be acquainted, namely the washing of Horse Rugs is not permitted.

Fortunately, they suggest an alternative - and only a tenner, bargain! I don’t know how much horse blankets cost, nor how fussy horses are about the cleanliness of their  bedding, but this seems like a service for the more discerning and wealthier horse-person. I wonder when they will catch up with a trend which has developed over the last few decades and offer a horse duvet cleaning service? 

Despite there being no toilet or shower facilities, they do appear to offer a related service, but I have yet to see anyone using it: