Chester

Chester Rows

Shopping in the Rows

Eastgate clock 1897 the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Victoria

Eastgate HSBC Bank 

Almshouses

Arriving in Chester is a relief from the flat Cheshire countryside which is laced with roads that seem to be a promenade for expensive cars. It had been half a lifetime since I last visited the city.  The historic centre had been saved from the brutal redevelopment that goes for progress in many British cities. Planning has worked here in a way that is not recognised by the new planning legislation being introduced in England. The shopping centre was fitted into and around the Rows and the place was buzzing in a way that seemed at variance with the recession that seems to be seeping back into much of the rest of the country. It may have been the glorious fresh sunshine that made the City of Chester (Pacific locomotive 46239 from memory) seem more like a continental than English city. This impression was encouraged by the large numbers of French visitors who were sightseeing in the City.

But I had to be home by 6:30pm so we left and took advantage of the motorway network past the scenic side of Cheshire: the Stanlow oil refinery, the chemical works in Runcorn and then onto the M6 for the journey north. We stopped at Penrith to stock up with some good Lancashire produce from a new Booths store that had opened. Booths are based in Preston and are a sixth-generation family company that involves employees as shareholders. Its commitment to sourcing quality local produce,  slow food and its 100-year history of providing coffee shops explains why it is still thriving and expanding its business in the northwest of England. It is a Waitrose for folk with flat vowels.

We walked into Penrith to visit a favourite bookshop which had a great coffee shop but sadly it had closed in the autumn. It was being transformed into another Costa coffee shop - how many of these do we need - we often used the bookshop but will not bother with Costa and that probably means giving Penrith a miss as well. Whitbreads, not content with wiping out many good local breweries in the 1960s and 1970s, is now rolling out Costa coffee shops all over the UK and destroying indigenous town centre businesses in the process. As a company, Whitbread is the opposite of Booths - constantly buying and selling businesses with a set of values that do not support either local produce or diversity. They standardise, franchise and sell on businesses with a focus on short term profit. They are fairly ruthless in pursuit of this with little loyalty to staff as I learnt from one of their electricians who explained their operation to me last year.

It was then just a couple of hours home and we arrived on a balmy summer evening.  I went for my second run of the day in the hills behind the house and returned for some Booths' chicken and ham pie and salad, it was the perfect end to what had been six wonderful days for the Cornwall birthday bash.

Ludlow

Feathers Hotel, Ludlow

Stokesay Castle and Gatehouse

Travelling back from Cornwall was a good opportunity to visit some new places. We crossed the Severn Bridge and entered Wales at Chepstow and drove up the Wye Valley, which was resplendent in the spring sunshine.  I had spent a day climbing here in 1971 with Tim Crouch but could not recognise any of the outcrops that we had scaled. Arriving at Monmouth, we stopped for a late afternoon drink in a square by the town hall which was a veritable sun trap. Youngsters on their way home from school were having a few pints and a smoke, we were hoping that Ruth Jones would pop in to fire some saucy Welsh rhetoric at them.

We drove through the Welsh Marches and eventually decided to halt at Ludlow, somewhere I cannot recall visiting before. It is celebrated for the number of listed buildings (almost 500),  a food festival, three Michelin star restaurants and an impressive 11th-century castle. We stayed in the Feathers Hotel because it looked interesting and we were offered a room at a very good rate.  Food proved difficult to find, many of the restaurants had not yet opened for the summer so it was a pub meal in a place that sold 10 varieties of real ale and was home to the Ludlow Pie.  The Wye Valley Bitter was a good choice and went well with the local beef.

The Feathers hotel had been described by the New York Times as the most beautiful hotel in the world.  I am not sure about that accolade but on returning home I found the following description on a website: The hotel is reportedly haunted and is often subject to "ghost hunts". A Victorian gentleman has been seen by guests and staff walking his dog through room 232 into room 233 before vanishing and room 211 is said to be home to a jealous spirit who appears to have an aversion to female guests; one female guest was reportedly dragged out of bed by her hair and later soaked in water while her husband slept peacefully. 
Needless to say, we had been given room 211. I slept well but returned from an early morning run to find Aileen drying her hair, she said she had been in the shower. 

The still air and perfect blue skies meant that it was well below freezing as I explored the environs of the town on my run. Ludlow was not a runner-friendly town; the absence of pavements and fast traffic on the narrow roads suggest that the car is king. 

We drove north through Church Stretton, a straggling small town that sits in a beautiful setting between the Long Mynd and Wenlock Edge. We were tempted to stop at Stokesay Castle which was set like a jewel in the early morning light. Stokesay Castle is a fortified manor house built in the late 13th century by Ludlow, a local wool merchant.  We were too early for it to be open so clambered over the gate and had a quick dash around the grounds before continuing the journey. The countryside ebbed into the flatlands of Shropshire and Cheshire by which time we were travelling in what seemed like convoys of Bentleys and other limousines. Cheshire County Council had signs that boasted about the high number of road deaths, full marks for transparency but it's not a good outcome, nor did it seem to slow the cars as they pinged past us.

Wells and Cheddar Gorge

Wells Cathedral - the West front from the Green

Wells Cathedral Quire

Cloisters

Glastonbury Tor

Morrisons Bridgewater Distribution Centre

Cheddar Gorge

Speed sightseeing is a family trait and the trip back from Cornwall after Aileen's birthday was a typical example. We had just two and a half hours for the 95 miles from Exeter after dropping Eva at the station to get to Bristol airport to drop off Gregor. We added 30 miles to the mileage by deciding to take in Glastonbury, Wells and Cheddar Gorge. We managed it with a couple of stops at Wells and Cheddar Gorge and food on the move in Wells.

The only blight on the journey was driving past the new Morrison's distribution depot on the M5 in Somerset. It must be one of Britain's ugliest buildings and hopefully not a symbolic harbinger of what will happen with England's new development-friendly Planning Laws.

It is the fallow year at Glastonbury although, unlike other festivals that have fallen on hard times, the zest for Glastonbury amongst its acolytes seems undiminished. The decision to forego a year must be hard on local businesses if not the landscape.  We sailed through the festival country below the iconic chapel which sits on the tor above Glastonbury.

Wells is an idyll town which on a day such as this could easily fool you into believing that you are in an urban paradise. It is, in fact, England's smallest city but probably the most perfectly formed with a population of just 11,000. The high street is full of local independent shops. The smattering of banks and chain shops that have been required to fit into the indigenous streetscape without flaunting their presence with pre-packaged shop fronts - good planning. On a scorching day, we had a hot pastie, probably the best I have ever tasted. We ate in the green facing the West Front of the cathedral and then had 15 minutes to charge round the cathedral and cloisters. The new interpretation centre functioned well and there were knowledgeable volunteer guides.

But Easyjet waits for no man so we drove on to the Mendip AONB (Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty) above Cheddar Gorge. It is a limestone plateau complete with drystone walls, copses of ash and dotted with hundreds of ancient monuments. It is one of my favourite landscapes. We descended the cliff gorge which was surprisingly free of traffic and tourists. We took out 5 minutes to run up the paths that climb steeply up from the gorge and take some photos. Cheddar itself is one of those tourist-focused villages with tat and ice creams that make you want to press on.  We did and to our surprise, we made Bristol airport on schedule to drop off Gregor who had work tomorrow. 

The next objective was getting through Bristol before the rush hour began. Driving through the Clifton gorge brought back memories of spending several happy days climbing there with Tim Crouch in 1971 and 1972. The queues for the Severn Bridge were beginning to tailback but we made it to Wales in time for an early evening refreshment in the square in Monmouth. All we had to do now is decide where to head for next and to find a place to stay. I thought we should give Ludlow a try, the casual uncertainty of  travelling has always had an uplifting appeal for me, the birthday girl is less enamoured by this way of travelling.

Cornwall

Lost Garden of Heligan - keep out

Dartmoor

Dartmoor Open Prison

St Mawes

St Ives

Cold Pasties

Barbara Hepworth's studio at Trewyn

Barbara Hepworth sculpture in museum garden

Porthmeor beach

Tate exhibit A -  Porthmeor

St Ives Harbour

Ogre - Lost Gardens of Heligan woodland walk

Jungle, Lost Garden of Heligan

Camillia

Vegetable garden - Heligan

Watergate Bay from fifteen

Cornwall is a long haul from Scotland, which explains why it is 25 years since my last visit when we drove down 650miles in a day for a fortnight's holiday.  It was family birthday month so we decided on a 6-day excursion with a chance to visit some other places en route. I was intrigued to see how Cornwall had developed since the last visit when it appeared a remote and rather old-fashioned part of the country.

Cornwall became a unitary authority in 2009 and has one of the fastest-growing populations in England, with a population of over 500,000.  The old industries of tin, china clay, fishing are pale imitations of their former glories.  However, Cornwall has cultivated the most lucrative of all new industries and harvested the well-heeled baby boomers. This is annuity tourism and largely from London and the southeast. They have brought considerable extra spending power which is evidenced in house prices, restaurants, potteries, nurseries, delicatessens and a genteel retail trade. The downside is that local people are being squeezed out of the housing market and the UK government has an inbuilt aversion to the provision of social housing. 

The relatively warm climate and Atlantic air provide a perpetual spring to those in their autumnal years. Cornwall has the best superfast broadband in the UK, the most visited gardens and more VW camper vans than white vans.  Top restaurateurs have flocked there as have artists and, with excellent fresh fish, fresh vegetables, ice cream, long distance footpaths and investment in solar power and renewables, the place is riding the wave of sustainable growth.

We picked up a son in Bristol and a daughter in Exeter and took the direct but slow road over Dartmoor to reach Cornwall. The roads were quiet and the moors and tors provided the authentic backdrop for prisons and ponies. We stopped for a hot pastie in Morehampstead but we were still in Devon so it failed the taste test.  We were staying at the Cornwall spa near St Austell and were delighted with the self-catering woodland house which was adjacent to a well-appointed leisure facility. We dumped our stuff and drove down to St Mawes to watch the sunset over the Falmouth estuary.  After early tennis and swimming the next day we travelled to St Ives which provided a perfect location for the Tate and Barbara Hepworth museums. We walked along the beaches, the island and the harbour, bought ice creams and explored the vital urban fabric of the town. In the evening we went to Mevagissey and parked at the end of the harbour which involved negotiating some close encounters with the water's edge in the dark. The town was just stirring to life after the winter break but still had a dozen or so places to eat.

Sunday was a big birthday day so it was tennis or swim, a champagne breakfast and then a visit to the Lost Gardens of Heligan which were a couple of miles away.  The Eden project had been the alternative but we were delighted with our choice and, having found them, we would return anytime. We had a late birthday lunch at Fifteen overlooking the sun-kissed Watergate bay lolled us into the late afternoon.  We returned via some surfing beaches and conked out with the papers on returning to the house.

The next morning included a final visit to the leisure facility before driving to Exeter station and then onto Bristol airport via Glastonbury, Wells and the Cheddar Gorge.  Cornwall had exceeded expectations.  It was quiet, hospitable and relaxed with great accommodation, good food and perfect weather - probably more sun in three days than we had in a fortnight in July 25 years ago. It has resisted hosting the more commercial seaside activities and has attracted the young laid back job seekers/surfers as well as the older laid back and retired baby boomers. Cornwall offers feel-good respite from the hurly-burly of corporate, monolithic urban Britain.

Budget: Chancellor condones the Finance Villains

Same again

Budget day gave me the chance to watch it live for the first time and it was quite a spectacle. The Chancellor, George Osborne, spoke with growing authority and offered us a rose garden. Ed Milliband challenged this interpretation suggesting that it was more a bed of thorns. He displayed more passion than I have ever seen him before. Even Vince Cable, standing in the aisle sniggered at some of the insults fired at the PM and Chancellor, they were cast as characters from Downton Abbey in what Miliband described as a fly on the wall documentary.

The analysts spent the next couple of hours trying to understand the small print and the giveaways were disassembled to show no long-term benefits. This was a neutral budget with a redistribution of tax benefits for the very rich (5% off tax for those earning more than £150k and £220 per annum extra for the working poor.) The strangest quirk was the Chancellor claiming that reducing the higher rate tax from 50% to 45% would generate more tax because the super-rich employed accountants to evade paying the 50% tax. 

He also claimed that the government would take more tax from expensive properties worth more than £2m. These properties comprise no more than 0.1% of all properties and the tax is mainly paid by companies. The more likely effect might be the devaluation of some of these properties below the £2m threshold and the estate agent's fees. What was not said during the Chancellor's speech was that additional tax relief for pensioners was to be withdrawn or that duty on alcohol was going up at inflation plus 2%.

The Chancellor seems to live in fantasy land when he sets out his version of a brave new Britain. There was no acknowledgment of youth unemployment, the withdrawal of benefits, the further round of public expenditure cuts, the fact that the economy was still stagnating or that the national debt was still rising.

The overall impression is that this was a budget that lacked any consistent logic other than to stagnate wages, reduce public expenditure and allow the financial sector a free ride. I am increasingly concerned that the financial sector, not content with robbing us of our pensions and selling us all sorts of dodgy products, seems to have the Chancellor by the short and curlies.  

Halycon Days

Running Wild

Some days just make you happy, and today was one of those. There had been an overnight frost but the sun had started to warm the still air and the visibility in the low angled light was amazing. There was only one thing to do and that was to get out and run. I have had the best start to the year since 1994, 300 miles already and I am running most days although the pace is not what it was. I decided to wear shorts for the first time this year, ditch the gloves and hat and take an iPod instead. It was on shuffle and after REM's 'Man on the Moon', some of my son's rogue dance music raised the tempo and without any great effort I was moving faster than all year.

It was spring already and the powder blue skies with puffs of white cloud seemed to encourage nature as well as runners to come alive.  In the forest the dew was visibly evaporating from the birch buds, there was the smell of resin rising from the conifers, and large flakes of dried bark from the timber operations were crunchy underfoot; they all made the trail seem quite magical. A red squirrel scuttled across in front of me and I ran deep into the heart of the forest shown above.

As I began the second climb of the day, the boardwalk over a boggy section was still covered in hoar frost.  The last of the trees that had been blown over in the gales had been removed and sawdust was scattered on the woodland path. The descent is down a long muddy section that I had slithered and fallen down several times this year but the mud had morphed into plastocene which caressed my shoes as I descended down to the river.  Normally I seldom meet another runner on these trails but today I had passed 7 other runners, all women. It was Mother's day and, as well as the sun, escaping the kids and the prospect of being taken out for a meal must have enticed them to enjoy a morning run to release their endorphins and whet their appetite.

After 7 miles I was still running freely and as I reached the village I stretched to my full 1.83 metres and made a long sprint to the co-op for the paper. I felt that I could have beaten both Usain Bolt and Prince Harry. The Stones sang 'Its all over now' as I glided back to the house and sadly it was. Every 100 or so days you get days like today when your body, mind and nature are in complete harmony. 

Markets

Preston Open Market

Markets have got a bad name in recent years as bankers, insurance companies and financial advisers have  sliced large fees from their customers who were encouraged through various wheezes to be unwitting investors in financial markets. Ordinary folk have had their savings, pensions, hopes and aspirations downsized or in some instances wiped out as our much vaunted financial sector has creamed them off. These are not real markets, they are monopolised by voracious finance companies eager to entice their clients to invest by tantalising them with false promises.

Real markets are where producers cut out or minimise the role of the middle man and brokers. They provide fresh, local, recycled and authentic products at best price direct to the buyer. Markets are places where households can eke out their income to buy healthy, cheap produce to improve their wellbeing. In many parts of the north of England, market towns and in trendy London suburbs real markets are still thriving and provide a much needed bulwark against the tedious uniform shopping malls and chain retail outlets

As a youngster most of our food was secured at the market on Friday when I helped mum carry home hefty shopping bags of tomatoes, potatoes, carrots, onions, lettuce, celery, greens, apples, raspberries, oranges, eggs, sausages and local cheese purchased to provide our weekly intake of fruit, veg and protein. It was local good quality produce and quite a bit cheaper than in the shops.  On other days there would be clothes, local crafts, tools, drapery and a fish market. Later on in life I frequented markets to buy tools, records and car parts. I also bought several axes for chopping logs and the broken heads still clutter the garage as I was reminded when I was sent a link to a quite surreal short film Markets of Britain. I wonder whether Lee Titt was ever employed in the Financial sector as a trainer?  His take on markets "people come from all over to buy, to sell, to steal" and "man's not looking, I'll have these, keep walking, keep walking..." is very familiar! 

Ben Gulabin and Creag nan Gabhair

Icarus II

My first thoughts this morning were along the lines of "will you still need me, will you still feed me" but the birthday messages, raspberries and wine in the fridge and a new mountain jacket all helped convince me. As a birthday treat, there are few things that beat a day on the hills and after a perusal of the weather charts I was determined to seek out some blue skies. This meant going to the northeast and I only had Corbetts left to do in this part of Scotland so it was a chance to make it an easy day.

The drive north through Perthshire was full of incidents and a diversion at Stanley meant that I had to use some minor roads to cross the Tay and get to Blairgowrie. The route was heaving with pheasants and I was surprised to avoid causing any road kill as they skipped out of the hedgerows like cuckoo clocks. A stoat was hunting at the roadside and buzzards were wheeling above. On the road to the Spittal of Glenshee, there were some patches of blue in the sky although it was still predominantly grey. Meanwhile, I was still debating which hills to climb and seeking the most likely patch of blue sky to aim for.  I decided upon Ben Gulabin which would give me at least a couple of options for another hill later in the day.

Ben Gulabin

Glas Tulaichean from Ben Gulabin

Glenshee from Ben Gulabin

Ben Gulabin              806m      

Time:                          46mins  to summit ,  1hr 18mins total

Ascent:                      460metres

Distance:                    6km

Ben Gulabin was a good choice of hill and there was a well-made track leading through the gap between Ben Gulapin and Creagan Bheithe to the north. I met a couple of photographers in heavily camouflaged jackets descending the hill carrying lenses so long that they that could have been digital Hubble telescopes.  They had been looking for mountain hares but with no success, this could have been because of the disturbance made by the fully occupied land rover that followed them down the track. I was glad to escape the motorised intrusive crowds on the hills, they make me cantankerous.  The final ascent of 200 metres to the summit was on a steep trail that eventually petered out as it reached the undulating convex summit.

The patches of blue sky were in the ascendency and crisp views of familiar hills opened up. The Cairnwell, probably the most wrecked of all Scotland's summits, was visible with its array of masts but far more imposing was Glas Tulaichean to the west. I sat and enjoyed the splendid landscapes of Glenshee, an area that I have become increasingly fond of during a score of visits.  The descent was quick and easy and I was soon back at the car. 

As there was no hurry I decided to stop at Glenshee to have a closer look at the statues of a couple in deck chairs that I had long admired by the ski facilities.  To my surprise and delight, they were of Wainwright and Betty, his wife.  They had been moved across the road to the bottom of the Tiger run since they were originally placed on the east of the car park. I thought that they looked better in their original location but I fully understand that Wainwright would not have wanted to be facing the Cairnwell.

Wainwright, my huckleberry friend

 Beware the ides of March - snow evidence of climate change 

Ascent of Creag nan Gabhair

Creag nan Gabhair looking north towards Ben Avon

Ben Avon and Paraglider

Finding the thermals

Lochnagar from Creag nan Gabhair

Clouds over An Socach

Matt Church in flight over Creag nan Gabhair

Creag nan Gabhair     834m     

Time:                         50mins to summit,    1hr  25mins total

Ascent:                      435metres

Distance:                   6Km

I parked by the unnamed burn that runs down between Creag nan Gabhair and the hill to the south. A paraglider was beginning his descent and I watched as he zig-zagged down the hill and landed close to where I was parked.  We had a chat about paragliding and he told me that Matt Church, a world-class pilot from Aberdeen, was about to launch from the summit and that he was capable of staying up for hours on the thermals. I made a start and found a path up the south side of the glen before crossing the burn and grappling through the heather and scree direct to the summit where I could see that Matt Church had already begun to circle the hill. I managed to disturb a couple of dozen pairs of grouse on the ascent, they squawk with all the musicality of a punk band, before I arrived on the summit to enjoy a spectacular show of paragliding.  

I felt privileged to be in a ringside seat on the summit cairn for a sporting event at which I was the only spectator. He flew to the sun in his Icarus mode and then swooped across to An Socach, returned to give me some close-up shots as he toyed and turned in the thermals above the summit plateau before flying off towards Ben Avon. It was mid-afternoon and warm, it was shirtsleeves and perfect blue skies in March.  The descent was only 35 minutes long including a walkout to the east soaking in the skyline views of Lochnagar.  I was down by 3:30pm and home by 5:30pm where a box of Thwaites' Wainwright beer had been delivered as a birthday treat to continue one of the themes of the day. As it said on the bottle, the beer was exquisitely lovely and so had been the day; the jostle with Scotland's Corbetts had provided the verve to tackle whatever comes next. 

Showtime

An Caisteal

An Caisteal from Bealach Buidhe

Start of the day

Beinn Dubhchraig and Fiarach from Coire a' Chuilinn

An Caisteal from Beinn Chabhair

Descending Beinn Chabhair

Come Dine with Us

Nuts and Ravens 

Beinn Chabhair

An Caisteal from Beinn a' Chroin

Beinn a Chroin from An Caisteal

An Caisteal summit betwixt Ben More and Stob Binnein

Loch Long from An Caisteal

Monday, 5 March 2012
Time:                                       6hrs 52mins
Ascent:                                    1510metres
Distance:                                 15km


Beinn Chabhair        933m      2hrs 31mins
Beinn a Chroin         942m      4hrs 09mins
An Caisteal               995m     5hrs 16mins

This is what retirement is all about said John as we skirted along the ridge linking the various tops on Beinn a' Chroin. Despite being a veteran of three munro rounds, he had hardly had a decent day on the hills since retiring almost two years ago and was becoming more reclusive as a cyclist.  We had made plans to walk late on Sunday on the back of the BBC national weather forecast. I collected him at the back of 9am and we drove to Crianlarich and the down the A82 to Derrydarroch where we parked in a lay-by.  It was cold, there had been an overnight frost, but it was clear and the early morning blue sky was holding its own against an advancing phalanx of cloud.  We walked briefly southwards along the West Highland Way and then skirted across the hillside to the Allt a' Chuilinn. The ground was saturated and for once I was pleased that I had decided to wear boots and gaiters. It was difficult to cross the river after recent rains and there was a veneer of slippy vegetation on the rocks.

We continued upstream and crossed the river in the corrie and then headed for a bealach to the east of Meall nan Tarmachan on the Beinn Chabhair ridge.  From about 650m we were walking through soft snow and the ridge was in winter condition with a layer of hard ice below the recent sprinkling of snow.  The summit was chilly in the north westerly breeze with a lone walker circling the cairn as he munched a doorstep of a sandwich. We started the descent down the snow slopes, sledging some of the way down on our jackets to the 619m bealach between Beinn Chabhair and the next two munros.  We stopped for some lunch and we were joined by a Raven who seemed to enjoy some of my Wensleydale and Geeta's Mango Chutney sandwich to such an extent that he then sat behind me waiting for me to retrieve my second sandwich.  John threw him a few nuts and raisins to distract him and he squawked or choked loudly before taking flight.

The climb up to Bealach Buidhe was long and hard but once on the ridge there was an enjoyable canter on the path which threaded up to the collection of tops that is Beinn a'Chroin. The weather had settled and we had a good walk out and back in the reflected and pure brilliant light of the snow and ice. We returned to the bealach and started the ascent of An Caisteal during which the views opened up across to Cruach Ardrain and Ben More and the north with even Ben Nevis visible.  To the south Loch Long was glinting in the late afternoon sun and we lingered on the summit enjoying the spectacular views in all directions.

The descent was down the snow slopes towards Stob Glas and then into Coire a' Chuilinn for the walk out. It had been a tiring day with the boggy ground on the lower slopes and the soft snow higher up but walking on winter's days such as this is beguiling.  Last time we had done these munros we had also climbed Cruach Ardrain and Beinn Tulaichean and in mid December. We had made a dangerous descent through the rocky outcrops on Beinn Tulaichean in the mist and dark from which John still has scars; this time it was just fond memories and we had enough light to drive home. A friend sent me this linearised version of my friend the Raven, less scary than the real thing.

My friend the Raven