BUGGY DOWN

Every enterprise has to have difficulties, problems, setbacks, and before every new event one can wonder when these will happen. I wasn't left wondering for very long when preparing for the visit of Juris and his mum Helena; before I had really started packing in earnest and before I had collected the wheelchair I trapped a nerve in my back. Since then everything has been very painful. Oh and I hit the same pothole on the roundabout for M42 J9 that possibly wrecked my shock absorber 2 months ago and will have caused more damage; that matter is now with HAIL.

Putting those negatives behind me on day one it MIGHT be that we can look forward to a more straightforward passage from here on. Fingers crossed.

The collection at Luton Airport was almost painless apart from having to pay £8.20 in the Mid Term car park. We were quickly winging our way into the bosom of Buckinghamshire for the National Trust gardens at Stowe. Attempting to confront the wheelchair issue at Stowe we were offered the loan of an electric buggy to navigate the vast grounds. This was a 4-seater and we ALL got to drive it, though not necessarily with the approval of the NT.

Anyway we made good use of it, discovering temples, rotundas and features in every corner, and in amongst all this the boys of Stowe School playing Tennis, Golf, Cricket and Badminton. Eventually when we got to the top of the biggest hill and at the furthest point from the NT my phone rang; "where is our buggy?" Managed to find our way back and still with a little electricity left in it!

Onwards to the Days Inn on M40 J8A for the evening and our first night. The room is okay, the sleep quite good even with pain in back, and the Thunderstorm magnificent. Now we must make our own breakfast as we don't want to pay £9.99 for a few sausages egg and tomato.

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THE ROTHSCHILD ROSE

Our first full day in the south of England began with the traditional English Breakfast. Last night's curled up sandwiches - this is only traditional for Juris, I think. But we decided to save money on a hotel breakfast, and that's what we had. I did take the precaution of buying milk and those miniature cereals packets so at least we were able to have a bowl of Cheerios.

Then we hit the road and headed back into Buckinghamshire for Waddesdon Manor, the huge pile designed and built by the Rothschilds in 1857. I remember seeing a documentary about the Rothschilds and about how in spite of all their wealth and being at the core of the British establishment they were still looked down on as being 'nouveau riche' and not really aristocracy. Well Waddesdon revealed a certain 'aspirational' thinking rather than a 'we've already got there so we don't need to boast about it'.

If the building date had been 1957 instead of 1857 then I would have said it was pure Disneyland and the whole edifice was stolen from 'Cinderella' or some other Walt Disney cartoon made before computers ruined the quality of the artwork. But maybe Walt stole his sets from Waddesdon instead. Its architecture is a jumble of bits probably plagiarized from a number of French Chateau and orther European buildings. The only unity is the poor taste and lack of originality. But it is impressive if only in size and grandeur.

However, the gardens were grand, and we enjoyed the Aviary garden, the truly fabulous Rose Garden which could be smelled almost before it could be seen, and then the Grand Parterre along the frontage of the house.

Helena walked some of the time, and rode in her wheelchair some of the time. Never complained, never made demands, and always seemed in complete wonder at every place she went and everything we saw.

After this, and somewhat later than planned, we headed into the city of Oxford. Arriving at almost 4 O'clock it was too late to do any organised visits, so we just ambled around for three hours. We found a chippery that gave us 'Posh Fish' for less than £6 a head with cheaps and beans or peas and it was really tasty.

Then back to Days Inn at Junction 8A to collapse. Ten hours exploring today. Tomorrow we transfer to Kent.

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WISLEY WISE

Sunday began with a traditional Latvian version of an English Breakfast at M40 J8A Oxford. That is, no eggs, no bacon, no sausages, no fried bread, no mushrooms, no beans, no black pudding ..... Then we had to pack and vacate the rooms.

We decided to visit Wisley Gardens on the way to Tonbridge. Now the weather could have been kinder, but it didn't actually rain, and the grey clouds just subdued the colours and views. It only took about an hour to reach Wisley even with all our luggage.

On arrival we "negotiated" a place in the Disabled Car Park, even though we don't have a Blue Badge. Now I'm getting a bit pissed off with all this tyranny of Blue Badges. It seems you are NOT disabled unless you have a Blue Badge, although of course we all know now that half of all Blue Badges are actually used by the ABLE members of their family when they shouldn't be.

With a wheelchair member we need all the benefits of a disabled space, such as wider space and nearer the facilities. We don't need all the bureaucracy of the Blue Badge scheme, and all the paperwork, etc. I say let people with genuine ability needs use disabled spaces without application or formal processes. Those that use such spaces falsely will have their limbs severed on the spot preferably without anaesthetic.

To add to my annoyance at Wisley, and at some National Trust properties, and at many Supermarkets, there were 'Parent' spaces, Wider spaces for families. I have absolutely NO tolerance of such rubbish whatsoever. You are NOT disabled, and should not be given any more facilities than a single male!!! But just to put it into perspective, you don't need a Blue Badge (or any other colour badge) to park in a Parent space - people trust you to be a Parent, but not to be disabled.

Scrap the Blue Badge scheme, and scrap all Parent spaces.

The wheelchair travelled ALL around Wisley, not only through the various woods, wild meadows, and rose gardens, but also through the hot houses. The Rose gardens were extensive and spectacular, and the Poppy meadow, in commemoration of the Great War was dramatic.

I explained to a number of people how the Poppy came to be such a symbol of WWI (They sprang up naturally in the Spring following all the shelling and fighting across the fields of Flanders and France; Poppies like disturbed ground and can lay dormant for generations). But it seems that so many people are busy clamouring for Parent parking spaces that they do not know some basic history.

We stayed much longer than intended because even in fairly gloomy conditions, it was still truly wonderful. When we left it was too late to move onto another attraction. Instead we headed straight to Tonbridge and checked into the Rose and Crown right on the main street. Then we explored a rather historic and scenic little town bridging the River Medway and guarding this crossing with a Norman Motte and Bailey Castle. Our only hot meal was provided by a Two for One offer on Domino Pizza, and I rather suspects that the remnants of that will provide breakfast in the morning. Hey Ho. It's Chartwell and Hever tomorrow and maybe the Kent coast in the evening; give me some sun please.

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THE KENTISH ROSE

My sister and I have encountered the 'Best Western' chain of hotels before, since they exist in many countries; suffice it to say "Adequate Western" better describes them. This chain appears to buy once proud establishments and does little with them except maintain them. However the Best Western Rose and Crown, Tonbridge did provide us with free WiFi which worked tolerably well, as did the plumbing. I can't comment on the food because in true Latvian tradition I wasn't allowed to have any here.

Best Western only provided us with twin beds, but they worked well enough. One of my readers has asked, "how is your back?" Well I think the nerve is still trapped, and certainly small movements such as turning in bed, etc are the most difficult and most painful; perhaps Juris is glad of the single beds now. Once I am up and about there is too much to do to spend time thinking about my back pain. Besides I would rather complain about the Grand Issues such as The Blue Badge tyranny than complain about my own pain!

We arrived at Tonbridge having knocked off Waddesdon Manor where we spent too long to be able to tick off another attraction. However, there was time for Mama to have a rest whilst Juris and I explored this little town, The Waitrose of course was closed as this was late Sunday afternoon, but we ambled down the rather pretty main street with some properties, such as the Rose and Crown Hotel, dating back to Jacobean times, whilst many others were early Victorian. It perhaps looked a little tired in places, but pleasant enough. The Motte and Bailey Castle was dominant presence on the banks of the River Medway by the rather charming iron bridge across it.

Juris and I investigated the options for eating and returned with Mama to take advantage of Domino's Two for One deal on large Pizzas for collection on Sunday. We returned these to our rooms at the Rose and Crown and ate enthusiastically after a day of thin pickings. The church bells rang out whilst we feasted, and it turns out that my niece Catherine, who lives in Kent, was actually ringing them as Bell Captain.

You can believe by now that cold Dominos Pizzas formed our breakfast, before we set off for two local attractions. Our first was the home of Winston Spencer Churchill at Chartwell, where delightful Kent lanes with Oast houses and little brick villages led us.

It may be four decades since I last went to Chartwell, and it all seemed bigger this time around. Mama was mesmerised by it all. Having foolishly accepted a timed visit to the house 2 hours ahead, we were almost forced to spend 2 hours in the garden; but it wasn't that difficult. The gardens were blooming wonderful, and the only minus point for us is that there are steps. The NT has provided a number of wheelchair friendly ways around but you will still find some steps up or down barring your way to some feature. Mama would not stopped in this way, and abandoned the wheel chair and strode onward.

There was a wonderful rose garden, which in mid June was at its prime. Then there was the Golden Rose Walk, a present from the children to their Churchill parents on the occasion of their golden wedding anniversary. A lovely gift, and a delightful place to stroll, and also to sip tea from our flask. The garden studio also helped to fill out our time as Mama took a keen interest in the paintings made by WSC all over the world; politician, strategist, writer, bricklayer and painter, there was no end to the talents of Churchill.

Thirty mintues still remained until our timed entrance to the house, but I negotiated an advance and we entered at 13:00hrs instead of 13:30. The wheelchair was parked outside and Mama set off inside climbing without complaint any stairs that confronted her. Chartwell is a delightful house with charming rooms of good proportion, now filled with His memorabilia; what's not to like. Retrieving the wheel chair from one side of the house to re-unite with Mama on the other side was quite a feat, requiring me to be escorted the wrong way through the house, and then having to circumnavigate the gardens and lug the device up a couple of flights of steps.

After that effort I unanimously decided to visit the restaurant and purchase two "sandwiches". £5.50 is probably the most I have ever paid for a single sandwich, the bread surrounding the Tuna and Cucumber and also the Bacon and Egg sandwich made it very tasty. Don't tell Juris how much they cost. We availed ourselves of the facilities and ate the NT fayre before setting off for venue two.

More Kentish lanes and then we arrived to Hever Castle where our wheelchair status at least allowed us to park on the lawn close to the house. We explored first the gardens, once more entering into a world of Roses, I cannot believe how many Roses we have seen since leaving Luton Airport. And to cap it all, Hever Castle is the home of the Tudor Rose dynasty, the unification of the Red Rose of Lancaster with the White Rose of the House of York. This dynasty was all explained, and complicated it is, on panels within the Castle.

Little remains of the Boleyn (crafty, conniving, ruthlessly scheming Tudors) family as much of Hever Castle was refitted when the Astors moved in just over a century ago. But it has been tastefully done, and was pleasant enough to explore. Mama did it all, including the spiral stone staircase, but was granted remission and allowed to descend by a simpler staircase. Then back to the garden, walking to the lake through the Italian garden, then back to the car where the final portions of the Pizza and the remains of the Chartwell cucumber sandwich were eaten.

Cousin Trish said I must be mad to do Chartwell and Hever in one day, and we were but did it anyway. Returning to Tonbridge the question of an evening meal raised itself. After some lively discussion we ended up at a fish and chippery; where I was disgusted to find that I qualified for an OAP serving of fish and chips at £3.80. I didn't mind saving the money, and the portion was plentiful, but the suggestion that I might be "old" is intolerable. And so exhausted to bed, no time to write up this blog.

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NYMAN AND OLD MAN

Many people would have thought that driving almost 300 miles from Kent to Cornwall was a big enough task to fill a day, but that's not the way we do things (apparently!), and the National Trust membership needed to be put to good use in spite of the transition we had to make.

So it was that we departed Tonbridge, after gathering a few quick photos and the makings of a picnic lunch from Waitrose. Our first port of call was due to be the gardens at Nymans, and perhaps I should have been a little concerned when Tomtom told me that the 28 mile journey would take an hour, but it took far longer. I wanted one last session with the Kentish lanes, a decision I was going to regret. The journey to Nymans via Eat Grinstead was a real grind, scarcely a stretch of road above 30 or 40mph, several sets of traffic light-controlled road works, and finally a very large tractor crawling along pulling a low loader bearing a JCB.

We paused at East Grinstead for relief and ambled along the pretty main street before finding a lovely cafe where we drunk refreshing tea and delicious lemon curd cake. Juris also purchased cigarettes, which tamed his tiger usefully!

Eventually we arrived at Nymans, once again using our cardboard box inscribed "THIS VEHICLE CARRIES A WHEELCHAIR" in place of the dreadful Blue Badge. But there was a change at Nymans; only two of us had to pay admission which because Juris and I had taken out NT membership meant that we were 'free'. These houses work on the principle that the carer of a 'less able' person is free, and that meant that Juris (or I !!) should have been free at all houses, but because we already had membership we were not given the 'carer' or 'companion' discount. At Nymans, however, they saw the absurdity of this predicament and waved us through - effectively 3 for 2 as it should have been.

The gardens at Nymans are set around the ruins of a manor house which suffered a number of catastrophic fires, the last in 1947. The stark burnt out shell makes a wonderful backdrop to herbaceous borders of colour and variety, with a frame of vivid green topiary at the lower edges of the light stonework. We had a long wander through the arboretum, the wild garden, and surprise surprise the Rose Garden. Having concluded that the sun NEVER shines in Kent, it touched everything with its brightest tentacles and gave us colour and sights of true beauty. I set a target of one hour to "do" Nymans, but needless to say nobody observed my limit.

The journey to Cornwall had to continue, and a route via Guildford and the Hogs Back was chosen in order to stay well south of London and avoid traffic gathering for the first day of Royal Ascot. Once we hit the A31 the tortuous lanes of Kent that had so impeded our earlier journey were quickly forgotten. Then onto the M3 and A303 and a chance to grapple with our huge journey with more determination; even so some cars did overtake us. My Peugeot 208 gave a lot of trouble last year, but now 3 up with a wheelchair and luggage for a week, I cannot complain. We achieved the A303 and later A30 at speeds I will not put in print, the car seeming to relish the extra weight which even improved the handling.

On a late afternoon just prior to the Midsummer Solstice we came across Stonehenge. We had phoned ahead to check on opening times, and having established that 17:00 was last admission the Tomtom ETA of 16:45 looked close, and hence the need to press on down the A303. Arrival at Stonehege was ahead of TomTom and we were quickly at the Ticket counter. Just as at Nymans our NT memberships were accepted and a 'companion' ticket given for free. Then onto a little Land Train driven by a rather struggling Land-Rover that took us all up to the monument.

Bathed in brilliant sunshine the megolithic stones made a majestic end to our sight seeing today. There isn't much you can do at Stonehenge other than amble around the circle covering about 11 hours of the clock face before turning and doing it all again in reverse. But the bright sun warming the stones also warmed our hearts, and we felt no need to rush, even with almost 200 miles still to go. We even sat outside the complex and enjoyed our (late) picnic, but don't tell sister Biddi who was waiting with a meal for us down in Cornwall ! Our picnic was brown rolls already spread with butter, to which each person could add Honey Roast Ham or Smoked Salmon pate which Waitrose had provided in Tonbridge (11 hours ago). We also had apples, fresh tomatoes, cucumber and a flask of Broccoli and Cheese soup. If that wasn't enough we also had bought in the Kentish lanes fresh Cherries and Cherry Tomatoes.

The clock said almost 19:00 when we regained the A303 and TomTom told us that arrival at sister's would be 22:15. It wasn't as simple as that, however, because the petrol meter told me that we would run dry 40 miles from home. I expected to join the M5 prior to Exeter Services, and thereby to resolve the fuel situation, but it wasn't to be because we joined at J29 and then were on the A30 from J30; no fuel. I phoned little brother from the car as he lives at Exminster. "Where is the next fuel on the A30?" He tried to advise us, and then a sign suddenly said "Services". Saved! Moretonhampstead provided us fuel and a little pause for my passengers who were informed that there would be NO MORE STOPS as we were already well behind schedule.

From here on in I could drive the journey wearing a blind fold. I know every inch of it, know when to overtake, when to cut the corners, when to be wary of the white car parked in a lay-by brandishing a speed gun. The only hiccup was just after the sign proclaiming "Welcome to Cornwall". Our welcome consisted of sitting stationary at traffic lights for 5 minutes, and then doing the next 3 miles at 10 mph behind a 'FOLLOW ME' tractor. Pressing on again, I quit the A30 at Boxheater, heading to the coast via Goonhavern and Perranporth through proper Cornish lanes - my favourite way.

22:25 arrival, and if you are exhausted by the account of our passage, consider how these three travellers felt after 12 hours doing it. Enjoyed the frantic drive though on a clear summer evening with little traffic. So to bed and the first sleep on ASDA's finest air mattress on my sister's lounge floor.

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CORNISH COAST

Our first day in Cornwall began with BREAKFAST, now there's a novelty on this trip! My sister's extensive larder provided ANYTHING that anyone wanted, in my case fresh Olive bread, cereal with fresh strawberries. Mama and Juris made their own fresh salad and enjoyed sliced ham on good bread.

Then we set off to show the beauty of Cornwall and there is no finer showcase than the North Cornwall coast. Driving passed the 4 miles of golden sands at Perranporth, then Porth, Watergate Bay, Mawgan Porth and beyond on the coast road that skirts Newquay and reaches the National Trust lands at Carnewas, commonly referred to as 'Bedruthan Steps'. Here we parked up, guided to a disabled parking space where everyone was decanted.

We set off on the clifftop path the wheelchair passing within a foot or so of sheer drops down to still azure blue Atlantic beneath. The colour was vivid, but the surface was too calm, stilled by the high pressure sitting overhead; that same weather system did, however, deliver us the intense sunlight to make everything glow.

My cousin had messaged me: "I trust it is sunny in Cornwall too and that you don’t intend to take Mama on a cliff walk – with or without the wheelchair!" but by the time I read this it was already too late. Mama had been on a cliff walk in and out of the wheelchair. Though we didn't press Mama into going too far, the views were just so vivid that nobody wanted to be short changed of them. We took freshly made Watercress soup in a truly homemade NT cafe served with chunky saffron bread, and I can thoroughly recommend this enterprise.

A short drive across country took us to the 16th century manor house of Trerice, a place that has fond memories for me as both my mother and father would go here at the drop of a hat. Father would march in through the front door and ask to be allowed to cross to the Barn Cafe without having to pay admission; he was always allowed. And so it was with us, Biddi and I negotiated our own free passage to the Barn Cafe, and agreed admission to the house for Juris (as member) and his mum (free as less able). Biddi and I sat at table in the Barn garden supping lovely tea and eating home made Blueberry Victoria sponge cake, whilst the Latvians used up another chunk of the NT membership; that £100 quid has already saved us money.

After that I set the TomTom to take us back to Biddi's house by the shortest route, fully realising just how exciting this might be! True to TomTom's best traditions he found us a long lost ford and then took us down a very narrow lane near St Newlyn East. Now I am used to driving down Cornish lanes so narrow that the wing mirrors get ripped off and all the paint gets scratched from the sides of the car, but this was something else. There was only 3 feet between the foliage on each side of the lane and we needed to proceed slowly and keep the windows shut. Clearly no vehicles had passed down here for a long time, although the cow poo down the centre of this lane told us of bovine traffic.

You can stick your motorways, this is better driving. We cut across to Cubert and then by the back lanes to St Piran's Oratory where St Piran first set up shop in about AD 600 bringing Christianity to Cornwall from Ireland. The remains of the ancient Oratory are still sunk into the Perranporth sand dunes, kept buried because that preserves them better than other means in the shifting dunes.

Thus ended our first Cornish excursion. We will eat a proper meal tonight, the one denied by our non-arrival last night. But tonight we will have Champagne to toast Juris' study success and the imminent start of his research project back in Latvia. Cheers.

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PENWITH PASSAGE

Thursday began again with BREAKFAST; that's two days running. Biddi opened her larder and I ate delicious sour dough bread toasted with butter and Marmite that dripped through my fingers, and after cereals with fresh strawberries and piled high with a dollop of clotted Cornish cream. Mmmm. Mama and Juris made salad and had this with fried leftovers from last night. Everybody had whatever they wanted.

For our final day in Cornwall I chose to go to West Penwith, the very toe of Cornwall. We called in at the Truro Sainsburys arriving there almost on fresh air as the few litres of fuel I had added at Moretonhampstead were running dry; I wanted to be sure to get my double points at Sainsburys on a full tank, and incidentally saved 3pence a litre from what was offered on the A30.

Then via the A394 and Helston to the outskirts of Marazion where we sat in the beach side car park with St Michaels Mount towering above us. A perfect spot for morning tea, and we sat on the beach with our flask and our lemon cake. Mounts Bay showed us its bluest sea and its bluest sky and it was a joy to pause with our tea and cake amidst such marine beauty. Juris and I went for a paddle in the sea, but the shingle beach was uncomfortable on the feet and daunted Mama who had been game to try it.

Then back to the A30, around the back of Penzance, through Sheffield and Leedstown before reaching Lamorna Cove. We parked precipitately above the boulder strewn shore before ambling around the little harbour wall which was thoroughly wrecked by the winter storms. It wasn't as pretty as I might have hoped, but we still had the blue sky and sea, and few other people to spoil our enjoyment of it. A flask of soup with sandwiches provided an excellent picnic at this little cove and we relaxed in the hot sun.

After that I headed to St Just and my favourite road from St Just to St Ives. However my passage was spoiled by German tourists driving cars that were twelve feet wide and they stopped at the approach of anything, even a cyclist. Of course their vehicles were no wider than mine, and whilst it is true that this road is scarcely much more than 12 feet wide and sometimes rather less, it is mostly capable of letting two vehicles drive past each other. The Germans were over cautious and it would be better if they stayed in areas that have bigger roads.

So I quit my favourite road earlier than usual and cut to St Agnes where we could chill out before our evening meal.

Last evening, after our evening meal, Juris and I took a walk from Wheal Coates Mine above Chapel Porth and down to the famous cliffside engine house of Towanroath. This is one of my favourite walks, and only in June can you see the western end of the engine house lit by the sun. Tonight after our meal we took Mama to Wheal Coates Mine for a walk in the evening sun, though NOT down to Towanroath. After that we drove to Chapel Porth beach arriving just moments before the sun crashed into the sea and it was snuffed out. Day ended.

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COMO: LAKE RAIN

Yesterday in spite of dire warnings from the BBC promising the close down of Britain, I achieved my flight from Manchester to Heathrow on time, and from Heathrow to Milano Linate on time. we were coached to Cadenabbia on Lake Como in good time and by 15:00hrs I was enjoying a delicious thick hot chocolate in a bar near the hotel.

Today is Christmas eve, and unfortunately it has been very very wet and grey and dark all day - not good for photos, be warned.

We coached to the town of Como, about 40 minutes, and then had a brief guided tour and 2 hours free time. After that we took the Jet boat to Bellagio passing George Clooney's Villa.

Bellagio was wetter so we dived into a lakeside restuarant for lunch. After that I wandered up the steep steps to the main town, then back down and then back up and down. Very picturesque, but would have been even better with some sun.

The hotel may well have been the Grand Britannia Excelsior at one time, the Grand is somewhat faded in a rather charming way, the Excelsior has quietly diminished along with the plumbing, and all that remains is the 'Britannia' which is true - we have parties from Just You, Shearings, Leger and another British coach lot. My shower has not worked since I arrived but they promise to have fixed it now.

Just You has a small party on this tour of about 20, but I know three of them from previous hols. We are getting along fine.

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COMO: MERRY WET CHRISTMAS

I know (from the BBC News), that the South of England (as if anywhere else actually existed in the British Isles) has had the worst rain since the time of the Dinosaurs - or so they would have us believe. But it has rained over our Lake too, all night long and very heavily. Our plans to walk around the Lake before lunch are washed away. Not sure what we will do this morning as no activities are organised.

Last night in the rain some of us went to the local Midnight Mass. although it was only just around the corner, the climb up and the continuous rain found one of the cute waiters doubling up as Transit driver and shuttling people up the hill to the Chiesa di Griante in lots of 8.

The service itself was held in a small domed Basilica where all were deafened by the sound of two industrial heat units hung from the balcony whose fans were clearly designed to pump hot air into a large industrial unit.

In front of the altar a motley collection of local children gathered clad in winter coats, their ages ranging from about 10 years to 18. They were shepherded by two female teachers who kept yanking the odd child into a new position, or separating one from another because of misbehaviour. It was clear that they were reluctant participants in the proceedings. A microphone was passed around them, sometimes working and sometimes not, and various recitations made. Then they started to sing, Adeste Fideles, at a pace much slower than I am used to, and at a different pace to that of the organ. Eventually some kind of order was obtained and both young singers and the organ more or less got on the same note at the same time; well they did when they remembered the words. Clearly no rehearsal had ever been made.

The children marched out and there was a pause for several minutes filled only with heating units giving voice to their task. Then the back doors opened and in filed the same children now garbed in surpluses and looking much more professional as they processed down the church ahead of the clergy. On the gallery above them the professional choir managed to cover the sound of the air con, although somebody did find a lower setting for it which was helpful.

With probably more than one third of the church filled with English from my hotel, the Priest COULD have made a little effort to include us; a hymn sheet in Italian would have helped us to join in. Anyway the service proceeded, the Organ often anticipating the its cue and those on the altar having to re-start or catch up.

A huge number of people on the altar ebbed and flowed, disappearing behind the altar before reappearing later. And at the least opportunity the 18 year old let rip with the incense and those on the altar gradually disappeared from view behind the sweet-smelling cloud of incense which started to irritate the congregation and cause coughing. With all this meaningless palaver it is no wonder that churches are empty. Nobody wants it, it is irrelevant, and time the Church embraced short punchy services for this millennium and not a bygone era.

I gave up after 40 minutes and walked down the steep and barely lit track to the lakeside with the rain largely in remission. And so to bed.

There are a few Christmas photos below. We have Christmas lunch at noon today, but nothing else is planned. However tomorrow is an early start as we go into Switzerland come back by train.

This Blog on Como continues after a few photos

Some photos are given below, but the link given next takes you to the FULL album:
COMO CHRISTMAS an album on FLICKR

COMO: THE EIGHT COURSES OF CHRISTMAS

Christmas Day. No activities planned, but on the Eve a group of us optimistically planned to take a walk along the lakeside on Christmas morn.

True to our word we gathered around ten and set off in the pouring rain. Immediately some confusion broke out and after 3 of us had dropped in on the little Mini Market, we found ourselves abandoned by the rest of the walking party, so I led our trio towards Turezzo(*). We walked along the side of the lake trying not to get splashed by the lake road traffic, and for a lot of the route we succeeded because the path was wide enough. The lake water immediately beneath the little guardrail was a dark slate blue, and its tormented surface was frequently pricked by solid shafts of the incessant rain. The town of Bellagio on the opposite bank was 'hatted' by small fluffy belts of clouds grasped by the towering hills above the town whose grip was irresistible.

The continuous rain, however, formed a veil in front of the far shore making everything indistinct. We weren't especially cold, and having expected nothing less than the weather that now happened, we continued our trudge towards Turrezo. This little habitation is pressed again towering hills on its back and drops into the 400 metre deep lake along its front edge. It is famous for being the source of that swearing disease which is almost fashionable now in Britain, at least on 'reality TV shows'. It was therefore no surprise when on entering a small bar/cafe that the greeting to us was "What the effing hell do you want?" Of course, to be understood properly by a sufferer from Tourette syndrome I must answer in like manner, "I want an effing hot chocolate you bag, and these two want some effing coffee, and merry bloody Christmas to you too."

The coffee was duly consumed and we paid, wishing each other a 'Fecking happy New Year' and then we trudged back to the hotel. On arriving, everything we wore had to be discarded and given up to the room heating to dry. Then we changed for Christmas lunch and at noon we queued past the massed ranks of the hotel staff who in full Christmas gear formed a guard of honour at the entrance to the dining hall. The meal itself was EIGHT courses - there might be a copy of the menu attached. It was stuffing. Other meals in the hotel had been self-service buffets, but Christmas dinner was waitered and the young band of helpers got out 400 covers for 8 courses, attended to drinks requests, and brought us all a present from Santa, in my case a nice tie. Well done.

The meal finished at 16:00hrs, and we reconvene at 19:00hrs for more food, oh dear. The photos below include a 'selfie' (well if Cameron can do it so can Simon), some Just Youers, and the presentation of the Turkeys.

(* We didn't really go to Turezzo, our coffee was politely taken in Tremezzo.)

This Blog on Como continues after a few photos

Some photos are given below, but the link given next takes you to the FULL album:
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COMO: BORMIO BOXING DAY

All the coaches from our hotel were scheduled to cross the border and visit the Swiss resort of St Moritz today, which would involve a trip on the Bernina Express train on one leg of the journey. For some reason we left at 07:00 whereas Shearings and Leger set their departure for 08:30.

So the alarm raised me at 05:30 and after a hasty cold breakfast at 06:30 we were all onboard the coach and travelling North by 07:00. At 08:30 Marius our Romanian guide work us from our slumber. The Bernina Express would not be running when we reached Tirano. The rain that had fallen continuously since we arrived and had been particularly heavy through the last 24 hours had fallen in the mountains as deep snow. Consequently all the road passes were closed and even if we reached St Moritz our planned return by road was out of the question. However, our plans to board the first Bernina Express of the day would fail because that line was also closed by deep snow AND power failure owing to snow on the power lines.

We paused at Tirano, but too early for the railway information office. Marius was told that all the other coaches had decided to o cancel this trip and head instead to Milano even though this had already been on their itinerary. Milano was only an option for them because they had not yet left the hotel, but we had travelled 90 minutes north away from Milano.

Marius decided that St Moritz might be possible later although it did seem unlikely; he decided to drive out of Tirano to Bormio whilst we wait for news. As we closed in on Bormio the incessant rain turned WHITE; Bormio is a World Cup Ski resort. Suddenly the idea came to take the cable cars to Bormio 2000 and we eagerly accepted this.

Very quickly we are in the cafe at 1952 metres amongst all the Boxing Day skiers and snow boarders. Impressive. 3 of our number opted to take an hour on the nursery slopes whilst the rest of us cafe'ed or photographed snow. The snow fell heavily, rescue skidoos went out to retrieve casualties (none of us) and we all enjoyed respite from the rain.

We were asked to return down to the town by 12:00 and then the coach retreated us to Tirano. We didn't need lunch because the hotel had provided us each with a packed meal. By the time we arrived Marius had engaged a road train to tour us around Tirano. But this was a much longer circuit than the standard route and we had stops to take photos, visit attractions and visit a bar. A tailored tour. Even in the rain Tirano showed itself to be very scenic and the centre storico was very interesting.

We left Tirano around 15:45 hours but making an unscheduled stop at an emporium to purchase local wines, meats and cheeses. No really, this was not a stop contrived by our Guide in return for a a back-hander; we asked for this stop. Marius informed us that he never visited Bormio and had never toured the sites in Tirano. Every thing had been arranged on the fly and for the first time. Well done.

Not the day that was intended but very enjoyable and no complaints from anyone. I got snow on my boots and got to chat up several ski boys (see final photo). Great Day.

On returning to the hotel we had our delayed 'welcome drink' with good Prosecco, and then after the meal we were Transited up to the local pub. Good Company. Tomorrow return to UK.

This Blog on Como continues after a few photos

Some photos are given below, but the link given next takes you to the FULL album:
COMO CHRISTMAS an album on FLICKR

COMO CONSIDERATIONS, THE FINAL DAY

In my last Blog I cut short details of our final evening and I feel the need to expand on those hours before closing this account of Christmas on Lake Como.

The Grand Hotel Britannia Excelsior had free WiFi, but this was limited to one rather small salon outside the lift shafts. Here people shouted into their Ipads to exchange Christmas Greetings. “Hello dear, Granny and Granpa here in Como, did you have a good Christmas?” At the other end a reluctant child utters the well rehearsed, “Yes, thank you Granny, and are you enjoying Italy?” The child is quickly gone, returned to her bedroom to watch some X-rated film that her parents neither know nor care about. Granny is left to shout into her screen at the girl's parents, “Did Brook like the little Donkey we sent her? We thought it would be good to keep her jewellery on.” Little did they realise that little Brook is now 15, and has so many bangles, earrings and other bits that they just get piled up in a mess anywhere in her bedroom. Furthermore, brother Jayden enjoyed feeding the stuffed donkey to 'Teddy' the Staffordshire Bull Terrier cross, who chewed on all the polyester stuffing before barfing it up on the fluffy rug in the conservatory.

I couldn't compete with all that distraction and so sat quietly sending written communications on my phone or laptop. That is until a family opposite me interrupted my tranquil typing with their son uttering the immortal greeting, “You look like someone from Mrs Brown's Boys.” I looked up to see a blonde-haired lad some 40 or 50 years younger than anyone else in the hotel; he was smiling at me and obviously looking for some reaction. “Which one?” I asked, “The one who dresses up as a Chicken or a Banana, or maybe the Priest?” Unhesitating J replied, “The Gay One!” Hmmmm. I didn't know whether to make some reply expressing shock, or simply ask for his phone number.

Anyway, with the ice well and truly broken, or more accurately vapourised, there began a series of contacts with this family from Windsor, the mother and the son working at a well known school of that parish. Very entertaining. They too were ipadding, but weren't shouting into their devices, and we met a few times within this electronic sanctuary over several days.

J is employed as a sports coach, with practice in almost every sport you could think of, so I knew on Boxing Day evening that he would be quite jealous of our skiing experience after his lot had endured a wet day in Milano. I quickly showed him all the pictures, assured him that I had been given the phone numbers of the good looking skiers, and illustrated clearly the ideal wintry conditions we had enjoyed at almost 2000 metres. His family were shocked that they had suffered a soggy city sortie when they could have had a brilliant Boxing Day at Bormio.

When I joined my party for the Boxing Day evening meal, a rather dapper guy walked past my table and he was one of the Shearing guides. I felt a duty to inform him about our brilliant day in Bormio, and was only doing this in a matter-of-fact informative way. Unbeknown to me, from the far end of the table our guide Marius was watching, and when I finished he applauded my efforts and my colleagues said I should be awarded the order of the Wooden Spoon for stirring.

Things escalated the next day when J's family accosted one of the Shearings' drivers about the winter wonderland they could have enjoyed like us. He was quite defensive, Health and Safety this, regulation that. I merely countered by saying that our guide Marius had been thinking on his feet all day, conjuring up several different things and keeping us more than amused; our unscheduled skiing was almost better than the St. Moritz might have been. He called me a 'shit stirrer', but J's family were not taken in by his 'company line'. I told Marius later that one of the Shearings' guides wanted an application form to join Just You; though I doubted that he would have quite the required creativity and imagination.

Friday morning was a brilliant sunny day, and at last we could enjoy some views across the lake, and even promenade along its shores to Menaggio a little place just north of us. Before long we were on-board our coach bound for Milano Linate, and thence to London Heathrow. Hazel asked me to join her in the Executive Lounge as her guest, and I enjoyed the tranquillity and the free food of this refuge from the hub bub of the airport seating; thank you. At Heathrow there was no such escape from the proletarian parlours, but I did enjoy a colossal Vegetarian breakfast at Huxleys which at £8.25 took me away from the masses for nearly an hour. In spite of dire weather warnings, the flight to Manchester took off and landed on time, and my drive across the Pennines was uneventful.

Best Wishes for 2014.

Some photos are given below, but the link given next takes you to the FULL album:
COMO CHRISTMAS an album on FLICKR

If you want to read about Christmas 2010, click on this link: the Coach Trip from Hell 2010

ANNECY: BEGIN THE COACH TRIP FROM HELL

Bonjour mes Amis.

Already I am planning NOT to take another coach holiday, and definitely NOT to take a Ferry crossing.

I only had a short walk with my luggage to meet the bus in Bradford at 01:45 outside the Hilton. A 30-seater mini coach collected about a dozen of us, the last pickup being Barnsley and we all haD room to spread out. But then we stopped at Doncaster and were asked to transfer to a larger coach that was already full of folk from Newcastle. Result - no room to spread out, and only having an aisle seat I knew there was no chance I could get any sleep as I didn't have a window to rest my head against.

We set off and were scheduled to take a 45minute break at Grantham Services, but this was changed because the driver's tacho hours were awry so instead we stopped at Blyth Services. There was b*gg*r all open at Blyth at 3am, so I just bought a packet of crisps, and our halt was limited to 30minutes. We headed south seemingly not using any motorway until we hit the M25, Dartford Crossing, with a quick 'comfort stop' at the A20 Services for a driver change. Pity, coz our driver was the double of 'Brendon' from the TV programme 'Coach Trip'.

So to Dover, where we sat for 6hours. First of all we had to wait for more than a dozen coaches from all over Britain to gather so that all the luggage and people could be swapped around. I was on Coach 1 which had started at Newcastle and would end up at Lake Garda, and now I had to transfer to Coach 35 which had started at Blackpool and would end up at Annecy. A couple of the coaches were late arriving which meant that the whole 'interchange' could not take place until they did. Maybe get some breakfast; no, no, not a Dover, there was just a WH Smith and a Burger King. I joined an enormously long queue for BK and after more than ten minutes waiting for the single spotty 16year old Burger King to serve people I realised that BK don't actually do anything for vegetarians, so I saved myself 30minutes and joined the queue at WH Smith to buy yet another packet of crisps.

Look, there are 3 million people out of work in Britain, why aren't more students dragged off their Playstations and forced to serve fast food or take the cash for copies of the Daily Mail etc? This is a business model that is WRONG; there should be maximum staff when there is maximum demand.

Anyway, even when we had 'interchanged' we still couldn't go anyway because our boat was now the victim of something that had happened several hours earlier. "Yesterday 287 coaches, 6,000 lorries and 36,000 people embarked at Dover" said the sign. Well at looked as though there would be as many people right now on just our boat.

Eventually we are loaded, more than 2hours late. Having been warned that there would be a severe queue for any hot food on the boat, I hotfooted it from the Coach Deck to what turned out to be the Langham Restuarant. There was no queue and I saw something I liked, so fearing there wouldn't be another chance for hot food I sat down and took nine quids worth of Cheese and tomato Ravioli. Actually I'd finished my meal very soon after we had sailed through the gates of Dover. I was given a double table to myself, and I offered then the chance to use the spare place but they told me that "it wasn't allowed". So whilst people queued outside the door several singletons occupied double tables, and even some pairs occupied foursomes. Crazy.

As we hit France the winter night began, and I realised that I had spent the daylight hours either waiting at Dover or sailing to Calais. Phillip drove us to a Campanile Hotel just east of Rheims, pausing en route for us to discover how continental service stations outclass those of Britain. The Campanile Hotel is quite comfortable, and even at 21:30hours managed to give us an optional hot meal; Salmon with wild rice and two puddings; 14 Euros but well needed after 24hours on Crisps!.

There are some right Old F*rts on this bus, and I shall need to quickly discover the more entertaining folk or it's going to be a dull holiday. The 2 men behind me on the bus talked incessantly about previous trips; one guy seems to do about 4 Battlefield tours every year, WHY? Another guy seemed to have a weird interest in mass murders and the macabre, and I suspect he might be the next "Crossbow Cannibal". There are several women who are incapable of even getting up the steps onto the coach, and one has already lost her "medications". Already I wish a week with Juris without any hot food, ha ha.

This Blog continues after the Photo

ANNECY: BEAU BEAUNE

I suppose today, Thursday 23rd is the FIRST day of our holiday, though it feels much longer.

Slept well at the Campanile and enjoyed a good breakfast. A 9 O'clock departure was not unreasonable, especially given the kilometrage to Annecy, but it still proved impossible for some of the old crones, and Paul the driver was distinctly irritated (worse was to follow). One old lady who seems to have misheard everything said to her so far and then engaged in conversations about matters that were nothing to do with the launching remark simply because she got a word wrong. Anyway, conveniently she had not heard the driver's explicit instructions about bringing your own suitcase to the bus in the morning for 08:45hours. Of course, somebody went and fetched it for her - I've met this type many times before.

So we set off late in awful gloom with deeply grey skies depositing deluges of water upon us as we departed Autoroute de l'est and picked up Autoroute de l'Anglaise heading south to skirt Troyes. We paused at a small 'Aire' (Motorway Service Station or MSA) where a lovely young man with perfect French gave me a delicous Chocolat Chaud, merci. I managed to photograph a Goddess here, by which I mean the car not the young man.

Then to Beaune for lunch and sight seeing. Very much a forgotten little town, it has a very old Hospice with ornately tiled roof, but was closed for lunch. Many of the party headed into bars and restaurants whilst I mananged to take a few shots in the pretty streets instead. 90minutes is scarcely enough to have lunch in France, let alone sight see, as discovered three of our ladies who did not appear 40 minutes after the scheduled departure time. I volunteered to go and find them, as did a couple of colleagues, and they were eventually retrieved after they had phoned Travelsphere in the UK who phoned the courier to tell her which restaurant they were in. We left Beaune one hour late.

The rain stopped for our foray into lovely Beaune and the sun almost shone; ah things are looking up. Now we're heading hard for Les Alpes in a blueing dusk that is DRY!

As a postscript, we arrived at Annecy in reasonable time and enjoyed a lovely meal of 3 cheese tart, Salmon in Filo pastry, and Tarte au Myrtille - suited me fine. Then I went a walk into the old town and snapped a couple of Christmassy shots - Enjoy!

This Blog continues after the Photos

ANNECY: THE BORING, THE DIVORCED, AND THE WELSH

Christmas Eve was a quick trip down to le Vieux Ville de Annecy in the coach, which took longer than walking but I suppose the old crones needed the ride. There we met a local guide - when she bothered to turn up - and walked in the falling snow around the Old Town and into the Château d'Annecy.

Sometimes called the Castle, the Chateau dates back to the 12th century, although most of what you see dates only to the 1950s restoration. The Chateau suffered years of desecration and finally a fire in the 1940s when refugees from the Second World War who were living in it let their cooking fires out of control in the Grand Salon. Disappointing, but it looks nice.

Then back down to the town with its pretty narrow streets and ancient arcades. Finally to the Palais de l'Isle which is the Flat Iron shaped building you will see on EVERY picture of Annecy. It was built as a Prison and a Courthouse, and served the Nazis well in World War Two, and served the Nazis somewhat less well once Annecy was liberated and the Resistance were able to settle a few scores. The pointed building its actually the Prison Chapel.

Then free time, and I latched onto Meredith (of more later) and we headed straight into a tiny restaurant in an arcade for un repas A Savoyyard. Meredith recommended Tartiflett, a true dish of the Savoy region, and this was duly ordered including a vegetarian version (sans Lardons). Basically sliced potatoes baked in a cheese sauce, and of course in this part of the Savoy it was Reblochon cheese. Very tasty, but it was only later I realised that I had paid fifteen pounds for it; don't tell Juris he'll never forgive me spending that on a small lunch. But the company was good and I will describe Mildred and Samuel later.

After lunch, brief time to buy gifts for 'Secret Santa', and then back to the coach. We then made a rather pointless circuit of Lac d'Annecy, about 40 Km, but the falling snow ensured no views across the water, and the driver didn't pause anywhere to give us photo opportunities. Back to the hotel for a rather long afternoon in the hotel.

Biddi has asked me about the hotel, and I will say I don't have any complaints, but there aren't any cute waiters. "Best Western", as we have discovered on previous trips, operate hotels after they have become some other chain's WORST western hotels; they are a little out of date and a little tired looking, but the room is warm and my toilet at least works.

Christmas Eve dinner was the main meal, and I found it rather disappointing, certainly so after several gorgeous and engorging Italian Christmas dinners, Pate Foie Gras (Salmon Pate for me), Venison (local fish for me), local cheeses then Christmas Log and Coffee. There was no razamatazz or performance at all. This hotel probably deals mainly with business men from companies that pay small expense accounts.

After a pause I walked a few colleagues back through the snow to the old town for midnight Mass. Roberta is a Firemen, but is otherwise fairly feminine if you don't look too closely. We reached the Cathedrale in good time and so I lit a candle to my father at the shrine to St Francois de Sale. Earlier in the day I had lit a similar candle in St Mary's which I illustrated in the Xmas light sequence. The midnight service was fairly jolly in a half filled church, and I enjoyed the small choir even though they were mostly teenage girls. However when they sang 'Silent Night' (in French), I knew Christmas had come. Magical. I left the service soon after and walked slowly through several streets of the old town to soak up CHRISTMAS in capital letters. Ahh, I so love Christmas. It was a further hour before the religious ones were released from the service and I was in bed by then.

However, before I went to my seventh floor room, I joined the bar folk in time to see Samuel make an exit. Samuel is the traveller who I told about his interest in the macabre; but he also has a great knowledge - not necessarily accurate - about a great number of quasi scientific or technological subjects. In other words he is a bore. When he had joined us for lunch there was some disquiet about his presence, and whilst I was at church he had attempted to hold court with many of the travellers. They had tried to sideline him or shut him up, but even being directly rude to him didn't knock him off track. However he had now left for bed, and reappeared at breakfast rather less chatty.

Mildred is a large Welsh lady who had amused one of the Christmas Market stallholders by responding to his French Christmas greeting with the same in Welsh. The stall-holder then asked her to recite the name of the longest Welsh town name, and she barked out "Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch" without any hesitation - and I never thought I would find myself writing that in a email (thanks Google). I spent Christmas Day with Mildred because she was quite amusing, and she wanted to tell me about having half her face removed due to skin cancer, and how she sometimes dribbles because she doesn't have the right muscles anymore. She has a large fur coat which leaves me convinced that either there is a naked Womble somewhere in Wimbledon, or else a dead skinned one!

Meredith is a farmer aged about 70 who has told several people in my hearing about his 'messy divorce' five years ago which cost him one point five million pounds. Apparently he had a farm in France for about 15 years milking 2000 cows, 3000 sheep and 4000 goats every day - probably by Meredith himself I have no doubt. Anyway the wife did a line with the accountant and siphoned off the funds and had to be divorced. There is another side to this story, but I don't think we'll ever hear it. A clue is given by a relationship with a woman he 'helped' on returning to the UK and then proposed to; she suddenly disappeared and when he tracked her down she had fled the country and married someone else. Meredith had returned to UK with 50 quid in his pocket, he's now salted away 250,000 and crows about the fact that he is the first Englishman to have ever got his French cheese accepted by the French!

Christmas Day was cancelled, or at least the planned excursion to La Clusaz was because the French Police were not going to allow coaches up there in the snowy conditions. We headed instead to Evian (where they make the bottled water), pausing at delightful Yvoire en route. When we got to Evian you couldn't stand up because of ice (not snow) everywhere. So we parked on the shore of Lac Leman whilst Catherine ran a relay into the only cafe found to be open and brought back dozens of Croque Monsieur for 5 Euros each.

Evian done, we drove back to Annecy stopping for 15 minutes in Thones ! Pointless. But nothing was open, however the Col d'Aravis was quite spectacular, and the ice covered trees on the flanks of the steep rocky chasms a fairy vista. All too quickly the coach was returning to Annecy. I walked back to the Old Town determined not to waste daylight hours sitting in a hotel room.

Boxing Day dinner was an attempt at a 'traditional English Turkey dinner', which my vegetarianism spared me. The chef did produce three "Christmas Cakes" thickly coated in PINK (!!!) icing. Inside was a pale 'sponge' with many brightly coloured candied fruits; quite strange but tasty.

This Blog continues after the photos