All the pictures which go with this can be found here.

Friday 10 Th July.

We woke at a reasonable time, and tried to clean up after our stay as best we could. Although we realised that, due to Mark’s OCD problem, we’d never get it up to the standard that he normally keeps it. We got our stuff together, I felt sorry for our little car.

We drove into Ivybridge and changed a few more $Au into quids, the exchange rate was still working well in our favour. We drove to Tavistock, across the moors. Ah the moors in the rain, what a glorious sight, Dartmoor believe it or not, is at its finest, and most ethereal, when seen through driving rain.

Parking at Tavi was a nightmare, not helped by the fact it was still pissing down. We had a brief scoot around, and found ourselves in the famous Pannier Market. Not being in the market for any doilies, or walking sticks, or embroidered pictures of Dartmoor ponies, or any of the other cack they seemed to be selling there, we soon exhausted the fun this place. We went out, failed to find a café, went back in again and found an over run food stall called “Bob’s East End Diner”. This did us a good breakfast, even if it was like trying to eat in a moshpit full of old people, walking sticks, and doilies.

Sated, we paid and left. We’d only got a few yards down the road when we came across a “Warren’s pasty shop” advertising, “Cheese and marmite pastys!” Despite my being full of mushrooms on toast, I ran in and bought two, I’d been looking forward to trying these since seeing them advertised on the net. (I had thought it was Rowe’s who were making them and looking in the wrong shops.)I was too full to eat them, so I took them with me, promising myself that I’d not touch  them for at least a couple of hours, what with me not being a greedy bastard and all that.

I made it for a whole ten minutes our of Tavistock before stuffing a pasty down my neck. They were glorious, ambrosia, the food of the gods, I had never tasted a better pasty. Lee-Anne had a bite; “That’s fucking foul, it nearly made me puke!” Each to their own tastes eh dear?

The road from Tavistock to Oakhampton was another nostalgia trip and a half. We agreed, Lee-Anne didn’t take much persuasion, that when we return to live in the UK in a few years time, we’d try to buy or rent a place in the Tavi area for the duration of our stay.

Thanks to Sean we arrived in Barnstaple having gorged ourselves on the beauty of the moors and mid-Devon, god what a wonderful place it is. I don’t think we turned a bend without some lovely, rain soaked, vista coming into view, or a perfect house appearing. “Wouldn’t mind that place,” became something of a mantra.

In Barnstaple we parked in some humongous shopping mall, and looked around the town for a while. We soon found ourselves in Barnstaple’s lovely little market, it was market day here as well. Having had enough of markets for one day, and after picking up a bouquet for Jo,  we made our way over to the Harness abode. Again, Sean rising to the rescue. We passed the bloody awful “public art roundabout” and were soon at the house. Except we couldn’t get in, the gate was shut. And it’s an electric one, one of Harnesses home made jobs.  I prodded the switch, and it half opened, then closed, then opened half way, then closed again.

It carried on doing this for a long time.

To my shock and horror a semi-naked, huge muscley, bloke came out of Harness’s house having heard the gate being played with. A burglar?

Bugger me sideway! No it’s my godson, Tom. Boy had he grown since I saw him last. (He’s now of a shape where his dream of joining the Royal Marines is well on course.) He helped me press and prod the gate button, and it carried on swinging too and fro and never quite opening (work of art that Harness!). Eventually it gave up the ghost and swung wide open.

We chewed the fat with Tom for an hour and he was great company, (and kept the mugs of tea coming.) Eventually the rest of the Harness clan arrived, Alan, Jo and Jack, and we did the catching up thing.

Tom was having his school graduation that night. He got himself a SSS*, and into his best whistle**, he looked dead cool. Playing the good godfather I slipped him a few quid for beer money. We all jumped into the Harness carrier, and Alan drove us to the place where Tom was meeting his friends before going onto the party. His mate was there, equally be-suited, and they waited, and we took the piss. A stretch limo arrived to collect them, and we were suitably impressed. I was even more impressed when five pretty young ladies exited the Limo for us to take group photos of them. Two blokes and five bits of totty? That’s a bit greedy Tom!

We followed them to the party venue, getting there just before them to take more pictures, and to watch their big entrance.

Back at the house while  Jo cooked us up a spanking good meal, Jack serenaded us on classical guitar, bloody talented geezer! Alan had a bit of shocking news for me; “I’ve wangled it with my boss so you can spend a day on the ambulance as third man with me tomorrow. It’s a twelve hour shift, so don’t get too pissed tonight!”

 

Sheesh, I almost stopped drinking my whisky.

*Shit Shave and Shampoo.

**Whistle and flute = suit.

Saturday 12 th July.

Ok so I’m up early for my shift on an ambulance, and shitting it. I mean to say, I’m a mental health worker, give me a loony and I can tell you what’s wrong with them, which drugs they need, and how best to ignore them. But what if we got called out to a car crash and there’s blood and guts all over the place? I may faint, or throw up, or wet myself, it could get embarrassing.

Harness, of course, put my mind at ease by relating tales of car crashes he’d attended where heads had been found three fields away, limbs all over the road, guts and gore over three counties, and bodies so flat after a truck had gone over them they could have been slipped under a door.

We got to the ambulance station and I got to dress up like a real ambulance man, dead sexy! Just hope no one asks me anything. Our job was to run the two man ambulance vehicle, a station wagon equipped with all the emergency bits for rapid response. We’d just gone out on patrol when the first shout came in. Hitting the sirens Alan then showed me how fast he could drive down the centre of two lanes of traffic in safety. I quietly shat it. Don’t you ever complain about my driving again Harness! (I don’t care if you’ve done courses, I’m a fucking lunatic and even I don’t drive at those speeds on crowded roads.)

We got to the house, Alan took charge. As it turns out this was a funny job.  A little woman, obviously with some form of learning difficulty, living in a house chock a block full of toys and dolls (Diogenes syndrome?) , had diagnosed herself as having diabetes. On testing herself with blood glucose strips, (these were over a year out of date,) she had decided that she was on the verge of a hypoglycaemic coma and rang 999. Alan did all the tests, nothing wrong with her, and offered advice and comfort. Definitely saw a new side of Harness this trip, a very good side too.

The next call was to a young man who had gone spark out at his parents home. He was incredibly fit, and had not long done a triathlon, but was out like a light and foaming at the mouth. Another crew were there by the time we arrived, and Alan gave assistance. The boy was in a bad way, Alan shoved home a nasal cannula, which looked painful, and ran the tests. Sub arachnoid bleeding, was Alan’s diagnosis.  The other crew, having a patient transport ambulance, shot him away to hospital.

The rest of the day was spent zooming about Devon (my kind of job!), and looking after the injured, infirm, mental, hypochondriac, and stupid. We got to see Chas as well, briefly. I’ll leave it to you to fit him into one of those categories as best you know him.

During quiet times me and Alan caught up on each others respective lives, relived old adventures, and told old tales. I got to tell the specs story again, and Alan reminded me of my car purchasing adventures. We both agreed that we were damn lucky with our wives and kids, and how blessed by them we both are, but don’t tell them that, ok?

The last job of the day was to an old girl of 90 in a nursing home, who was feeling unwell. Alan did the tests and decided, due to her age and poor physical condition, (plus a dicky ticker,) she’d be better off in hospital. He called up transport and did the bit. All this time she was laughing and joking with him, flirting even. When the other crew arrived the atmosphere changed drastically. The first thing the new boy said to her was; “Sit…”, and shoved a wheel chair under her. Her terse reply was; “I am NOT a dog!” She didn’t speak a word after this. The twat then tried to contradict anything and everything that Alan had diagnosed and decided. Alan, respectful of where he was, said nothing, just wrote comprehensive report on the crew sheet of what he wanted done, and left them get on with it. (For those of you who don’t know him; this demonstrates a remarkable restraint by Harness, even I don’t cross him unnecessarily, and I’m nails.)

We got back to the ambulance station.  Alan had only just mentioned that the other crew had attended the old bird, when one of the two female ambulance people stuck her fist against her forehead, and did the “dickhead” gesture, saying; “Why is that man such an arsehole?” Which, not that it was needed, rather vindicated Alan views entirely.

We went out in the evening to a pub, which the last time I’d been there had been called “The Quay”, because it was on the Quay, but was now called “The Bar”, because it was a bar. Stupid but true. They served a mean pint of Doom bar bitter, so I indulged, frequently. They also did great grub, and so we ate well, and caught up on our respective days.(I still haven’t forgiven Harness for sneakily paying half the bill.)

Sunday 13 th July.

After brekky with Jo and the boys, (Alan was off being brave and heroic again at work,) and after prolonging it as long as we could, we said some more sad goodbyes, and moved on.

We drove to Glastonbury, just so Lee-Anne and Bethy could get a glimpse of the hippy capital of the UK. (Rivalled by Totness for that dubious crown, but they’ve been there before.) We got to the Tor, and I did some of my famous “creative parking” to the amusement of those passing. Lee-Anne, for a change, was most impressed by this, especially as it saved us a huge parking charge and a long walk. We took a stroll up the Tor, the views rival any in England, the whole of Somerset was laid at our feet like a huge patchwork quilt. Christ, I’m starting to sound like a hippy myself. We took some photos at the top, and did a few laps of the tower there, and played “spot the festival grounds”. We didn’t manage this, but if you look carefully at one of my images from there you can see the festival wind turbine electricity generator.

At the top there was a witch, a genuine 100% witchy witch, with her staff. She looked like she was about to take off and fly, so we waited. But she never did.

We went into Glastonbury itself. There a bunch of god botherers were having a parade, hundreds of the buggers, singing and happy clapping. Given a choice between them and the witch, I know which religion I’d choose. Amongst all the shops selling; “Knit your own feng shui, organic wholemeal garlic, Inuit dream-catchers and help save the gay, disabled, single parent, whale” crap, we managed to find a café, “The Blue note”. Despite this being a vegetarian café in Glastonbury, and therefore stuffed to the gills with hippies, we still managed to get a decent meal out of them.

Onwards we sallied, passing through the most prettiest of  villages, including the most delightful of them all at Winsford, which was so chocolate box it gave me toothache. (But as it’s not in Devon, it doesn’t count as proper beautiful.) We were trying to get to Cheddar Gorge, but despite mine and Sean’s best efforts we never made it.

Eventually, after getting lost in a village of some thirty houses at Kite Hill, we found the rather spectacular abode of Noreen and Terry, our hosts for the night.  After settling in and having a tour (the pool was gobsmacking!) they settled us down and fed us. Out of sheer kindness they had pulled out all the stops, not being vegetarian orientated themselves, and done a vege meal which was superb. The only reason that any remained at the end was that they cooked so much. We were touched. My “cousins” Kieran and Alex were also there. Kieran showed me his bike, a full spec classic Triumph Bonneville (1978?), which he is lovingly restoring. The sounds of the exhaust system was the sound of my generations favourite bike at its best, sheer music. (I wasn’t jealous, not at all.) He also showed me Terry’s bike, an 1100 cc Suzuki, I want jealous of that either. Not one bit. At all.

We settled in for a night of beers, chat  and TV, they having a TV the size of a football pitch made this rather enjoyable. What was even more enjoyable was watching the famous “time wasting” episode at the climax of the first Ashes test on it, which resulted in a draw. To see the Aussie captain, Ricky Ponting, looking so pissed off at such a huge resolution, was very cheering. (Not for Lee-Anne of course.) The beers came with alarming frequency, good Welsh ales of course. Terry and the boys still support, and travel hundreds of miles to watch our local side, the Scarlets, play. Well when you’re used to the best, why settle for English rugby?

Terry, who is now something of an amateur historian, gave us a guide to the abundant history of the local area. God, England has such a wealth of stories just under the skin, stories you would never know unless educated to them.

The night was a great success, we chatted late into the evening about whatever came to mind. I learned a lot about my home town, the area, the industrial heritage, my family and their past too.

I must now say that following that evening Bethy now does a fantastic and fabulous impression of Terry’s catch phrases; “fantastic” and “fabulous!” (“FAN—Tastic!!”  “FABU-lous!!”)

Monday 13 th July.

After a pleasant breakfast with Terry and Noreen, and seeing Kieran off to work, we waited around for my other cousin, Christian, to appear. Despite us living 12,000 miles away from his parents house, and him living ..errrmmm… two, he was still having a bit of a struggle making it. Eventually he appeared with his fiancé, and we got to spend a bit of time, though not much, catching up with them.

Then I realised if we didn’t get a shift on we’d be returning the car late to Heathrow, and the penalties for a late return were very nasty. So unfortunately we had to do a runner.

We got the car back to the hire place with four minutes to spare, thanks to Sean’s expert directions.

We took a tube into London from Heathrow, and grabbed a; “West Cornwall Pasty co.” pasty off their shop in Paddington station. Pasty’s are the food of the gods mate!!

We hailed a London black cab, seeing as we didn’t fancy dragging our huge suitcases across London on the tube, and he took us to our hotel. The hotel “The London Guards Hotel” at Kensington, turned out to be a real winner. Check it out if you ever want a good and cheap place to stay in central London. It was clean and quiet, all that we wanted.

After freshening up we took a stroll through Hyde park to the Albert memorial, and went into Kensington itself to do some shopping. We, rather Bethy, found a chocolate shop with a café attached, where, while I had a cup of tea, she had , and I kid you not; “chocolate and chilli soup.”

We rounded the day off by filling an omission in our trip, something that everybody when in the UK should do at least once, going for a great Ruby Murray. We hadn’t had an Indian, not even when we were pissed as farts in Llanelli, and that used to be compulsory. The main drag in Kensington had three to choose from. We chose the one without people outside hassling you to go in, on the basis that if it didn’t need spruikers on the street it was probably because it was too good to need them. And so it proved. I had a vegetarian selection of curries, and asked for them to be served hot. They, as you probably are all ready thinking, blew my head off. Though in a very satisfying way. Ticked the curry box good and proper that did.

Tuesday 14 th July.

There was no room in the breakfast area of our hotel  for us to sit, so we went into Kensington and got breakfast there. On the way back we were walking along Bayswater Road, a four lane ultra busy London highway, when…

At this point I should tell you something about Lee-Anne, she doesn’t like traffic. Even with me holding her hand she’s reluctant to cross busy roads and will always seek out a pelican crossing or zebra crossing, even taking long detours to find one.

…up ahead a mother duck and four ducklings were trying to cross four lanes of London traffic. The mother made it, how I don’t know, as did two of the ducklings, the other two were stranded in the middle of the moving traffic. “They’ll be killed!”, cried Bethy. Next thing you know, Lee-Anne and a young cyclist who had stopped, ran out into the road, closely followed by Bethy. They then tried to round up the ducklings whilst traffic slowly edged around them. I, waking up, ran out to join them.

One cocky shitbag on a motorbike was trying to push past Lee-Anne, by revving his engine and beeping his horn, when I got there. I rapped on his helmet and flicked off his kill-switch. I said, in my not very quiet voice; “You move that thing another inch and I’ll fuck you into the middle of next week you wanker.” The cyclist had grabbed one of the ducklings, Lee-Anne got under a transit van and scared out the other, then threw her handbag in front of it and scooped it up. They took the two terrified ducklings to the fence of Hyde park and released them down to where the mother was calmly waiting. They got a huge cheer and round of applause off the crowd who ad stopped to watch the excitement.

Now all I had to do was get Lee-Anne back to the right side of the road.

We took the tube to the Tower of London and got some souvenirs. In the way back , and down in the tower moat area, Sky TV were setting up some sort of sports display. “Look who’s down there,” said lee-Anne “it’s Glenn McGrath”. So it was! I yelled; “Oy Glenn, give us a smile!” and he kindly waved and smiled at us. My day was made. We forgot to give him a rousing chorus of, “Ooh Aaah! Glenn McGrath!” though, which was a pity.

We went into Oxford Street and bought a shedload of Brit Com DVD’s, what with Aussie TV, nor any other bugger for that matter, being able to produce comedy of the quality the Brits can.

That night we went to the movies, and then onto a pub for something to eat. I was going to push for another curry, but the thought of “ring of fire” on the plane ruled that out.

Wednesday 15 th.

We repacked the bags, and by buggery got, by careful juggling and redistribution, all our stuff to come in at under the 23 kilos per person, including carry on luggage, allowance. The hotel agreed to hold our cases until it was time to depart, so we went back into London. There we did Trafalgar Square, including Anthony Gormly’s “Fourth Plinth”. (It had some bored looking bugger sat on it, wearing a “Save The Earthworm” T-shirt or something.)

We did the Natural History Museum and had lunch in Harrods at their basement pub. Which was really very realistic, with decent beer and food, and surprisingly, all rather good. We bought more DVD’s and more pressies, then, completely London’d out, went back to the hotel and waited.

We’d booked a cheap cab from our hotel to Heathrow, and luckily, the guy turned out to be polite, and, remarkably, not chatty. We had a few beers in the “Pub” at Heathrow, and spent an hour waiting for our flight.

I won’t bore you by expanding on the details of our flight back, here they are in note form;

We were seated apart the whole trip.

We had a hippy with a kid sat behind us.

There was a women who threw up all the way from London to Hong Kong.

The three hour wait in Hong Kong was as close to the having Alzheimer’s as I ever want to experience.

One of the male flight attendants was called Tricia.

Some kid lost a tooth.

A little old lady who sat next to me had a million crosswords, all neatly cut out of magazines, to occupy her on the flight.

You cannot buy duty free booze to bring into Australia, except once you have landed in Australia, which is as stupid as all get out.

Postscript.

Once we got home, after travelling for over 38 hours virtually non-stop, Lee-Anne’s legs became all swollen up, her blood pressure and pulse went through the roof, (pulse hit 210)  and I had to call an ambulance to her. She spent four hours in hospital, on a drip, before being declared stable and allowed home.

Now, did any of you read this far?