(Click on any image to go to the relevant gallery.)

Cheddar.

Leaving the barn we drove up though Somerset. For a break we stopped off at Glastonbury, where we had  a cuppa, and a laugh at the hippies, both of which were very enjoyable. Funny isn’t it? (probably not,) as a callow youth I would have given one of my bollocks to live in Glasto (or Totnes,) and to indulge my then passion for the gothic, the alternative, the spiritual, the “new age.”  Oh, and the drugs.

Luckily I didn’t, otherwise I wouldn’t be the cynical, hardnosed, nasty bastard you all loathe now. Mind you the other reason its good I didn’t is that if I had, I’d probably now be a sad old hippy, or, even more probably, dead from a  smack OD. Some of you may be wishing I had.

We spent three days in Cheddar, just chilled out, suited us, but it’s a funny old place.

We hired a studio flat and basically just did lots of sod all, a change for us on holiday. We did, when the weather was clement, stroll up the gorge to have a butchers, and a very stunning place it is. I showed Lee-Anne, “Coronation Street,” a 400 foot high climb which had been soloed by a climbing/writing hero of mine, Jim Perrin, when he was off his tits on speed and coke. No mean feat.

There were many interesting opportunities on offer there, caving, climbing, cheese making, brewing, all “hands on stuff”. But we were in chilling mode, and missed wasted ignored didn’t bother with them.

We took lunch in a chippy one afternoon. Outside it was windy and drizzling, sometimes heavy showers came down. We had a window seat, and enjoyed the view. The view mainly consisted of very damp people, in inappropriate gear, walking up to the gorge and then walking back again. Others didn’t even bother with the gorge, they just shuffled up and down the street,  stared in the windows of the many souvenir/gift/tat shops that are the mainstay of the place, and complained about the shoddiness of it all. Some bought cheese, fudge or items from the vast range of “Wallace and Gromit” themed crap available. Most had a look on their faces which shouted; “Why the hell are we doing this? Why are we spending Sunday walking in the rain, when we  could be home watching the tele?”  Most then stopped off for a quick cuppa, the more daring opting for a pint,  before heading home. It all seemed so quintessentially English. I loved it.

Our last night in cheddar was the night the big storm hit. We’d been following the forecast, and we really looking forward to a spectacular show of ferocious weather. Of course, as our digs were at the foot of the gorge, it all passed way over us, we didn’t get a sniff, slept like logs.

The Monday we left,  the morning after the “big storm”. We hit several diversions, and there were loads of trees down. We’d set off way early, and were able to stop off for breakfast, at a wonderful greasy spoon on the Parade in Bristol.

 Ireland

Lovely to fly over Wales in the Dash 7 we had booked tickets in, the views were stunning. At Irish customs, those with UK passports were waved through with nothing more than a nod and a “good morning,” Lee-Anne didn’t have a UK passport. We got into Cork, were met by Clarkie and Catherine, picked up  our hire car. We then had the great delight of following Clarkie for an hour to their home. This included a drive through Cork city. I’m sure he wasn’t actually trying to shake us off. Clarkie’s driving is a thing of wonder to behold.  At their place Clarkie had cooked us up a curry, and very good it was too.

The next day we had a perfect Clarkie event. We drove into Castleisland. Clarkie needed to be registered as someone who isn’t  a menace to kids. (This did not take his driving into account.) This required, as all these things do, him sending vast amounts of cash to the registering people. So he went to the bank, they told him they couldn’t do it, for reasons uncertain, and  he’d be better off sending a postal order. So he went to the post office, they said they’d love to give him a postal order, but they don’t accept his type of credit card, (Bank of Toytown.) So he went back to the bank to get cash, but the machine there wouldn’t take his credit card either. So he went into the bank, got cash, then went back to the Post Office. Life is never simple for Mr. Clarke.

Over the next couple of days we  did a tour of Dingle, drove on a beach, had lunch in a fantastic cafe there.

We drove into the mountains, we saw Mt Brandon, so we sent Bethy a photo of it, captioned; “This is not an instruction.” As well as mountains our tours took in  waterfalls, castles, floods, Mc Mansions, (Ireland is THE country for McMansions, they have a real, if slightly bonkers, passion for them there,)  and many other wonderful places. Once, while stopped at the side of the road I saw a view, shot off a snap, and told Clarkie and Lee-Anne; “This will be the best image of the whole trip.” It was/is.

One day we stopped off at a hotel, where there was a grand piano, fatal with Clarkie about. To be fair he is a great pianist, if only he could get the idea of starting a tune, and seeing it through to the end without diverting via several others.

The evenings we spent with Clarkie and Catherine just chewing the fat, catching up, and philosophising. Wonderful to be so relaxed with people we do not see for years at a time. Oh and boozing.

We also took a trip into Cork, what a lovely little city. The “English Market’ there was world class, with produce to die for.  Unfortunately, when we stopped for a cuppa and some first class meal at the cafe in the market, I did a boo boo. I saw Lee-Anne walking towards me with a full tray of lovely grub, that and the balcony we were sat on made for an excellent photo. What i didn’t knew, due to being a deaf bugger, was that Lee-Anne’s handbag had slipped off her shoulder, and she was in immanent danger of distributing our meal over the folks below. I was wondering why all I could hear  was; “fuck off. Fuck off! Fuck off!!” From her.

The last night there was a cracker.  Pete and Catherine had arranged for us to meet the “Irish Young Writer of the Year.” This was done as a treat to me for being such a fine writer myself, but mainly because it’s their daughter Emma.  She had just had a “snakebite piercing” and was very pleased with it. (Catherine looked dubious, I don’t think Clarkie even noticed  it.)  We went to a little restaurant in Killarney. Gabby’s Seafood Restaurant was lovely, but a bit of an oddity. Don’t get me wrong, the food and staff were first class, but the place had a slightly dingy, and faded air to it. It felt like somewhere which had been  famous and thriving about 10 years ago, but has rested on its laurels and faded from view. There were only about three other tables occupied while we ate there. However, the food, seafood, was well presented, well executed, and had enough charm and originality to be a big sell for the place. Maybe a makeover and relaunch is needed. Anyway, the company was fine, and the evening was great.

So then we went to O’Connor’s Bar.

There was a young lad there murdering classic pop tunes on a guitar, luckily there was no  piano for Clarkie to join him on. O’Connors bar has been papered with mainly American, but also other countries bank notes, with inscriptions on them from American/Canadian/Australian/Chinese/Serbian “Irish” who have visited the bar. Unfortunately We didn’t have any Aussie notes on us to add to the collection.

The next day, we drove off in our hire car, which hadn’t moved since we drove it there, back to fly to Blighty again.

 

Cornwall / London