Ancestral Link

Peter and I had a boys' day out today. We'd intended to get the bikes out but a vicious south-westerly and squally showers put paid to that idea. I know there are some who get pleasure from cycling in the face of adversity but we're not amongst them, not when there's a perfectly sound Honda CR/V available.

We were stuck for photographic venues. I suggested Gloucester Docks, always good for a bit of rippling water and some photogenic boat bits. Then I remembered it's Easter week. There'd be people about, maybe children, clogging up the images with their untidy presence. I hate people in pictures, nasty undisciplined things, never dressed to suit the shot, wandering about, willy-nilly, with no concept of thirds or foreground interest.

Inevitably we found ourselves in church again, the only public buildings readily available in inclement weather. I hope we don't catch religion.

Staverton Parish Church near Cheltenham has strong ancestral connections for me. Samuel Leach, my great-great-great-great grandfather was the clerk there in the early 1800s and would have been involved in the building of the organ seen on the right of the picture. It was completed in 1825, two years before his death. He had joined the 29th Regiment of Foot in 1788, served in the West Indies, met his wife, Margaret Plomer, in Cornwall while standing by to repel Napoleon (who obviously fancied a tub or two of Cornish Clotted Cream otherwise he'd have been making for Kent or Sussex) and was invalided out as a sergeant in 1800.

He settled in Gloucestershire, became a schoolmaster and raised eight children. No doubt he had seen life and had stories to tell the children of the resident agricultural labourers. For them the trip of a few miles to Cheltenham or Gloucester would have been adventure enough.

Breakfast for Two

There are no points available for guessing which of these two breakfast offerings is mine - it's the paltry looking bowl of cereal, obviously.

The full English is often seen as the epitome of breakfast cuisine - a couple of eggs, bacon, sausage, perhaps mushrooms, black pudding, baked beans and hash browns in more upmarket establishments, finished off with toast and marmalade. These offerings always seem so much more generous than the French or German versions with their emphasis on croissants, hard bread and cold meats.

But you soon realise when you venture out in Western Canada that we Brits are not playing in the same league. Just look at this plateful! Salivation City! If ever there was a reason to get out of bed in the morning, this is it.

Healthy? Shouldn't think so for one minute. Just keep riding the bike and taking the statins.

(Equally impressive breakfasts available in Australia & NZ - I've not tried the USA so I can't comment)

Anonymous Corridor

Anonymity,
Corridor, any hotel,
Would appear the same.

Return to the Fold

I've just finished a couple of months of creatively unrewarding work in London. Back into the swing of home life now, stripping wallpaper, a bit of carpentry, pottering in the garden, clearing out the shed - and breaking the Blog-Clog.

London was a very negative period. I think I switch off completely when no great demands are being made on me; despite spending hours in a dark room, alone, surrounded by the muted, soothing roar of cooling fans, I produced very little in terms of new writing. I re-edited a couple of chapters of my never-to-be-published novel and sorted out a lot of photographs. It was all concerned with past endeavours. Eyes open (most of the time), brain in neutral.

A brass knurled object kissed by a gobbet of back light - irresistable, particularly if your name is Stanley.

Three Blue Pegs

I've eaten too much today - big breakfast of sausages, bacon, mushrooms, beans and thick granary toast. Skipped lunch, made up for that with a toasted teacake, almond croissant and large slice of the birthday cake that the lovely Sparkly had made for me (with token candles so as to avoid a fire-storm in Birlingham). Supper at the Dog (formally the Gay Dog - can't think why they changed the name) - pate, steak, apple pie, simple foods, well cooked.

There was live music, a Country & Western singer. Fortunately he held off performing until we'd finished eating so we were able to beat a retreat before our musical sensibilities were totally eroded. He had a great voice but it was coupled to a dire repertoire. Country & Western might sound grand in the US (although I have my doubts) but it definitely doesn't sit well in the Vale of Evesham; I'd rather listen to fifty seven tone deaf chimpanzees playing the viola, a troupe of dogs attempting the Hallelujah Chorus or French pop music. Anything without some woman called Jolene in it.

Anyway, three blue pegs on a line - none of them have had dogs that died, wive's who've run off with their best friend or their love taken to town.

In the Can

Just the one variety, fifty seven times

Three Anoraks

Just paying my blog a fleeting visit. Normal service will be resumed after Easter.

The term 'anorak' caused some confusion last time I used it. In the UK, if not elsewhere, it's applied to individuals, usually male, who have an apparently obsessive interest in something technical or trivial. The classic anoraks are train spotters, people whose idea of a good time is to spend a whole day standing on the end of a windswept station platform, copying down the numbers of every graffiti strewn object that is dragged past their field of view. I used to be one many years ago and I'd hoped I'd been cured.

Alas, if that's the case, why am I here on the bridge at Lower Moor, diverted from my trip to the post office, waiting patiently with these three stalwart gentlemen? And not only that, but engaging them in conversation, talking about the good old days when the line was the haunt of Class 50s.

Notice how well equipped they are - all anoraks relish equipment, having the right gear. And, before you ask, they're not examining the content of the grit bin. They're checking the latest text message from a forward scout further up the line at Honeybourne - more technology.

Eventually a class 47, the last in Anglia livery so they told me, growls its way past heading for Worcester, its presence immortalised in yet another JPEG.

Happy days, and not a real anorak in sight - train spotter fashion has moved on - now the fleece is 'de rigueur' for the discerning trackside spectator.