tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64950767093668877142024-03-20T07:57:48.579+00:00Out ThereArmed with only a pencil and a sense of humour, a lone illustrator enters
that terrifying place known only as... The Real WorldMichelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.comBlogger246125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6495076709366887714.post-83283155567461507712019-06-13T19:30:00.001+01:002019-06-13T19:30:52.391+01:00West Country Wanderings - Leominster<div style="text-align: left;">
It's my birthday! I gave myself a castle!<br />
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I had a chat with the staff at the hostel, who happily recommended a couple of places I might be interested in seeing. The first was right next door! Leominster (pronounced 'Lemster') Abbey is an old Benedictine priory. I popped in to look around, and was lucky enough to hear the organist practising. They've also got a Ducking Stool, last used in 1809 (apparently not to great effect as the woman being ducked as a scold continued to grouse away afterwards!) It's a neat thing to see though. I also managed to set off the alarm on the donation box!</div>
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The best thing I saw that day was Croft Castle I went to Berrington Hall too, just 15mins down the road. hey had some cool stuff in the house - I got to dress up like Mrs Bennett! I'm not saying I'm a fan of the bonnet, but I did enjoy the sleeves.<br />
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Berrington had some amazing artefacts. There's a cloth of gold dress there, painstakingly reconstructed when it's panels and parts were discovered at auction. It was made to be worn at court by the lady of the house. According to the court fashion of the time, the hips protrude at he sides, tripling the width of the dress!<br />
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Berington had its neatly kept charms, but Croft was by far my favourite. I mean look at it!</div>
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Maybe it was just the circumstances. I turned up in the sunny morning, before the house was open, and went for a walk round the 'ancient tree' route. It takes you down the hill, through the dewy fields, and gives you a long vista to the East that is really stunning on a beautiful day like that one.</div>
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I took my shoes off for a section of it, just to enjoy the feeling. The track takes you down through avenues of huge old trees, mostly chestnuts. They're all fat and gnarled with age, squashed down into their own bodies by the weight of their heads. The grain in them is twisted and wrenched into gorgeous sculptural forms - two had even been struck by lightning, and lay hollowed and charred on the grass. And they're all so wonderfully <i>old</i>.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look how BIG!</td></tr>
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The house itself was owned by the Croft family, who go back to the War of the Roses and beyond. They're in the 1086 AD Domesday Book, and one particular couple, Sir Richard and Dame Eleanor, lived through four English Kings. A guide was giving a talk on their lives there, and it's amazing the amount they successfully lived through, and connections to famous figures and stories they had. Their grave is in the chapel on the grounds.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNczEqw9yKBrnRy8irSU9PaCis5tq2TKSXsziY-ykQ6G350zSBxR-qWZXx1CFfTBCJSvL6nypCqs9_isJ9vnFEXz4X39xo8IyGHCmdp9HX88X6_ANMWHXNfVT2MVq_WKgfUp0D6GcSgkqh/s1600/IMG_4427.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNczEqw9yKBrnRy8irSU9PaCis5tq2TKSXsziY-ykQ6G350zSBxR-qWZXx1CFfTBCJSvL6nypCqs9_isJ9vnFEXz4X39xo8IyGHCmdp9HX88X6_ANMWHXNfVT2MVq_WKgfUp0D6GcSgkqh/s640/IMG_4427.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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The more recent history is quite sad, with a generation losing three of four sons to the First and Second World Wars. There are some very thoughtful memorials to the family displayed in the downstairs rooms.<br />
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At one point the owners were very taken with the wildness of the Alps, and tried to replicate it on their grounds. The result was a downhill wooded path with a series of fishpools to stop for the view. The house is working to restore this, but in the meantime it's still a very peaceful little stroll. Nice to out among the trees before heading home.<br />
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Michelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6495076709366887714.post-14275616590785383432019-06-11T22:45:00.003+01:002019-06-11T22:46:07.873+01:00West Country Wanderings - Bristol<div style="text-align: center;">
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After being out in the Somerset Levels, I had a day in Bristol. I came in on the Park and Ride bus, and got slightly turned around, but once I'd found the tourist info building and picked up a street map, it was full steam ahead.<br />
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Or sails? Full... sails ahead? I don't know, I can't boat.</div>
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I started down the Waterside end of town, near where my sister and her husband live. It used to be a cargo harbour, but now it's been opened up to show off the nautical history of Bristol. There's a museum of local history there - the M Shed - and along the walkways the cargo hoists and old fashioned sailing ships.</div>
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Everything round here is named after John Cabot, who absolutely did not 'discover' America (because of, y'know, all the people already living there). Here's a sculpture of him outside the Arnolfini, looking grump about it. I had lunch sat outside in the sun.<br />
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I like how Bristol does its public spaces. As cities go, they've got a strong emphasis on the environment, with cycle paths and pedestrianised areas all over the place, and the open areas have lots of benches and sculptures. </div>
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I headed up the river to the cathedral. They're always good to visit as in Britain they are generally free, don't mind you hanging about, and act as a historical and social hub for an area. This one had a small exhibit on, of the notebooks and drawings of conscientious objectors during World War 1. Some of them had drawn up short quotes, or manifestos, or their own thoughts. Others had done paintings, often landscapes of the homes they were missing.<br />
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Heading up through the studenty part of town (so many coffee shops!) I poked into all the little galleries and independent shops on the way up to the Bristol Museum. I wasn't going anywhere in particular, but I'm not in this part of the country often and I wanted to get a flavour for different parts of the city (or at least as much of it as I could walk in in afternoon!)<br />
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Then heading back down again I went down the Christmas Steps; a little alley of older buildings, most of them independent shops, and Dickensian street lamps.<br />
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At the very bottom I found a gaming cafe, 'Chance 'N' Counters'. Normally groups would pay to play, but since it was the middle of a weekday and I was on my own, the nice owner let me sit for free (I bought a drink) and even found me a one person game.</div>
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That wound me up in the shopping quarter (arguably the least interesting area, as it's mostly just the same old franchise shops you find anywhere), where I could scoot back through Castle Park and pick up my bus. Luckily it took me right past my sister's house, so I stopped in for a chat, and then that was lucky too, as a massive hornet had come in and landed on the curtain, and I had to catch and evict it using a beer glass!</div>
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Finally I got back on the road and went north, winding through the beautiful Wye valley to Leominster. I actually had a little rouble finding the hostel, which was tucked back behinda church and some counil buildings, with no signpost! I squeaked inight before the cut-off point, and found myself in a lovely old building, with a room enitrely to myself and the soft chimes of the church bells outside.</div>
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Michelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6495076709366887714.post-6461468102809184712019-05-25T23:29:00.002+01:002019-06-09T23:09:43.271+01:00West Country Wanderings - Cheddar and Wells<div style="text-align: center;">
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For my birthday this year, I did a little road trip...</div>
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Glastonbury</h3>
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After stopping in Bristol to attend my sister's baby shower, I carried onto the YHA at Cheddar. I like these hostels partly for their super cheap dorm rooms, but also because it's a more sociable way to travel solo. There's always other people around and it's pretty easy to share stories about how you gt here. I ended up rooming with a German motorcyclist doing her own south-west tour, and then the following night a retired 70 years old o, with her husband, was hostel-hopping by bike. No mean feat given the hill round here!</div>
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Cheddar is right on the edge of the Mendip Hills, overlooking the formerly flooded Somerset Levels. On my first day I popped along to Glastonbury, to take in the sights and climb the Tor. You've got the climb the Tor!</div>
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The Tor itself used to be a kind of island, rising above the marshes and winter flood plains of the Levels the same way Ely Cathedral does in the East. It doesn't take long to walk up to St Michael's Tower on top, but it's a steep climb. You can see the terraces still cut into the hillside where people used to farm.<br />
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On this beautifully warm day, the views were worth it.<br />
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Glastonbury and the Abbey</h3>
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Walking back through the town. </div>
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The Abbey itself is a weird stacking game of multiple different myths and beliefs and historical events, cobbled together by the passage of time. I got the guided tour (always get the tour!) and 'Goodwife Molly' told us all about it.</div>
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Supposedly Joseph of Arimathea (the guy who gave a tomb to bury Jesus in) came here in roughly 63AD, and stayed after his walking stick planted itself and grew into a thorn tree . There really is a Mediterranean thorn tree on a nearby hill, although the species only lives about 80 years so they take a cutting and grow a new one every so often. So that's why there's a church here, which grew into a prominent abbey over the centuries.</div>
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Then in 1191 two graves were discovered, containing a couple with some miraculous characteristics about them, and a metal cross labelling them as... King Arthur and Queen Guinevere of Britain! Yup. Coincidentally, Arthurian legend was a big hit at the time, and the Abbey needed a refreshed cash inflow after a fire, but surely these are no barrier to believing that this was the real Arthur, right. Eventually the graves were moved to under the high altar, in a ceremony attended by King Edward I.</div>
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The abbey's fortunes returned, until it became the second wealthiest abbey in England (after Westminster). Unfortunately that put in right in the sightline of King Henry VIII in the 1500s, when he was sacking the monasteries as part of his departure from the catholic church. The roof of the abbery was stripped for it' valuable lead, and from there it crumbled into some ruined remains that are nonetheless impressive!</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goodwife Molly gives us the mythic lowdown</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption">View of Glastonbury Tor from the Abbey grounds. <br />
In the winter, when the trees are bare, you can see the hill where the original Glastonbury thorn still stands.</td></tr>
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As well as the history and mythology piled onto the place, they'd set up a small but authentically styled kitchen garden, which I was hugely envious of. I'm trying to grow more food at home and I ended up noting down everything they had in there as research for what I might add to my garden next year.</div>
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Glastonbury is a strange little place. There's such a mishmash of ideas going on here. Of course some of it is bigged up for the tourists, but just in one street you can find Christian stuff, Wiccan stuff, Buddhist stuff, assorted New Age stuff, Viking stuff, Herbology stuff, and really charismatic taxidermied animals.</div>
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Wells </h3>
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This little town is known mainly for two things; the massive medieval cathedral with it's beautiful and unusual scissor arch... and for being the filming location for Hot Fuzz. So you walk past something beautiful and historic... and then remember you've seen a car chase there!<br />
Since it was Sunday, I timed my visit to take part in the service. As I was arriving, they were ringing the bells.<br />
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Cheddar Gorge</h3>
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This is a massive chasm in the limestone cliff of the Mendip Hills, and you can walk up it for the fantastic views at the top. What they <i>want</i> you to do it go anticlockwise, buy a ticket, and go up the cement steps of Jacobs Ladder. But if you go clockwise you can do the whole thing in reverse for free, and to be honest I think I liked this direction better. You do the hard climb first, and the amazing views across the Levels are saved til last.</div>
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Facing the gorge, bear left along a marked public footpath, then sharply right through a gate marked 'permissive path' and VERY steeply uphill through a field and into a wood. It's a tough climb, but then that's the hardest part done and you're on top of the gorge.</div>
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On the furthest left you can see southeast back to Glastonbury Tor, and to the right , northwest, you can see the Severn Estuary.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the left, Glastonbury Tor</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Right towards the estuary</td></tr>
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I like the view so much that I went up again the next morning, but only walked the second half. You can drive into the gorge, which takes you uphill and eventually out into fields on the other side. There are a lot of pullover spots for cars, some charged but others not (and what was funny was watching the local youths turn up there in the evening with expensive cars, revving their engines. The police were around, and it's a nice spot for it, but the contrast of aesthetics was amusing). </div>
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Anyway, there's a spot I remembered from the previous days walk, where the track comes downhill into the gorge, halfway through the walk, and crosses the road. it was easy to find, as it was swimming in wild garlic. So I parked up there, and climbed up one more time to sit on the clifftop and watch the world for a little while before I left.</div>
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Michelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6495076709366887714.post-6092979015704236072019-04-06T21:34:00.000+01:002019-05-25T21:35:20.135+01:00Malham Cove<div style="text-align: center;">
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Some friends invited me on a day trip to Yorkshire - somewhere I'd never really been before! We were walking a route to the famous Malham Cove, and I don't think there were many geological features we didn't come across on the way. Plus we had gorgeously hot weather. I wore shorts and a Tshirt the whole day!</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Janet</td></tr>
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Leaving the car park, we walked through Malham village, down through some fields and into a woods that was absolutely SWAMPED with wild garlic. I kid you not, it was blanketing the place. I munched a bit as we headed up the stream to arrive at Janet's Foss, a beautiful secluded waterfall.</div>
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Janet (or Jennet) is a fairy who lives on the other side of the falls, so if you do climb round to the far side, be sure to be polite and not disturb her. I was happy to sit on a rock and dandle my feet in the chilly water, while Willow the spaniel dove straight in.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Willow with her booties!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Claire and Rach</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Phil, Jonny, Rachael and Claire take a load off</td></tr>
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The path heads out of the woods onto the edge of the moors and fields, and across to Gordale Scar, a massive gorge in the rock that funnels into the limestone cliffs. At the end of it climbers were trying to make it up the vertical face, while more casual adventurers could go up over the boulder formation and over to the top. Jonny and Phil decided to have a go... and that was the last we saw of them for over half an hour! But we had lunch to eat, and paddling and sunbathing to do.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gordale Scar</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I loved watching the rooks passing over the gorge. Such an impassable chasm in the earth is nothing to them!</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN98hmTD0J0No43E9-oSjb81fBGailLREl4XJ5A4XcPH6ChGe2SrQJjl1z_enVTBGUX0suScZhby1_IXdgttCbAc7Uq1P1HmfKw632Q2SSZ8ve-Uwjvqd5OZVpz8ATslbItCCUP1HPEKDI/s1600/IMG_4199.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN98hmTD0J0No43E9-oSjb81fBGailLREl4XJ5A4XcPH6ChGe2SrQJjl1z_enVTBGUX0suScZhby1_IXdgttCbAc7Uq1P1HmfKw632Q2SSZ8ve-Uwjvqd5OZVpz8ATslbItCCUP1HPEKDI/s640/IMG_4199.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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Once out of the gorge, we walked up and into the sunshine and up the long open (and very hot!) hill to Malham Cove. This is a bizarre limestone cliff in a natural amphitheatre-like curve and great views over the valley. Even stranger is the top of the Cove itself which, as well as dropping off sharply, is broken up like giant crazy paving. Once up on top of it, you have to step from stone to stone to make your way along the length of the clifftop to the way down!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFmK63f9G9pMpsbCI4lGlcmHFJ8WRglGaB1q_Rn_YR6cjfNYyt3MIoBnIGCm1X-kmATg7YprZL_IlyEIgv_colABPI8hBkzHVdnl_Ol2-Niza8K31ebz6M1oE2M7yjRUMKbn3PsDXkl2a5/s1600/IMG_4216.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFmK63f9G9pMpsbCI4lGlcmHFJ8WRglGaB1q_Rn_YR6cjfNYyt3MIoBnIGCm1X-kmATg7YprZL_IlyEIgv_colABPI8hBkzHVdnl_Ol2-Niza8K31ebz6M1oE2M7yjRUMKbn3PsDXkl2a5/s640/IMG_4216.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
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Once down the other side there's a large flat area with a stream running through (more paddling!) and a chance to try and spot the Peregrine Falcons nesting up under the clifftop. Once we were back at the village, we had a lovely pub dinner at the Buck Inn, in the warm evening sun, across the road from a tiny wood called Dingly Dell, which was up for sale! Oh how I wanted to buy it and be the Mistress of Dingly Dell!<br /></div>
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Michelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6495076709366887714.post-89358190109214920002019-01-03T22:52:00.000+00:002019-05-24T22:52:54.476+01:00New Years in Wales<div>
For New Years, I went to visit my friends in Harlech, North Wales. We've not seen much of each other since they moved so far away. To spend so much time with them was lovely, and the area is beautiful. This is the view from their driveway.<br />
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Their DRIVEWAY.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1NylCsnMx7s0CNYkGEQFs9DNkbKpIzwlE-5K1qUep2WfHv9bSDYrGltprJn_lN02FplKyFucShnNSjnalxTMm-uC0QdMUUpBvawmNH8Wg5IbRaK7qJrfixbw4YrL1oichIWsweSKwt63G/s1600/IMG_4135b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1NylCsnMx7s0CNYkGEQFs9DNkbKpIzwlE-5K1qUep2WfHv9bSDYrGltprJn_lN02FplKyFucShnNSjnalxTMm-uC0QdMUUpBvawmNH8Wg5IbRaK7qJrfixbw4YrL1oichIWsweSKwt63G/s640/IMG_4135b.jpg" width="640" /></a><span style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">Harlech Castle in the foreground, the beach and bay behind, and then in the distance, the mountains of Snowdonia. Surely people don't actually LIVE in places that look like this. But they DO!</span><br />
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<a name='more'></a>We all took turns to cook meals, and once every day we had a little outing. The first one was to a beach about 30 minutes away. As well as some really nice sand to stomp in (with the kids following in my footsteps like a row of ducklings), there were all these cool rock formations; pillars and columns and caverns and gorges worn by the sea. Amy even saw a seal here once!<br />
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<img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyEsa-xWHicRmyC4MeH5C419ehQiSxRJ6tryqUkXU5u_PH-jG-6IWOSdGPHZvgvyq4TcMe5OAAA3-b8mER2zYi1flmjUhxwK-OYhvqN5ZwqvL9OEt1djSj0bcTqdwJb7RIJcxihgcvOYm8/s640/IMG_4089.JPG" width="640" /></div>
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In the evening we trooped down onto their home beach to cut up a hunk of tree root that had drifted in on the tide, and made a bonfire. Like all good fires, there were marshmallow, and even a few fireworks.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSXQ-UvTZpwCMJ2X2dMid3axuZ96rItORuo6V9IvY_w3JmY0fL4Fa7GggdJUqSXnZ_W53bcWhlSDssJPD8uwPj3H62Y2nHX_3istbDT8W-jBy28Rc4DQ097EeKgMRYZOWTa7fSC9h4t4un/s1600/IMG_4111.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSXQ-UvTZpwCMJ2X2dMid3axuZ96rItORuo6V9IvY_w3JmY0fL4Fa7GggdJUqSXnZ_W53bcWhlSDssJPD8uwPj3H62Y2nHX_3istbDT8W-jBy28Rc4DQ097EeKgMRYZOWTa7fSC9h4t4un/s400/IMG_4111.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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The next day we drove inland to a small waterfall to make a campfire. We were by a little stream where we could play football and pooh-sticks, using decorated cuttlefish carcasses for boats. Eventually the supervisor for the area trotted over and rather stressfully retracted her permission to have the fire, so we had to put it out. It didn't deaden the fun though, or spoil the picnic, because we'd already melted the camembert!<br />
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Someone had brought a speaker with them, and with very 'Instagrammy' music playing, and the food, and the setting, and the company, and the kids, I felt weirdly as if I was in a social media advert. As if we'd managed to create one of those highly engineered marketable moments, except we were living in it.</div>
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Me and two of the girls left a bit early to go to Bounce Below, a series of trampoline nets suspended in an old mining cavern. You book an hour long slow (which is more than enough!) and get set loose to bounce, climb and slide your way around four levels of springy netting.<br />
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It's definitely something that can only be experienced. It took me about ten minute to fully adjust to being so high above the floor, and being able to see through layers of translucent net. It's very discombobulating, as you have to train your eye to focus on the layer you're currently on.<br />
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For New Years we had a house cabaret, with everyone bringing acts, games, quizzes and songs to while the evening away. With so many people - nearly twenty of us - all crammed in together there was lot of entertainment going. And a lot of cheese. So much cheese. I can't even tell you how much cheese.<br />
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On New Years Day I drove home, but kept having to stop to take pictures. There was a big low sun, sending layers of gold across the Welsh landscape of the Snowdonia National Park and then the Berwyn Mountains. The road takes you up over the moors, giving the long views I like so much.<br />
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I made one more stop on my way home, as I was passing fairly close to the tallest waterfall in Wales, Pistoll Rhaedr, or Rhaedr Falls. A good chance to stretch my legs before the rest of the drive home</div>
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I'd got to spend Christmas at home with my family, going out for walks with Mum, and Dad helped me learn to carve a bowl on the lathe in his workshop! Despite accidentally flinging it across the room at one point, it came out beautifully, and it was so nice to spend so much time doing something together.<br />
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Michelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6495076709366887714.post-84242242473648316262018-12-27T23:14:00.000+00:002019-05-24T23:15:14.771+01:00Winter Solstice 2018<div>
Did my usual pilgrimage up to the top of Beacon Hill to watch the sun come up on the shortest day of the year. It was just me and Craig this time, and its always a gamble as to what you're going to get in terms of visibility. But I seem to be lucky more often than not, and it was another stunner.</div>
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We were up there with a couple of local druids, having a chat but mostly there for the view. We all seemed to be on the same wavelength of what was a holy moment, and a time to stay quiet, and when was the time to chat.</div>
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What I love every year is watching the progression of light and colours. There's a general lightening first, and then more and more colour bleeds through as the sun approaches the horizon. The best years, like this one, have a clear horizon but then some low-lying clouds to catch the neon pinks and reds and oranges.</div>
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Then finally the big red winter sun heaves itself up into the sky. It's always huge and crimson. This is the time everyone falls quiet; you can almost feel it coming. There's an awe amongst us, no matter what beliefs have brought us up the hill. The druids move away to bow to the sun and do their salutations. I hold my own silent vigil and give thanks for the passing of darkness and the coming of God's eternal Light. Craig is content to watch.</div>
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The respectful silence continues until the lowest edge of the sun is well up into the sky and the colours have moved into blue daytime shades. Then we head down the hill together for a big hot breakfast.</div>
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Michelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6495076709366887714.post-1627040450131323552018-10-14T23:37:00.000+01:002018-11-22T10:51:16.373+00:00Injury? What injury?!I pulled a tendon in my foot at the end of August, at the worst possible time. They take a notoriously long time to heal - a couple of months even if you're letting them rest properly, which I... did not. I had no time for that so I resorted to a lot of sports tape and sensible shoes. I had places to be...<br />
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I always enjoy Greenbelt Festival, especially now it's on the new site. The walk down from the car park into the fields. Setting up the tent. Making tea in the mornings and using the spare water to wash over a bowl. Everything gets pared down to the essentials. Life becomes very straightforward, just for a few days.<br />
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This year was unusual - I had company! My usual festival buddy hasn't been able to camp for the last few years, so I've come by myself. But this year I was volunteering in the on-site cafe (basically trying to get a cheap holiday in the wake of purchasing and trying to do up a house!) Some friends did the same thing and so we all camped together. They even brought a gazebo with them to use a social space, complete with a two-seater sofa! While I'm not sure it quite fit in with the idea of paring down your life, I have to admit it was pretty funny carrying it across a field and was very comfy to sit on. I stand by it for the entertainment value alone!<br />
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That volunteering was tough but made worthwhile by a great team. I had a 6 hour shift every day serving customers, taking orders for hot drinks, running the tills - all on my feet. My time working in Greggs came back to me; the customer voice, the undying smile, the tolerance, how to get people to hand you their money at the right time. I tried to sit down as often as I could, but combined with walking across the site it was a bit tricky.<br />
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We were lucky with the weather again, and as usual I spent a lot of time at the Grove with the Forest church. I admired a hand made shepherds hut, listened to musical comedy, prayed the four winds, learned about the feminine names of God, rocked out to some nineties nostalgia, learned about the Vagina Museum (I kinda want to go!), I shared communion carnival style, I spoke to a man who carved wood using a handmade pedal-lathe, I worked in the cafe and used the Forest Church contemplations to bracket my work days in a way I never do at home, I listened to one guitar be played like five instruments by one man, I took part in my first silent disco, I made a sculpture sing. And on the last night, when I was supposed to be driving home in order to get to work the following day, instead I found myself singing raucous kareoke with a crowd of other stragglers, all of us being led by a musical comedian and one of the singers from Pussy Riot.<br />
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And from one magical place to another, the following week I headed up to the Peak District to take part in a 25k trek for charity... Yet more athletic tape.</div>
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This was my mum's idea - she loves a challenge!- and my dad signed up too. It was an organised event by TrekFest, who mark the route and set up a base with food and camping space for those who wanted it. We were raising money for various charities, and some people were even doing a 50k walk, which can take 12-14 hours to complete! So theoretically it should take up between 6 and 7 hours to finish.</div>
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Even though I jog 5k at least once a week I couldn't quite get my head around the idea of walking five times as far in the hills. But I was interested to know what I could do. </div>
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There was one problem, however... I didn't have my walking boots. They were meant to be brought from my parents house, but somehow there had been a mix-up and they'd brought my brother's instead. I am a size 6. He is a 9.</div>
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But there was no Plan B, so my support tape now got used liberally on both feet to ward against blisters, and I wore all the spare socks I could, three pairs in total. And hoped that would be enough.</div>
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We hit a great day with the weather, warm and sunny but with a bit of a breeze so I opted to do the whole day in a base layer Tshirt and leggings rather than sturdier trousers. I tend to run hot anyway.</div>
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Although both my parents were also doing the walk, we agreed to go at our own paces. As it turned out, I was pulling ahead by the time our group reached the end of the drive! We had great weather, and as several hundred of us left the base and marched out onto the trail, we began to string out as we each found our own stride. </div>
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Leaving Hope village, we headed east and then made a sharp turn to skirt along the side of Ladybower reservoir. By this point I was overtaking slower walkers from the group ahead of us, and finding people to keep pace with. You found yourself hovering within a strata of walkers, passing the same faces as people stopped and started for drinks, photos, but we were also spread out enough at this point that you could have been walking by yourself. </div>
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Up a short sharp incline through some oppressively close woods, and then we popped out onto the edge of Crookstone Out Moor. This was one of my favourite sections to walk along. High and open, on a beautiful day, and with not too much upping and downing as you crossed the hill. You could just get into your stride and enjoy the view. And what a view it was!</div>
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This was a fifteen kilometre section with no checkpoints, so we were very much left to our own devices. At one point, feet aching as they tried to deal with the unfamiliar shoes, I hit a sudden wall of melancholy. It was just suddenly all very hard, and not much fun. Fortunately I know that wall well enough that it was easy to fix - I just needed to sit down for five minutes and have a sandwich!</div>
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The second checkpoint came on us quite suddenly as we passed through a village. I'll be honest, my feet were killing me at this point, and I knew from the map that the one remaining climb was one of the steepest of the day. I decided to take ten minutes to have a snack (I don't eat much when I'm out and about), rest my feet, and steel myself for the last section. </div>
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As I was resting, a woman walked into the checkpoint who I could have sworn overtook my a while before. It turned out that despite the arrows along the route, and the maps we all had with up, she'd got lost! Some cyclists had pointed her back to the correct path. To make sure it didn't happen again, we agreed to walk out together for the last section, which turned out to be a a few slightly tricky lane navigations, and then a straight clear path up to Hollin's Cross on Mam Tor. Check out that view!</div>
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At the top, I was caught on camera by the TrekFest photographer. Not in a flattering pose, but certainly an accurate one, happily hugging the marker at the top of the hill.</div>
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And then it was back down again, at a light jog to make the most of the gravity, and a suprisingly gruelling march on concrete along the road back to Hope and the base camp. That was the part where I really had to push myself to keep the pace up. I really wanted to come in under the 6 hour mark and I had no idea where I was in terms of time, but a few minutes could make the difference.</div>
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As you came back into the pen at base camp, I was delighted to hear my name called as my tracker chip was registered as having returned. I was handed a medal, a finishers Tshirt, and a glass of warm champagne that tasted absolutely amazing. And my time? 5 hours 39 minutes and 52 seconds.</div>
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After a drink and a rest I hauled myself up to do some stretches, grab a shower at the campsite, and cheer in the other walkers as I waited. And two hours later, coming in at 7 hrs 15 minutes...</div>
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And now I really <b>do</b> have to rest that foot.</div>
Michelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6495076709366887714.post-57853365212994049662018-10-14T21:54:00.000+01:002018-10-15T13:41:01.104+01:00Stone'engeAt the end of August my youngest sister and I went on a little roadtrip. We visited our grandparents in Dorset, our other sister in Bristol, and then made our way back sightseeing historic National Trust houses through Hampshire and Surrey. However, with a small detour into Wiltshire, we got to see something neither of us have ever seen before...<br />
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For such a quintessentially British historical site, it seemed a bit odd that we'd never considered visiting before... until we checked out the entry fee. Fortunately Nation Trust members can get in for free and we both had membership cards still in date. And I'd say that's the best way to do it. For what it is - a circle of very old rocks - the price tag is extortionate. But if you've got some kind of voucher or deal, it might be worth your time.<br />
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There's a big visitor centre that explains the significance of what might otherwise just look like a load of rocks. There a diagrams of the site, notes on how the stones were assembled, with a pin-and-slot system that's pretty impressive. And even more impressively, notes on where the horizontal bluestones came from. The nearest site where that type of stone can be found is in Wales, which means they were carved out there, or maybe even further afield, and then transported probably by boat and then finally over land just to be raised here in Wiltshire.<br />
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There are earthworks from about 3000BC, and then the standing stones themselves began to be erected around 2500 BC. Actually any circle of uprights like this can be called a 'henge' but, like the Icelandic waterspout 'Geysir' that gives it's name to all the others, this one stone henge is now thought of as THE Stonehenge.<br />
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There are exhibits of objects that have been found there; ceramics, flintwork, bones. The skull of an Auroch, four times the size of the cow skull behind it. A wall full of quotes, although most of these remark upon the enduring mystery of Stonehenge and how we'll never really know what it's really all about. One of my favourites is up there, a line from the mockumentary 'This Is Spinal Tap'... "No one knows oo they were, or wot they were doin'."<br />
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It's a very big and impressive looking centre, and there's a bus to ferry visitors to the stones, but we felt it would be easier to accidentally spend more time in the visitor centre than experiencing the actual site! So instead of taking the 5 minute shuttle bus we chose to walk along the path, despite the spitting drizzle. It took about twenty minutes, and there are trees and the curve of the land that mask the surprise of the henge appearing until you're quite close.<br />
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Even after all the hype and build up, they're still imposingly large to see in person. The taller stones are over twenty feet high, which is a lot when you picture that they had to be moved by hand.<br />
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The stones are roped off for most of the year, with a path round it. There's a crush at the beginning of all the tourists, us included, as everyone stops to gawk and take a hundred selfies. But then everyone relaxes, realising that the view isn't going anywhere, the crowd thins out, and you can enjoy Stonehenge from all sides. I actually liked the south side best, the last section you view. You can see a complete section of the outer circle, which gives you a better idea of how the whole structure would have looked.</div>
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We strolled back through the free-access 'Stonehenge Landscape', which walks you through a row of barrows - burial mounds raised in sight of Stonehenge. Nod politely as you pass, and don't stare.<br />
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Thanks to my Grandad, and his generous insistence on providing us with snacks for the road, we now have a personal connection here too. After getting over the initial awe, and finding a little spot for ourselves to one side of the path we marked our visit by the ceremonial eating of fruit-filled bun with jam and cream... Sconehenge!<br />
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<br />Michelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6495076709366887714.post-5140495918185936192018-10-12T23:32:00.000+01:002019-03-13T23:44:27.005+00:00Woodland Adventure Posse - Assemble!It was autumn, it was warm, it was dry... I had a real need to go walk in some crunchy leaves.Since I'm trying to invite more friends to more things, I put out a message to see who might want to come with me, and thus the Woodland Adventure Posse was assembled!<br />
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Six people (including me). Three dogs. One wood full of crunchy leaves. Let's go!<br />
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<a name='more'></a>It was great, ambling through the woods, deliberately barrelling through any leaf drifts we found, only two of us trod in poo, and we even got to climb some trees. Chris, who is naturally some kind of mountain goat, was the best at tree climbing by a long way.<br />
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But I enjoyed my meagre efforts.<br />
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And even the dogs got involved. How are the dogs better at climbing trees than the humans?<br />
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Michelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6495076709366887714.post-40350822899131016482018-08-05T23:20:00.001+01:002018-08-05T23:25:04.730+01:00To be beside the seaside - North Norfolk Coastal Path part 3<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We're back at the beach! Yaaaaay!<br />
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Cromer to Mundesley - 8 miles</h3>
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You're walking along the seafront, then along the beach, and then a short sharp climb up the cliff ramp to Overstrand. We paused here to admire the view, have a snack, and listen to a recording of locals speaking about their history in the area.<br />
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Most of the rest of our walk takes place along the clifftop. Winding through Overstrand, we pass a garden full of sculpture. Want to take home a woodlouse?<br />
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As we get further out int the countryside, we hit a slight snag in following the trail. The cliffs around here are sandy and collapse easily as the sea wears away at them. Signs advise you to stay 5 metres back from the edge at all times, but in some places that isn't possible any more. Huge chunks have dropped out of the cliff, cutting directly across the trail in place. We give it a wide berth, picking our way through a farmed field instead.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">GoogleMaps, satellite view. You can see the chunks that have fallen out of what used to be a straight coastline.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking from Overstrand back towards Cromer</td></tr>
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After Sidestrand the path goes up, over one of the very few hills we've encountered on this trip. Then we turn away from the sea to skirt round through some fields and pleasant green woodland. It's a warm sunny day, and we pause at a caravan park for some sustenance.<br />
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And then we turn back again, and pop out into the village of Mundesley. To get to the seafront is a winding downhill road, but we have to do it. For the sense of completion me and Mum always hanker for, for the last sight of the sea before we leave to head home, and for ice cream!<br />
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While we're sat on our bench, ice cream in hand, the weather changes rapidly. A microcosm of fog rolls in off the sea, clouding the beach in a matter of minutes and making everything mysterious. A dramatic scene to round off the day. As we take the bus home, we emerge from the Mundesley fog bank and everything is bright and sunny again!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ttjf8xh6otPwXUlXti8Cr5bKAsq9jUl_W0d_OSr69_SEmHoqVr7HV-TxQ2AR1doTzTQUCACcT-qw4gKq5ZIGqWa3lhBbmBlVj16eeLnmvYzLuYGBu-y4VgUFHRSGmjF_apeWyA9k-apE/s1600/IMG_3679.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ttjf8xh6otPwXUlXti8Cr5bKAsq9jUl_W0d_OSr69_SEmHoqVr7HV-TxQ2AR1doTzTQUCACcT-qw4gKq5ZIGqWa3lhBbmBlVj16eeLnmvYzLuYGBu-y4VgUFHRSGmjF_apeWyA9k-apE/s640/IMG_3679.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Michelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6495076709366887714.post-84970714802166902232018-08-05T00:58:00.000+01:002018-08-05T01:39:14.808+01:00A Land of Ice and Fire - Day 5<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6495076709366887714" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6495076709366887714" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>It's our last day! We had to be out of the apartment in the morning, so we packed up the car and then went down to the Harpa, Reykjavik's concert hall. In a country of dramatic yet minimal landscapes, it makes sense to me that their sense of design would have that same simplicity and stark grandeur.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6495076709366887714" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6495076709366887714" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8YEoZqs9dgQPx4Wp_a6DX9NdMbboqamyHDH4uIw-0uGvGLFAsWb0_ygccjz7lxdSIXl60qHs10yx4HbL3-bzKbSsz5ek1gDRDm8ktFWOfuVlfW8zeOtiuBl7ZlvJCIccUh9D12GSOw894/s1600/harpa1-800x533.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8YEoZqs9dgQPx4Wp_a6DX9NdMbboqamyHDH4uIw-0uGvGLFAsWb0_ygccjz7lxdSIXl60qHs10yx4HbL3-bzKbSsz5ek1gDRDm8ktFWOfuVlfW8zeOtiuBl7ZlvJCIccUh9D12GSOw894/s640/harpa1-800x533.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from www.blog.icelanddesign.is/</td></tr>
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<a name='more'></a>The pattern of the windows echoes the basalt columns we saw yesterday,<br />
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While we were there, we came across a science-fiction conference, with a lecture on a show so obscure even I'd never heard of it! The shop (there's always a shop) was also really interesting to me. It was full of examples of modern design in Iceland, which ties in with the job I do. That clean, minimal focus was in everything. It both compliments and contrasts with everything we'd seen, and made me wonder how much, even in our global economy, living in a particular place affects the art people make.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I loved these. The 'Original Icelandic Toys' turned out to be <br />
wooden replicas of whale and deer bones!</td></tr>
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Heading up to the hill above the city, we found Perlan. These huge water tanks have been turned into a geological exhibit and viewing platform for both Reykjavik and the surroundings mountains including the nearby volcano Kieler. It's a really col looking building, with more of that nice clean geometric design. Oh and a cafe. There's always a cafe to visit! On the viewing platform are a dozen or so samples of the different kinds of rock found in Iceland, and plaques explaining how they are formed.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the platform at Perlan</td></tr>
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Our final stop was a museum called Viking World! Most of it is about the Vikings discovering (from their perspective) America. Specifically New Foundland, which I think I did know but had forgotten at some point. Their nautical expertise just gets more and more impressive. As well as a fun art exhibit on the mythology of the Norse gods, there was a great section on a man who built a replica Viking ship and sailed it to America in 2000. He had a history of boat building and decided that the best way to understand Viking techniques was with a hands on approach! The vision and craftmanship are amazing, and they now have the boat in the museum so that you can walk on it and see for yourself.</div>
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Finally we had to go back to the airport, where we played a a string of lightning fast rounds of Bananagrams and UNO, our favourite travel games. As a family we're very good at making regular things interesting, and happy in each others company. Even waiting at an airport goes fast until it's time to go back along the rainbow bridge.</div>
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Michelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6495076709366887714.post-13615660345909590482018-08-04T22:56:00.000+01:002018-10-05T00:00:21.642+01:00A Land of Ice and Fire - Day 4<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6495076709366887714" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="16" id="d3b15mxzuo64" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhEAAQAOUdAOvr69HR0cHBwby8vOzs7PHx8ff397W1tbOzs+Xl5ebm5vDw8PPz88PDw7e3t+3t7dvb2+7u7vX19eTk5OPj4+rq6tbW1unp6bu7u+fn5+jo6N/f3+/v7/7+/ra2ttXV1f39/fz8/Li4uMXFxfb29vLy8vr6+sLCwtPT0/j4+PT09MDAwL+/v7m5ubS0tM7OzsrKytra2tTU1MfHx+Li4tDQ0M/Pz9nZ2b6+vgAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACH/C05FVFNDQVBFMi4wAwEAAAAh+QQFMAA5ACwAAAAAEAAQAAAGg8CcMAcICAY5QsEwHBYPCMQhl6guGM5GNOqgVhMPbA6y5Xq/kZwkN3Fsu98EJcdYKCo5i7kKwCorVRd4GAg5GVgAfBpxaRtsZwkaiwpfD0NxkYl8QngARF8AdhmeDwl4pngUCQsVHDl2m2iveDkXcZ6YTgS3kAS0RKWxVQ+/TqydrE1BACH5BAkwADkALAAAAAAQABAAAAZ+wJwwJ1kQIgNBgDMcdh6KRILgQSAOn46TIJVSrdZGSMjpeqtgREAoYWi6BFF6xCAJS6ZyYhEIUwxNQgYkFxwBByh2gU0kKRVHi4sgOQuRTRJtJgwSBJElihwMQioqGmw5gEMLKk2AEkSBq4ElQmNNoYG2OVpDuE6Lrzmfp0NBACH5BAUwADkALAAAAAAQABAAAAaFwJwwJ1kQCDlCwTAcMh6KhDQnVSwYTkJ1un1gc5wtdxsh5iqaLbVKyVEWigq4ugZgTyiA9CK/JHIZWCsICCxpVWV/EzkHhAgth1UPQ4OOLXpScmebFA6ELHAZclBycXIULi8VZXCZawplFG05flWlakIVWravCgSaZ1CuksBDFQsAcsfFQQAh+QQJMAA5ACwAAAAAEAAQAAAGQcCccEgsGo/IpHLJzDGaOcKCCUgkAEuFNaFRbq1dJCxX2WKRCFdMmJiiEQjRp1BJwu8y5R3RWNsRBx9+SSsxgzlBACH5BAkwADkALAAAAAAQABAAAAaJwJwwJ1kQCDlCwTAcMh6KhDQnVSwYTkJ1un1gc5wtdxsh5iqaLbVKyTEWigq4ugZglRXpRX5J5DJYAFIAaVVlfhNrURqFVQ9DYhqCgzkzCGdnVQBwGRU0LQiXCRUAORQJCwAcOTChoYplBXIKLq6vUXRCCQ22olUEcroJB66KD8FNCjUrlxWpTUEAIfkEBTAAOQAsAAAAABAAEAAABobAnDAnWRAIOULBMBwyHoqENCdVLBhOQnW6fWBznC13G8nZchXNllql5Bg2xA1cZQOwShwCMdDkLgk5GVgAUgAie3syVDkTbFIaiIkIJ0NiGnp7HiNonRVVAHEuFjlQFVQVAI0JCzYjrKCPZQWnf1unYkMVWrFbBLVoUIaPD8C6CwCnAMhNQQA7" style="cursor: move;" width="16" /></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6495076709366887714" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>Today we did a day's tour of the south coast by coach. Normally we'd have taken ourselves, but actually the coach trip turned out to be really informative, and of course everyone got to look out the window rather than having to drive. So much to see!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAr8IMYiSj8NT-Zb_nChd5JvOhxDUnhu_VsO88O2SU0g99R-OVRIHSgAt-sex6RyeseqrogSwP1yArsNAh7A32HW9WbY1uH3AQL4wVw-lEtaVm94hBQx2BUti0oPdwGo8U4wZnIO8S1L4E/s1600/icelandsquare.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="344" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAr8IMYiSj8NT-Zb_nChd5JvOhxDUnhu_VsO88O2SU0g99R-OVRIHSgAt-sex6RyeseqrogSwP1yArsNAh7A32HW9WbY1uH3AQL4wVw-lEtaVm94hBQx2BUti0oPdwGo8U4wZnIO8S1L4E/s640/icelandsquare.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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After heading out through the familiar mountains around Reykjavik, you drop down onto the coastal lowlands (passing Selfoss, the ice cream making capital of Iceland). There are lots of small firms dotted about here - we pass a microbrewery on the site of what used to be a women's prison. It just looks like a little house in the middle of nowhere!<br />
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There is a mountain range though, to our left (north). Up there are the glaciers, and the active volcano Eyjafjallajokul, which erupted in 2010 producing enough smoke to stop air travel across most of Europe for an entire week. It seems calm today!<br />
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We're also going to see a lot of waterfalls. Here's the first; Seljalandsfoss.<br />
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It drops sheer over a vertical rock face, surrounded by lots of smaller trickles. This is a really fun one, because if you've got the notion you can walk round behind it, through the spray that clings to the moss and the roar as it hits the plunge pool. It's a slightly slipper clamber to get up and out the other side, but very much worth it.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hi Mum and Dad!</td></tr>
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We carry on to the furthest point of our trip, the iconic volcanic beach of Reynisfjara. If we're talking about memorable Icelandic geography, this has to be one of the most well known. As we leave the coach we're given a strict warning to stay away from the sea. People drown here every year because they want to paddle, and then 'sneaker' waves suddenly burst up the beach and grab them. We have no incentive to go that far down the beach anyway - the wind is insane. It rips across the beach, pelting hard sand into your legs and anything else you've left exposed. It's bitingly cold and physically painful, even when you turn your back on it.<br />
The payoff however, is one of the strangest sights of our trip.<br />
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The beach is black. Volcanic rock slowly crushed into gritty black sand. And the cliffs they've come from are blocky basalt columns, like a giant sculpture someone left there. In some places they form mounds, in others caves. They're so precise it's odd; it looks almost manmade. Amazingly, these columns that march off into the North Atlantic only to emerge again... in Ireland. These columns are part of the same geological strata as the Giant's Causeway.<br />
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Further along you can see where the pounding waves have driven holes and tunnels through outcrops of rock, which have then collapsed leaving extant towers free-standing in the ocean. These are Dyrholaey - Sea Stacks. Four of these are best visible from Vik - they call them the Four Trolls, after the myth that trolls turn to stone in sunlight. Half-seen through the whip of the wind, the rain and the sea mist, they do seem to loom a bit!<br />
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We break here and eat our sandwiches before heading away from the sea and up, up, up. Passing out of the rainstorm, we pop up into an area of lovely blue sky, with the glacier Solheimajokull towering up ahead of us. Dad was particularly looking forward to this bit, and it's crazy to look at. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With happy Dad for scale!</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSMdO8RgM2k5mGkgEXiCr-Tjnya2BVVN8rgSOmDG5rzLT9NW2Z-Z0k52i7GHVaQJegDE6PgG1bD5WRBzj_xZgonWcQbqwnh3hSOv62bgFq3eoqma1AJsx4Qqnoa2yDMxeqFht9PSKO8tty/s1600/IMG_3547.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6495076709366887714" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSMdO8RgM2k5mGkgEXiCr-Tjnya2BVVN8rgSOmDG5rzLT9NW2Z-Z0k52i7GHVaQJegDE6PgG1bD5WRBzj_xZgonWcQbqwnh3hSOv62bgFq3eoqma1AJsx4Qqnoa2yDMxeqFht9PSKO8tty/s1600/IMG_3547.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSMdO8RgM2k5mGkgEXiCr-Tjnya2BVVN8rgSOmDG5rzLT9NW2Z-Z0k52i7GHVaQJegDE6PgG1bD5WRBzj_xZgonWcQbqwnh3hSOv62bgFq3eoqma1AJsx4Qqnoa2yDMxeqFht9PSKO8tty/s640/IMG_3547.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
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This huge wall of solid ice is the very edge of a glacier that stretches for miles up into the mountains, en covering the (extremely active!) volcano Katla. Centuries have compacted the ice and rock together. Although it looks indestructible, in other ways it's very fragile. Our guide has been coming up here since he was a boy, and in the last twenty year the glacier has receded several hundred metres. The pool in front of it now, complete with iceburgs the size of shipping containers, was once part of the glacier too.</div>
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For our last stop, we got another waterfall; Skogafoss. There a flight of stairs that goes all the way to the top, so of course we took it is a personal challenge.<br />
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We'd crammed a lot into one day, and everyone was surprisingly tired. Fortunately we could just veg on the ride back, and stare at the scenery (despite some over-excited guests in the back). In this one relatively small area there's such a vast range of geography. Vast plains, high glaciers, volatile volcanoes, crashing waves, sea stacks, plunging waterfalls... We've only got one day left to see it all!Michelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6495076709366887714.post-61866581502950590702018-06-11T00:09:00.002+01:002018-06-11T00:10:51.428+01:00A Land of Ice and Fire - Day 3After yesterday's excursion, we had a very lazy start today. Dad was a bit ill, so it was a slow breakfast and sauntered out of the house at 11am, heading down to Reykjavik harbour.<br />
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This is where the city centre and a lot of the museums are. We decided to go to Aurora Reykjavik, partly because it had the most reasonable price! The Maritime musem (the educational option) was closed for an exhibition swap, and Whales Of Iceland (a hanger full of life-sized plastic whales) didn't really appeal. So we went for the whimsical option, given that there was almost no chance of seeing the aurora for real at this time of year, and with the cloud cover we were predicted.<br />
It was pretty good actually!<br />
It's only a little centre but they get a lot in, and as with most things if you go in with the intent of making the most of it, you'll have a good time. There's a corridor explaining the folklore of different countries around the aurora, and then a section on the science of it. I did actually learn a few things, like why the aurora appears in different colours, and why to the naked eye it always looks more desaturated than on camera.<br />
There's also an area dedicated to actual tourist photos, how to set up your camera, what weather to look for. All very helpful.<br />
And then we found our favourite bit - the Theatre Room!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The theatre room - the closest to the Northern Lights we were going to get!</td></tr>
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The lights are off, and there are chairs at the back, but at the front there are furry rugs, and adult-sized beanbags, all pointed at the screen which plays a 20 minute time lapse of the auroroa, complete with soothing spa music, in a warm dark room. It was like being in a spa and... what I'm leading upto is that certain people did fall asleep! This must happen a lot, because you get a free cuppa when you exit to bring you round again. We stayed in there for about 40 minutes, watching the whole loop at least twice, and emerged incredibly relaxed!</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shhh, Emma is asleep!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Put a pin in to show where you're from!</td></tr>
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Strolled back through the shipyard, and into a deli that sold us an incredibly creamy soft cheese (from incredibly creamy soft Icelandic cows!) with white wine jelly. By this point it was past 2am so Dad (fully perked up_ came to meet us and we had cake at Caffe Loki on the first floor. There's an amazing mural of some of the exploits of Loki that takes up the whole length of the longest wall. Like that time he won the gods a bet by turning himself into a mare... and later giving birth to a mutant horse as a result! I enjoyed trying to identify all the stories. Also Skyr is delicious in cheesecake.</div>
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We wandered round the shops and invested in some arts and crafts. Something I loved were a set of small pots in the window of a ceramics shop, which had been glazed to echo the colours of the Icelandic landscape. I'm loving the colours out here - the charcoal of the rock, the white of the snow and ice, the soft greys of the sky, and then the punches of acidic green and vivid turquoise of the moss and water, and they'd captured them beautifully. Emma bought one, which turned out to be the creation of the lady on the till!<br />
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Then along the harbour wall, looking across to the mountains and passing more sculptures, and back to the apartment. We have realised that due to the name of it, when we're going to meet up back there we can say, in all sincerity, "See you in Valhalla."Michelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6495076709366887714.post-56188161589270308512018-06-10T23:28:00.000+01:002018-06-10T23:28:20.905+01:00A Land of Ice and Fire - Day 2It is Wodin's Day - Wednesday! Drove out of Reykjavík to persistent light drizzle and persistent heavy wind! There are no trees here to stop it, and large areas of flatness that the wind charges over. It's still the tail end of winter here, but we came prepared. Layered up and waterproofs on, we went out into the authentic Icelandic weather experience!<br />
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Our first leg was to drive past Lake Þingvallavatn to Þingvellir, the site of the alÞing. (You pronounce the 'Þ' like a 'th', by the way). This is the original Icelandic Parliament, which recently celebrated its 1100 year anniversary. Each year all the clans in Iceland would march across to this wide river valley to exchange news, reaffirm the law and deal with any national issues. It's right on the edge of the National Park, so when we weren't busy trying not to be blown away by the frankly ridiculous amount of wind, the views are lovely. You could spend a really long time just wandering the many easy paths around the valley if you wanted to.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>Also, since we are in Iceland, I've decided that it's obligatory for us to listen to some Sigur R<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">ó</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">s</span> while we're her<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">e. So here's one of my favourite tracks of theirs, S</span><yt-formatted-string class="style-scope ytd-video-primary-info-renderer" style="--yt-endpoint-color: hsl(206.1, 79.3%, 52.7%); color: var(--ytd-video-primary-info-renderer-title-color, var(--yt-primary-text-color));"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">æ</span></yt-formatted-string><span style="color: var(--ytd-video-primary-info-renderer-title-color, var(--yt-primary-text-color)); font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">gl</span><span style="color: var(--ytd-video-primary-info-renderer-title-color, var(--yt-primary-text-color));">opur, for you to listen to while you join us on our roadtrip.</span><br />
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Whether on purpose or just by chance, at the same site you can walk down into a gulley on a wooden walkway. This walkway is actually a good ten metres below the original path, which began to disintegrate a few years back. The reason for this is that this gulley is actually the point where two continental plates are slowly ripping away from each other at a rate of up to an inch a year. One day Iceland will be two islands rather than one, and this is the place is it happening! You realise you're no longer standing on any particular continent, but rather in some strange nothing-space between the two. Suddenly all the border lines on the map seem very arbitrary. If you think about it too hard it gets really unnerving.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mum and Emma hover over the depthless void</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rocks with lava pattern</td></tr>
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The road through the national park is the simplest road you'll ever drive down, and the least busy. There is a road, you get on it, pass almost nobody, and then zip through about three houses that your map informs you is the Icelandic equivalent of a bustling village. We drive through Laugarvatn - it's there and gone in a matter of seconds!<br />
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As we drive, we talk about what drove people to explore what was to them an unfriendly wilderness, the challenges of survival, and our kinder but squishier existence now. People <i>sailed</i> here. In <i>boats</i>. How did they know it was even here?! We wonder what people do out here; how do they farm, how do they make their livings?<br />
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We do, however, meet some living things out here...<br />
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Icelandic ponies! We had to pull over and say hello. They are stocky, densely furred and a bit shaggy... and food. The locals farm them for meat, but weirdly find rabbits too cute to munch on. Some farmers ask you not to approach them, but these had a sign up and a little vending machine with a few pony nuts.<br />
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We reached our next destination, and probably the best thing to do is just describe it to you.<br />
You pull off the road into the car park of one of those large restaurant/tourist shops, leave your car and cross the road. Immediately you know something odd is going on, because you are facing a mossy, tussocky field riddled with streams, and those streams are gently... steaming. It looks like a little gnome village, with dozens of little chimneys.<br />
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As you venture up the path, marked off only by a rope, every other puddle you pass looks like the chimney of a train. Some of those puddles are even bubbling, not gently but vigourously, like a field of witches brews. Someone has even put a little model house over one of them, so that the steam billows out of its chimney like smoke.<br />
A sign informs us not to touch, as the water here is over 100 degrees centigrade.<br />
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At the far end of the path is a wider area, partially cordoned off, where people are gathered staring at what looks like a vapourous pond. Cameras are up and at the ready, but of course we have no idea of when anything will happen. I resist the urge and wait with my hands in my pockets, determined to see it with my own eyes the first time round. All eyes are on the pond, which is now... breathing. The water pulses up and down, as if trying it were a giant set of lungs. Then a blister of water, bright mineral blue, lifts itself clear of the ponds edges. For a second or two you can see it very clearly . And then...<br />
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A 20m high column of scalding hot water rockets into the air. Whether they were ready or not, everybody gasps in surprise and delight. As the column dissipates, a wave of steam sweeps through the crowd and up the hill. You have met Strokkur!<br />
This geysir will go off like this roughly every six minutes like clockwork. Slightly over from it is Geysir, the original namesake of this phenomenon, which is dormant now but used to go even higher. When it's spouting became less frequent, locals tried to gee it on by pouring soap flakes into it, but eventually even that stopped working.<br />
I love watching this thing. The idea that the inconceivably hot core of our planet is causing this outburst, as regular as a metronome, is amazing. It's so big and powerful in human terms, and yet so small in geographic terms, and it just happens all on its own. There aren't many other places you'd get to see something like this. It is one of the favourite sights of this trip for all of us.<br />
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Where the water runs over the rocks away from the pond, it crosses the path and in cool enough to touch. I have a little drink - can't get much fresher than just-boiled, straight out of the earth! We're all used to the sulphurous whiff of warm water here by now.<br />
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We stop for lunch at the restaurant, which is a bit of a trial as everything in Iceland is ridiculously expensive. Buying lunch here is the cost equivalent of buying a nice dinner out back home. It's partly because so much has to be imported to Iceland, and most imports are heavily taxed. For he locals it's balanced out by the negligible price of energy, but for us tourists it's a bit painful! We make up for this by getting a cup of stew each and deliberately digging all the meat out of the bottom of the urn so that our stew becomes almost a solid - we are determined to get our money's worth!<br />
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Further down the road is Golfoss, a massive two-tier waterfall that turns almost a ninety degree angle. In the summer you can walk down to a plateau very close to the falls, but at this time of year only the upper path is open. It's probably for the best, as the close of winter can bring with it sudden flooding and slippery rocks. The black rocks, white foam, and that trademark mineral blue make a stark contrast.<br />
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Only 30mins down some tiny country road that is barely on the map, is our last stop of the day.<br />
Iceland is famous for its hot springs, but if you want to go in one it might be trickier than you think. The famous Blue Lagoon of Reykjavik and also the Fontana have both been developed into spas, and are also kind of a cheat as the water that runs into the spa pool has just come through the hydroplant, producing Iceland's electricity. Not the worst thing, but again very expensive, busy, and maybe a bit artificial.<br />
But if you're in the area of Strokkur and Golfoss anyway, there's a local pool in Fluthir you can visit Gamla Laugin ('Secret Lagoon') for half the price, with far fewer people. It's a smaller pool, but the water runs directly out of a bank of natural hot springs, and down a short run directly into the pool you are swimming in. The locals used to use the bubbling springs to do their laundry, and bathed where one ran into the river. Then they had the sensible idea of building the pool right beside them and managing the natural trickle so that it keeps the water pleasantly warm without any need for extra heating and cooling from them.<br />
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The immediacy of this is lovely. You're floating in hot spring water that is bubbling out of the ground not 10metres away from you. It's like swimming in a bath tub, except you're outdoors, with no traffic sounds, only the contented conversations of the other visitors around you, and the call of the occasional oyster-catcher as it flies overhead. And if you wish you can get out of the pool, throw a towel round you, and follow a wooden walkway up the mossy hill to watch the Geysir Litli bubble and column up to 2m high before vanishing away into it's hole again.<br />
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We spent nearly an hour here, mostly idling about on woggles and trying to find specially hot patches. Don't be put off by the Icelandic rule about showering naked (everyone does it here before entering a hot spring, and nobody cares, so as long as you decide not to care too, you'll be fine. Mum and Emma weren't so keen, but after spotting two fifty year old ladies washing naked, saggy bits and all, I couldn't think of a good reason not to so I just got on with it. There's something kind of fun about it when you know you'd never do it back home. You're publicly saying "Well I <i>hav</i>e to. There's a <i>sign</i>." but secretly really enjoying yourself), or the prospect of walking the short distance to the pool in just your swimmers. It is <u>well</u> worth it. One of my other highlights from the holiday.<br />
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<br />Michelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6495076709366887714.post-62678187268397167862018-04-26T01:31:00.004+01:002018-06-11T00:09:55.313+01:00A Land of Ice and Fire - Day 1Stepping out of Keflavík airport in Iceland, the first thing I'm aware of is a very faint scent of something like egg.<br />
Sulphur.<br />
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Iceland is a young island, relatively speaking. Younger than Scotland, and igneous almost down to the roots. It is the result of lava pouring up out of a crack between the American and European continental plates, eruption after eruption forcing land up out of the sea. It feels like it too, as we drive the hour to Reykjavík - me, my parents, and my youngest sister Emma.<br />
It looks a long way on the map, but takes us only an hour, which gives you some idea of the size of the island. It's big, a similar mass to England, but still not as big as I assumed, and startlingly spare in terms of foliage. The wind whips across moorlike spaces that would seem bleak if not for the sun rolling out every so often to spotlight particular parts of it.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Across the bay towards Mount Esja</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">The Solfariđ (Suncraft) sculpture. I love the shapes in this thing, and immediately had to go climb on it. <br />
It's public art, you're clearly meant to do that.</td></tr>
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This emptiness is new too. Iceland used to be treed with birch until the Viking arrived and scoured the place for firewood and timber. Now the landscape is mostly thick tussocks of wiry grass, and tumbles of small boulders with moss thrown over them like blankets. <br />
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They're very fond of sculptures here. Along the road from the airport are lots of them, often large upright stones with a small one balanced on top, resembling a head. It isn't exactly ominous, but certainly disconcerting, especially considering that some of the locals still believe in elves. Not that they'd admit to it, you understand, if you asked them. They'd just smile coyly and say something non-commital, and very deliberately not disturb the 'fairy mound' at the bottom of the driveway.</div>
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We can't get into our apartment until the afternoon, so instead we go to Hallgrímskirkja, Iceland's biggest church, and perched on a hill above the city. It was built between 1945 and -86, and although it's made of concrete it feels light and airy, with smooth lines, and one of the biggest pipe organs I've ever seen. The design of the exterior is smooth and modern, and modelled after the basalt columns on the south coast. It rises up in a long sweep, culminating in a bell tower that gives a great view over all of Reykjavík.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tracked down this Redwing in a bush. Not hard to do as he was a very noisy singer!</td></tr>
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The city's buildings are largely very recent, sitting brightly coloured, crisp and clean and so obviously artificial against a landscape of heath and sea, shifting weather, and the ever-present loom of Mount Esja and Skálafell across the water of the harbour. </div>
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It's not a mark against it, rather part of the resilient charm of the place, to plop itself stubbornly in the wilderness like that. Happily, I find I am in another liminal space, a civilisation perched on the edge of the wild.</div>
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While we're up the bell tower the bells ring, the sky clears, and a rainbow arches over the harbour.</div>
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We head into central Reykjavírk and soon hit Laugavegur, a street full of restaurants, tourist info and some pretty funny souvenir shops. Want to buy yourself some reindeer fluff slippers and a model of Thor's hammer Mjolnir? Just look for the shop with a massive wooden statue of Thor in the window. Then again, perhaps that's him over there, playing guitar on the street corner...</div>
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We found the cycle trail that runs along the coast, and set off North for a walk. Despite cloud and strong wind there were beautiful moments of sparkling blue sea, textures and light and colour in the headland, and yet more rainbows where a haze around the base of the mountains captured the sunlight. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The natural coastline, where the harbour wall leaves off.</td></tr>
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We got as far as the (closed) Siguejon Olafsson sculpture museum, but looked round the ones outside, as well as those of this neighbour. This turned out to be a private house built like a fortress with welded scrap metal figures haunting the ground around the house like something from a dystopian sci-fi. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Looking North from the coastal cycle path - with rainbow!</td></tr>
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We were trailed around by a black cat. It had two eyes, but we called it Odin anyway.</div>
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After over 14 hours of being awake after our 2:45am start that morning, and roughly 5 hours of walking in one way or another, we finally headed to our neat little apartment. It's not far from the centre but pretty quiet. Even at rush hour there's very little traffic. Reykjavík reminds me a lot of Inverness in that sense. It's a relatively small place on the edge of the world.</div>
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I'm amazed that people ever decided to settle here after discovering this cold place where I can't imagine much farming beyond crofting is possible. But it was the Vikings.</div>
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Of <i><u>course</u></i> it was the Vikings.</div>
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Michelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6495076709366887714.post-77308869897598094472017-10-30T23:51:00.003+00:002017-12-08T23:48:26.829+00:00Quince MarmaladeIt's that time again!<br />
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Courtesy of my friends Manny and Hannah I have a bowl full of quinces, and a recommendation to try making quince marmalade. Quinces have a lot of natural pectin in them (the stuff that gives jam its jammy consistency) so this is pretty straightforward.<br />
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You will need:<br />
1.5lb of sliced quinces<br />
1/2 lemon chopped finey<br />
2cups sugar<br />
2 cups water<br />
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You basically just wash the fuzz off your quinces, cut them into marmalade sized pieces (removing any bits you don't like the look of) and toss it into a big metal pan with your lemon rind, water and sugar. I chopped my quinces a little too big, so the result looks a bit more like chutney than marmalade, but no harm done there as it will soften during cooking. I gave it a quick whizz with a hand blender to cut them down to size.<br />
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Bring it to the boil and then lower the heat again and leave it to quietly simmer away for about an hour, stirring occasionally. Put a lid on the pan if you have one to help keep the heat in, but leave a crack for the steam to get out. The idea here is that we want the liquid to evaporate away until we're left with a sticky syrup.<br />
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My favourite part is watching the creamy-and-yellow quinces magically turn pinky-orange.<br />
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You'll know your marmalade is done by doing the drop test. Chill a plate in the freezer then drop a teaspoons-worth of marmalade onto the plate. Once it's cooled, poke it with your finger - if it stays liquidy and your finger slides straight through then it isn't done yet, but if the marmalade starts to pile up and wrinkle around your finger then you know the rest of the mixture will do the same when it cools in your jars.<br />
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Pour mixture into sterilised jars (I let boiling water sit in them when I clean them beforehand) and then leave the whole lot to cool and become jellified. I like to make labels for mine, which I print with a laser printer and stick on with a gelatin glue that's easy to remove with hot water when you want to reuse the jar (1 sachet gelatin, 2 tblsp warm milk, and 4 tblsp hot water).<br />
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Ta-dah! Adding the lemon rind was a good call, as it adds a kick to the warm, honey-ish mellowness of the quince. These are all going as gifts, but I did keep a little pot for myself!<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_n6g44ZhXKxqlY87BxZdxuwXMisUtTg77_7eZvpfuT6xue4kmTVYmvA6i6Duxkwcth88jH7F5Umdz3plGPiVVJX6vggTqNj5N_5rFsB_xPARSoayoqyYtVri6VPh32alFxZ7jBzTL22wy/s1600/IMG_2917.JPG" imageanchor="1"><br /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_n6g44ZhXKxqlY87BxZdxuwXMisUtTg77_7eZvpfuT6xue4kmTVYmvA6i6Duxkwcth88jH7F5Umdz3plGPiVVJX6vggTqNj5N_5rFsB_xPARSoayoqyYtVri6VPh32alFxZ7jBzTL22wy/s1600/IMG_2917.JPG" imageanchor="1"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilM3EnhGQHWmpEKBvCfdBLbPPvjycTl4A_9A1ot_Jr1jJgV5aO6WpwFMurQGeVupBMyy_SgHUzj6Qp2BGFn1UDkS_ctL7QOkQMmyVwBh4-Zd3rdzo-tol_eosW3IlP_WM5Lt2IZ-N7BFF4/s1600/IMG_2920.JPG" imageanchor="1"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDtuFWGWJbrR3JvG3aZ7-JXpfSbkvaFQdKiFt_K3qPE_V2oLGWq5ylSzjiDQvFn6yhzq-rtpuRsRDIZT9SEnmCh-iRTodIH0JKBy9Ulmqz4KVIP4kYr2Kpu3YekMMytyMH4OB3IqfWQQqp/s1600/IMG_2940.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDtuFWGWJbrR3JvG3aZ7-JXpfSbkvaFQdKiFt_K3qPE_V2oLGWq5ylSzjiDQvFn6yhzq-rtpuRsRDIZT9SEnmCh-iRTodIH0JKBy9Ulmqz4KVIP4kYr2Kpu3YekMMytyMH4OB3IqfWQQqp/s640/IMG_2940.JPG" width="640" /></a>Michelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6495076709366887714.post-72819074447920386492017-10-03T01:41:00.000+01:002017-11-15T01:17:57.796+00:00South West holiday - the VillagesGot up and checked out early to give Jenna, another guest, a lift to Moretonhampstead where she was catching a bus. It was a drivingly wet day on the high roads, and persistently drizzly as we came down, so I was glad I'd chosen today to see some of the villages. I was heading North East to my sister's in Bristol, and there were a couple of stops I wanted to make on the way...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip10EfpwOjs7NisLyMPPUmEQOROAOSuDroRvzrBOQRdkhlmWLOlBM2i2uiGfTcZ2k2j73ndGwSjHI249cqfRTm-Q5A54MNl0skKqfpNQWpRh6Dkx0C4JoURngOI_doo6yuwPp9TwwmH_1U/s1600/IMG_2835.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip10EfpwOjs7NisLyMPPUmEQOROAOSuDroRvzrBOQRdkhlmWLOlBM2i2uiGfTcZ2k2j73ndGwSjHI249cqfRTm-Q5A54MNl0skKqfpNQWpRh6Dkx0C4JoURngOI_doo6yuwPp9TwwmH_1U/s320/IMG_2835.JPG" width="264" /></a>Jenna and I let the rain rain itself out over a cup of chamomile, said goodbye, and then I went round the art galleries and craft shops. There's one near the church that has a little museum upstairs, giving a little history of the area. I also passed a really nice forge and tracked down some of the sculptures placed round the village. It's a nice little place, but I didn't want to stop too long. There was somewhere in particular I wanted to visit.<br />
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I headed over to Chagford, where I wanted to spend more of my morning. Chagford is a bigger place, and beautiful to walk round. It's known, among other things, for the community of artists and crafts-folk who live in and around the village. For over five years now I've been following the <a href="http://www.terriwindling.com/" target="_blank">blog of Terri Windling</a>, an author and editor who lives in Chagford and writes about the creative process and what she refers to as the 'mythic arts' over a range of art disciplines. Also I really like her taste in music (listened to on Monday mornings as I start my week at work). Through her blog I've come across a number of other artists who often have this same sense of mythic liminality in their work - capturing both the pragmatically mundane and the otherworldy extraordinary in the same works of art. It's not something I get to pursue much in my own work, but it strikes all the right chords in me and I love to see it. <br />
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Having visited, I can understand why his particular place either draws or grows so many such people. Chagford is perched right on the divide between farmland and moor, occupying a sort of liminal space itself. From the top of the big hill that dominates the village, you can see both landscapes by barely turning your head. For all it's tourist popularity, Dartmoor is still very much a wild space, and I can imagine that living on the edge of it, seeing it eternally hovering above you, would feed that side of you to a point where you just <i>had</i> to make something in response. It's an ever-present source of inspiration, and impossible to get away from.<br />
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There are several galleries local craft shops in and around the Square, all full of work by local artists. The Three Hares gallery was particularly lovely, featuring work exclusively by Eleanor Ludgate.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc7rTUElvRcRqm6IdNCtCYIDrfM3A6chQJemPHkwlINz1q5O8YDSQsN9DTtSbBoV5i_AdRUTPUbC3kPQvBWFyAlgjNUrVD3Xx3WM3ItuoodXH-KIID9JzVfH7NyALrbXpWVhrJg3f-39ND/s1600/the-three-hares.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc7rTUElvRcRqm6IdNCtCYIDrfM3A6chQJemPHkwlINz1q5O8YDSQsN9DTtSbBoV5i_AdRUTPUbC3kPQvBWFyAlgjNUrVD3Xx3WM3ItuoodXH-KIID9JzVfH7NyALrbXpWVhrJg3f-39ND/s400/the-three-hares.jpg" width="396" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's not polite to photograph gallery work for sale, <br />
so this is taken from the website http://devonsnatureinart.com<br />
Even so, it doesn't do justice to the vibrant blues and shimmering golds of the real piece.</td></tr>
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Also, the all-purpose shop in the high street stocking 'Moorland Goods' is arguably one of the most useful shops I've ever seen. I tried to think of something I might want to buy that wasn't stocked there in some form, but couldn't come up wth anything! Poking about in here was a lot of fun.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPGPrCiiI94T-m-JLJ50TKQpGcjoiDd8sgZZAF0WaplN-n_ccOf3APcfZbsnhbITcdfApn8t_oKz82L0WjT12Qiac2rnkaDgB3TLEjdavhMjdfDOCGNpn1CXxZUxZswLLyZ_Ngf_2wPdVh/s1600/IMG_2841.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPGPrCiiI94T-m-JLJ50TKQpGcjoiDd8sgZZAF0WaplN-n_ccOf3APcfZbsnhbITcdfApn8t_oKz82L0WjT12Qiac2rnkaDgB3TLEjdavhMjdfDOCGNpn1CXxZUxZswLLyZ_Ngf_2wPdVh/s640/IMG_2841.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
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The other thing Chagford is known for are the two Tinners Hares that you can find in St Michael's church. A Tinner's Hare is a symbol featuring three running hares with two ears each despite there only being three available between them. It must be magic! They appear in in a few other places, particularly around Devon, but here they can be seen as oak bosses that decorate the church ceiling, one gilded and in the centre near the communion table, and the other tucked away in one of the aisles, but lit with spotlights to aid visitors.<br />
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Although the hares are a special feature, it's worth tearing your eyes off the ceiling if you can to look at the rest of the woodwork, because it's really quite lovely. The rood screen separating the congregation from the choir in particular is incredibly intricate.<br />
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I hadn't planned to do much walking today, as I wanted to turn up in Bristol in a presentable state, but the rain had cleared a bit and I couldn't resist wandering. I followed a road and a path down to Padley Common, and found myself eyeing Meldon Hill - it was staring at me, begging to be climbed. However I couldn't spot how it's path and mine linked up so I decided to return to the car, have my sandwich, and try to work it out on the map. As I headed back to town I found myself walking behind a couple with a black Labrador, all three of them looking oddly familiar...<br />
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As I overtook them the woman glanced at me and I realised that I did recognise her - I recognised all of them - it was Terri Windling, her husband Howard, and their dog Tilly! I was so surprised that I couldn't think what to do - I knew that all these people I'd heard of lived here, but I hadn't expected to actually bump into anybody! - and so I kept walking for a minute, trying to decide if I should say anything. If we'd been at an event it would have been an easy choice, but they were all 'off duty' and probably near home; I didn't want to intrude too much. <br />
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Fortunately there was a gate in our path which I held so they could catch up. I introduced myself and managed to tell Terri how much I enjoy her work, and what I was doing in the area. Despite my wandering suddenly into their personal life, they were very gracious about it, I managed to keep my foot mostly out of my mouth, and Terri even directed me down to a studio in town where some of those artists were setting up for an exhibition. "Tell them I sent you, and they'll let you have a look." They'd finished and gone to lunch when I stuck my head in, but some of the artwork was up in the foyer and so I got to enjoy that. It was lovely of her to do it. What a wonderful surprise to end my Dartmoor visit with!<br />
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And I did get up that hill in the end. Definitely worth the effort.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgva38Isd1ZudH6jxwEeE0SyQQengnkW2QRvyhvsOGxMoPBh_ecsSQc7gSvlMk8BUPTky4IeI2oPaR_pF4XE3Jzd1v4sQlG3mAQcgZQKatX9xWkCqZ1C8abaBcA4wEIh7WxlnHeZ4I6oQcJ/s1600/IMG_2873.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgva38Isd1ZudH6jxwEeE0SyQQengnkW2QRvyhvsOGxMoPBh_ecsSQc7gSvlMk8BUPTky4IeI2oPaR_pF4XE3Jzd1v4sQlG3mAQcgZQKatX9xWkCqZ1C8abaBcA4wEIh7WxlnHeZ4I6oQcJ/s640/IMG_2873.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On top of Meldon Hill, looking towards Chagford and the civilised farmland beyond</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMfcb59GziQ4-NymqLU1tBnofa5ADQ45kove1czgM-RbqNg-laHehoz1AuKHyo39RtX7fR3Bb6LQU2gcyh8ldLJfUWBHVEmKIxOQ2iWIGxX4_1quCMHp0vw3GvIFk-AIwEFVe1pBSx7go3/s1600/IMG_2875.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMfcb59GziQ4-NymqLU1tBnofa5ADQ45kove1czgM-RbqNg-laHehoz1AuKHyo39RtX7fR3Bb6LQU2gcyh8ldLJfUWBHVEmKIxOQ2iWIGxX4_1quCMHp0vw3GvIFk-AIwEFVe1pBSx7go3/s640/IMG_2875.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And turning only slightly, the heights of Dartmoor just a few miles away.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiykvBJBnNX-FOhg0T0foopoUSoSjo2leTxy98HjOe8MMmr2Wl9avHYzORW41dd-NRVKeKLnmPcZzynIM0vEbS4xQARURIw87yKq21lmoBdMgj3SwhBXi5YkZl1tUTDYAtaYEy2-BhoVk5l/s1600/IMG_2886.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="440" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiykvBJBnNX-FOhg0T0foopoUSoSjo2leTxy98HjOe8MMmr2Wl9avHYzORW41dd-NRVKeKLnmPcZzynIM0vEbS4xQARURIw87yKq21lmoBdMgj3SwhBXi5YkZl1tUTDYAtaYEy2-BhoVk5l/s640/IMG_2886.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Also, this little gentleman scratching an itch.</td></tr>
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My last stop was the nearby Castle Drogo, a faux castle built by a guy who'd made his fortune establishing what became a famous supermarket chain, but didn't have the sense not to put a flat roof on a building on the edge of Dartmoor. It's been leaking ever since and consequently needs massive restoration. "National Trust is saving Castle Drogo" read the signs. "From itself!" I wanted to add with a marker pen. As usual NT card holders get in for free and you can look round the finished parts of it, and see what they're up against and how this sort of work actually gets done. The gardens are also very nice. It's a good spot for a castle, with a beautiful view across the valley, and I'm sure it'll be lovely when it's done. Again.<br />
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And finally to Bristol, to eat fish and chips, and have a glass of wine and good old natter with my sister.<br />
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Cost:<br />
A cup of tea: £2<br />
<br />Michelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6495076709366887714.post-1902969093128538402017-10-03T00:04:00.000+01:002017-11-15T01:06:24.149+00:00South West holiday - the TorsI ad a little lie in this morning while the others showered, but I still managed to be on the road by 9am. I drove through the picturesque little village of Widdecombe-in-the-Moor, slowing down for ponies on the verges and cattle being herded down the road by a farmer on a quadbike.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Breakfast</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The foal was a bit nervous of me, but after skittering around a bit <br />
her mother called her over and she settled down to feed<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">.</span></td></tr>
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Then up onto the moors in the early September sunlight. I was near Haytor, one of the big famous tors in this part of Dartmoor, and it's easy to see why. It's huge and iconic, with a vertical side popular with climbers and a less steep way of scrambling up from the back. There's a visitor centre a short walk down the hill that makes your walk up a short one, but where's the fun in that? I left the car over at Saddle Tor instead, and wandered past Rippon Tor, across to Haytor and the rocks beyond.<br />
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Had fun rooting around, skirting a more agitated group of ponies, and then passing some cattle which ignored me completely, even though they had calves with them. I think this trip is going some way to addressing my fear of charging bovines! It's just such a fun place to play. Things to climb and look under, a new view round every boulder, and some amazing rock formations. I keep thinking that the tors are sort of sat on top of the hills somewhere, like cairns to mark the high points, and forgetting that in fact they are only the exposed heights of the hills, surrounding soil ripped away by wind and ice and rain. Even the mighty Rippon Tor is just the tip of a vast granite iceberg.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from Haytor, looking south. That silver line on the horizon is the mouth of the river Teign, where it runs into the sea.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A well-balanced cairn</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sculptures</td></tr>
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Made a wide loop back, over to Bonehills and followed the line of tors to Chiswell (which had probably one of my favoruite views of the day) and Honeybags. My end goal was Hound Tor, which you can see across the valley, but it looked far enough away that I had to talk myself into starting. Once I was moving and there were things to see and problems to solve, I forgot I'd been reticent.<br />
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After what looked like a gate turned out not the be a gate, I had to double back on myself and handrail a drystone wall back to the heath. The knowledge of bog plants I'd been given two days earlier suddenly came very much in useful! I saw the brown-husked grass long before I got to it. It grows where there's been wet for a long time, whereas the gorse and heather like drier soil. There was such a clear end of one kind of plant and the start of the other, like countries on a map, that it was easy to pick a way round.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8u-sArTx8A3yrgHINpRBE1PC8_l2tFb9qJgfCQAeYq9ZLcHBuALdnq_0B1wMk8gLio3X36VcLfSXqOcY-UQS1v2-R9_iH5yh49zFpejyyQ1mtIMqcRbsnI2BntX4KYYqKOQU4e9fRrenz/s1600/IMG_2797.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8u-sArTx8A3yrgHINpRBE1PC8_l2tFb9qJgfCQAeYq9ZLcHBuALdnq_0B1wMk8gLio3X36VcLfSXqOcY-UQS1v2-R9_iH5yh49zFpejyyQ1mtIMqcRbsnI2BntX4KYYqKOQU4e9fRrenz/s640/IMG_2797.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Added a rock to this balancing art I found. And look- there's a shield bug on it!</td></tr>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU7eZ-cIhx1l3nYWEZ2kc-rjJofulaSPnaGBjF4Obv6sPxe7BITN-58xJ263K2tq0EcL95w-NAohFM-afMnWhiszlbg6ffhE11R_PTTn7zMMZH_ZkiRGiuvKXw5EStbgz0gM9NVSnSzsUz/s1600/IMG_2774.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU7eZ-cIhx1l3nYWEZ2kc-rjJofulaSPnaGBjF4Obv6sPxe7BITN-58xJ263K2tq0EcL95w-NAohFM-afMnWhiszlbg6ffhE11R_PTTn7zMMZH_ZkiRGiuvKXw5EStbgz0gM9NVSnSzsUz/s640/IMG_2774.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Gorse and heather, heather and gorse. Both in flower, and so beautiful together.<br />
If in doubt between long brown grass and this stuff, always pick the heather</td></tr>
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After that it was over the heath (more ponies, watching me suspiciously), across the road, through two fields, and over to Hound Tor. This tor is absolutely massive, like a stone city, and I think I prefer it to Haytor just because of it's shapes and nooks; it's great to clamber on! It's constructed of two huge outcrops with a channels carved between them, through which the wind rushes. There was a group of outdoor activity kids wearing hard hats, and some of them (with help) were allowed to climb to the very top - too scary for me! I watched them while I ate my lunch, wedged between two rocks out of the wind, and then walked back to Bonehills and the car. It wasn't as far as it had initially appeared (or it was, but I did it) however I had been so reluctant to take it on that I'm really proud of myself for finishing it - and for starting.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Approaching Hound Tor from the South West</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPfEFCnVZa4Dee_SU9M4DS-i_l6NY5f__kHgzhzAs-NH7EHRiTgbMCHE9hqO00flhXrwtt1mjERXXNmSN9-fEq9i1qZzScSKoSisaKT5oiMAJYUj6fFBlBrSXholXvra4Ng20cLv4yB75h/s1600/IMG_2801.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPfEFCnVZa4Dee_SU9M4DS-i_l6NY5f__kHgzhzAs-NH7EHRiTgbMCHE9hqO00flhXrwtt1mjERXXNmSN9-fEq9i1qZzScSKoSisaKT5oiMAJYUj6fFBlBrSXholXvra4Ng20cLv4yB75h/s640/IMG_2801.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Entering the wind tunnel of Hound Tor</td></tr>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7pvPgwHMt-LYSfgbf66TLcl4dz-ALBCxDudoziQd2UMeIxWLPj4F8U0BuC3wR7q_aTrWXQQp1mZb4RoTNzTq7srIZLypO5l5AMU3OsBflNNzo1n_Skl6jmCcRAV3qA_Gvv8fmRXgP2qf0/s1600/IMG_2808.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7pvPgwHMt-LYSfgbf66TLcl4dz-ALBCxDudoziQd2UMeIxWLPj4F8U0BuC3wR7q_aTrWXQQp1mZb4RoTNzTq7srIZLypO5l5AMU3OsBflNNzo1n_Skl6jmCcRAV3qA_Gvv8fmRXgP2qf0/s640/IMG_2808.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption">Brave kids!</td></tr>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaTQKC8Mry0D2czkFEgxRQlmHMXj1gbu4WQBACZ4VMVM3BNSeyaZ-H1cqMZYj5zkc7vkEwlk27KLiJy5OdaN37vu8YgqP_BZgz3HGLvbFIUJHpb49dJJy6niqkiS9y1CvCn-BmrqpdfJrd/s1600/IMG_2815+Sheep%2527s+bit+scabious.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaTQKC8Mry0D2czkFEgxRQlmHMXj1gbu4WQBACZ4VMVM3BNSeyaZ-H1cqMZYj5zkc7vkEwlk27KLiJy5OdaN37vu8YgqP_BZgz3HGLvbFIUJHpb49dJJy6niqkiS9y1CvCn-BmrqpdfJrd/s640/IMG_2815+Sheep%2527s+bit+scabious.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption">Some beautiful Sheep's Bit Scabious growing in the hedge</td></tr>
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After 6 hours of happily ambling about, I decided that was enough trekking for one day. I stopped to buy some postcards then went down to see Buckfast Abbey at Buckfastleigh. There's been an abbey here since 1018 but this building is new, built between 1907 and 1938, so the whole things looks very smart and neat and colourful. It seems almost odd, until you remember that all the abbeys that are old now must have looked like that when they were new. In that sense this is a much more accurate form of time travel.</div>
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I walked round slowly, and lit a candle t say thank you for a good stay. I've loved being here - the simplicity of it, just getting up to walk each day, of the space and the blessed quiet, the not being aware of what I look like - only what my body is doing, what it feels and senses. I come home in the evenings tired but in an almost drugged state of contented pleasure. I ache but not painfully, just with limbs well used. I've been eating so little compared to what I would at home that Mum might be concerned (and I do need some veg!) but actually I've not been hungry. I've eaten lunch because it's lunchtime, not because I'm starving, and in the evenings a bowl of pasta, soup, or noodles seems enough. I go to bed at 10.30pm and read in the evenings when I'm not chatting with the other guests. I'm so happy here. I needed this.<br />
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Thinking back on this sudden contentment, it's interesting because it suggests that state of mind is at least partly a force of habit. I've become so used to feeling sad that I've been defaulting to sadness, like an ongoing spiral. However that also suggests than with a bit of careful management, an upward spiral is also possible, and I can create the conditions for it. I think I did know this once, but sometimes you need a fellow traveller/sports psychiatrist to explain this to you in an isolated youth hostel before it makes any sense.<br />
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Had a snack and reclined on the bench outside the abbey cafe, overlooked by a wide but young beech tree (you know a beech in summer by it's classic rounded leaf shape, but with crinkle-cut edges). It was raining again, and I lay for over half a hour just listening to the rain fall on the leaves and the canopy above me. It must have looked a bit odd, but nobody stopped me (thanks, Sybil Leek!) and it was very meditative, like listening to white noise. And then I realised that was silly - the reason white noise works is because it imitates the rain.<br />
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I popped into Buckfastleigh post office to take out some spare cash (finally!) Not that I've needed any round here. I've only bought odd bits of food, and all of the attractions I'm interested in are free! I've had £7 cash in my purse for the past four days and not been worried at all. <br />
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Went back to the hostel for dinner and packing before I leave tomorrow, and ended up in two long conversations. Trish, who is waiting for the keys to her new house told me about her life as a carer, both for her family and professionally. It's strange the paths people's lives take and where the turns are - both the ones we make and the way the road swings. Then that night I talked with a man named Jonathon, who is doing a tour by motorbike to talk with people about UK politics and how small local groups might take more effective action than the usual London-based protest on a weekday. Although we were just shooting the breeze we had a few ideas and I'm interested to see how his <a href="https://decencyandsurvival.com/" target="_blank">tour</a> develops.<br />
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Bed + Board: £15<br />
Food: £5 snack<br />
Gifts: £6<br />
Fuel for the journey home: £44</div>
Michelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6495076709366887714.post-50741167625758150642017-09-30T01:23:00.001+01:002017-11-15T00:52:10.181+00:00South West holiday - the MoorUp around 8am today, breakfast, and then off for the first walk of the day, up Bellever Tor which is just outside the hostel.<br />
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I decided to take the longer route through Bellever Forest, a pine plantation that runs up the hill. As you walk through the rows of tall conifers, you can look up the hill and see the moss, all growing on the same side of the trees, or down and see their bare backs. It was a quiet walk but I met a couple of people wandering through: a few fellow hikers and a forest ranger.<br />
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I went up to the top of the Top for a climb and a play about. It was very windy, with a little drizzle blowing in, but that seemed about right and didn't spoil the view at all. My first long view of the expanses of Dartmoor. I'm from Norfolk, which has a very different style of long view, but to have so much sky all to myself felt right.<br />
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Meanderedering around I spent some time watching ponies, and then came down the other side towards Postbridge to look for the stone rows, cists (burial stones) and hut circles that were in the area. Found a few too! Some are authentic, while others have been over-enthusiastically reconstructed by those pesky Victorians.<br />
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When I finally came back down from the Tor (the short route!) it was 11.30 and I could drive down to Postbridge to go to the Visitors Centre and pick up a proper OS map. From there I went to Two Bridges, with the intention of taking the short and well-trodden path to Wistman's Wood. I've wanted to go here for a long time, but as usual the path less taken proved distracting. What I ended up doing first was going up onto the moor and walking from tor to tor, all the way to Upper White Tor. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first tor. Go over that wall and down into the far valley, and you'll get back to Postbridge </td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKJoEmd3JqkKjaq7IxqvyfYOP0SvHdMM08V1Btx4N4P1N8JNr3_VHC5Ury6DMQuv9asyMT5I13FtugVXsjrRy_kP5EZKmUUSnLep9VaEiJLEzzoakdFcCAb5nAeD_AH3mW7NrHa2_F7Nm9/s1600/IMG_2630.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKJoEmd3JqkKjaq7IxqvyfYOP0SvHdMM08V1Btx4N4P1N8JNr3_VHC5Ury6DMQuv9asyMT5I13FtugVXsjrRy_kP5EZKmUUSnLep9VaEiJLEzzoakdFcCAb5nAeD_AH3mW7NrHa2_F7Nm9/s640/IMG_2630.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sheep and I stared at each other</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The route back. Just follow the tors into the distance.</td></tr>
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Each time I reached one tor, I'd spot another, and couldn't resist going just a little bit further. The weather, though very windy so high up, was gorgeous - just a little sunny and nice and clear with no risk of low cloud. I suddenly realise that I felt so happy. Happy being up there and being able to see so far, and enjoying myself so much walking through the world. Even here, the little yellow Tormentil flowers were easy to spot. I sat in the lee of a tor to eat my packed lunch, then kept going.<br />
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Eventually I did turn round and came back down to Wistman's Wood, which was like walking into the Old Forest from The Lord of the Rings. It's one of the three ancient woodlands that used to cover what is now moorland, and is thick with green. You're clambering over rocks inches deep in moss (carefully, trying not to disturb it), surrounded by gnarly, stunted oak trees, ferns growing out of their branches in miniature copies of the wood, green beards wafting like spiderwebs in the breeze. The canopy muffles the sound from outside, enclosing you in your own little world. It's a small wood, but it's own little dimension that makes imaging mythical creatures very easy. The photos really don't do it justice.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYcdPFDtTbUr3oPLcnqZAlRgOBicdRCPJEt-Ry747ronMCTideGB7Iy8vq5kc06ixOSmHSMEJxKJvqy4jmS1UjistnA9fZi-TwvJDTyBJFYepTyEZTcKS8MQ5QPS7dQXliuB7muzo6DNer/s1600/IMG_2653.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYcdPFDtTbUr3oPLcnqZAlRgOBicdRCPJEt-Ry747ronMCTideGB7Iy8vq5kc06ixOSmHSMEJxKJvqy4jmS1UjistnA9fZi-TwvJDTyBJFYepTyEZTcKS8MQ5QPS7dQXliuB7muzo6DNer/s640/IMG_2653.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Into the green of Wistman's Wood</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAs3a4C9Mz8zeNW6XYj2ssXtVl2zXycHogH5qKr3BFqoHKzIEUNoVZ_oUXkPDbxeKyqyJn8oDxLLehfIHVv_PO2lzQemJJ62EAbdJTGeZTaQjw70HbLE7nRuDeo25aJ_wdnrfBUXqOdon1/s1600/IMG_2664.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAs3a4C9Mz8zeNW6XYj2ssXtVl2zXycHogH5qKr3BFqoHKzIEUNoVZ_oUXkPDbxeKyqyJn8oDxLLehfIHVv_PO2lzQemJJ62EAbdJTGeZTaQjw70HbLE7nRuDeo25aJ_wdnrfBUXqOdon1/s640/IMG_2664.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fern garden on a tree branch</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgerTGJv5LIrEm4OZagZ1nAhrFPNdv0hWVV5vGd0LT8tMUSX1WSNjRLKTVqCme_0X7EkCjJUKm7xpTElVeb4ZtyLQSxY8Zwf6G825AHz04jT2_tDhecsS1XnjJm2uR2DdP_NFnZ5fqSyjGK/s1600/IMG_2658.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgerTGJv5LIrEm4OZagZ1nAhrFPNdv0hWVV5vGd0LT8tMUSX1WSNjRLKTVqCme_0X7EkCjJUKm7xpTElVeb4ZtyLQSxY8Zwf6G825AHz04jT2_tDhecsS1XnjJm2uR2DdP_NFnZ5fqSyjGK/s640/IMG_2658.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A mossy beard</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Someone's said a prayer here. I left it alone.</td></tr>
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I love it here. I'm already thinking that three days will not be enough time to soak it all slowly in, and I've been lucky with the weather so far. I just love the quiet and the space and the openness of it. I'd forgotten how much I value these things, and it makes me think that I will enjoy having a house.</div>
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Wind-burned, tired, invigorated, happy.</div>
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Bed + Board: £15</div>
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Food: £4 groceries and drinks</div>
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Map: £8</div>
Michelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6495076709366887714.post-88897985513644794892017-09-30T00:47:00.003+01:002017-12-08T23:49:57.155+00:00South West holiday - the GuideDrove to Dartmoor - a harder task than it looked! It was a drizzly morning in Dorset, but as I got into Devon everything went very grey and saturated and 'orrible. I was driving through quite a thick fog bank at one point, and getting rather worried! However as I got towards Exeter it ended up as just a bit spitty and even a little blue sky.<br />
Getting onto Dartmoor is a mini challenge in itself. Once you turn off the big roads suddenly it's all steep climbs and sudden turns, much like the Peak District, and then you pop out the top onto an expanse of moor like entering another world. There are vast spaces, Tors everywhere you look, moor ponies (shaggier and rougher than their New Forest counterparts) and the heights were hidden in clouds. As was Princetown, where I was meeting my walking guide Simon Dell.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>Hiring a walking guide was the only bit of holiday planning I'd actually done. Since I'd never been to the area before it seemed like a great way to learn about what I was going to see during my stay, and what to watch out for on a somewhat notorious landscape! I emailed Moorland Guides and although they normally take groups, Simon was kind enough to slot me in as a lone walker (as well as giving me a discount that he really didn't have to!)<br />
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The weather looked miserable but really Princetown was just in a cloud and really quite warm. I had some soup and cake in the Fox Tor cafe and was feeling more optimistic when Simon walked in the back door and spotted me. He turned out to be a twinkly-eyed, white haired man in his sixties, and a non-stop talker. Immediately likeable and friendly, he invited me to sit with him and his friend as they caught up over coffee and cake. He decided that although the weather was likely to lift, there wasn't much point going to see a long view. Instead he took me to Merrivale (parked at Four Winds) which was great! Within only a few square miles he took me from millions of years ago all the way up to 1940.<br />
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There were stone hut circles from the bronze age, with their south facing door posts to get the best of the sun. They'd be built round a tree, which became the central pole for a thatched tipi. The smoke from the fire at the back collected at the top and dispersed, making it a good place to hang and smoke your meat. Once you've learned to identify one hut, you realise there are literally dozens, scattered all around you. Here specifically, there are twenty four.<br />
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There were burial chambers, full of imported flint ("Oh look!" Simon exclaimed, bending down and producing a sample out of a puddle "See that edge? That's been knapped, that has."), and marked by menhirs that attract a dowsing rod when you put your hand on them. Ancient calendars that line up with each other and cast shadows from one standing stone to another on the solstices. He showed me the difference between the stocky hill ponies ("See, that's one!") and the larger, darker heritage ponies ("That one's got a foal!") that have been bred to try and replicate older stock. <br />
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He walked me round a medieval longhouse, with its thresh-hold and kitchen garden, and a manmade rabbit warren. He explained to me the formation of the granite tors, and how men had drilled holes along them, like perforating a stamp, to split the hard stone. I even found a new one for him, where someone had made a mistake and had to re-drill the holes!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJrW13ZiFw5xwAqqgWFfASWzwbwE5W7Sn_eTMqL3fI3PhnUhsBq7ho9mvT1tPBJR4xvYjB1zj9I4UVH3foelVrAgFIJTQsbjsiJND3ZW-yzTrMQ92rEZ5ovmKiTD7YRcjEJ_gik6ekmnII/s1600/IMG_2564.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJrW13ZiFw5xwAqqgWFfASWzwbwE5W7Sn_eTMqL3fI3PhnUhsBq7ho9mvT1tPBJR4xvYjB1zj9I4UVH3foelVrAgFIJTQsbjsiJND3ZW-yzTrMQ92rEZ5ovmKiTD7YRcjEJ_gik6ekmnII/s640/IMG_2564.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Simon performs magic, producing water out of rock!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"You had one job, Brian! Do it again!"</td></tr>
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He pointed out the yellow four-leaved Tormentil that was used to make a cure-all tea, and the Spagnum moss that grows lime green in the bogs ("You've heard of the famous Dartmoor bogs that swallow ponies and escaped criminals whole, haven't you?" "Yes. Yes, I have." "Want to see one?" "Okay!" and off we trotted) and was used to pack wounds in World War 1 to prevent gangrene. It self-roots in the water, floating like seaweed, and the greener it is, the deeper the drop beneath. And we found the beautiful tiny red Sundews, no bigger than your smallest fingernail, that are the carnivorous fly-catching mouth of the bog. As they digest the flies they catch, the nutrients feed the other plants too. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuzJQSPa1ISkcCKuxSVwnW4mHlbbA4QETedcFFFCM4sS_9b3K9mgtII_XMsY-u2UfgWWceKz-1UrllX39g43g908SJGRiYfnT_uu5WsDhwXBsCNZZJN8VRDKywyTLpPp-GTRfXHf7Te_Xy/s1600/IMG_2577b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuzJQSPa1ISkcCKuxSVwnW4mHlbbA4QETedcFFFCM4sS_9b3K9mgtII_XMsY-u2UfgWWceKz-1UrllX39g43g908SJGRiYfnT_uu5WsDhwXBsCNZZJN8VRDKywyTLpPp-GTRfXHf7Te_Xy/s640/IMG_2577b.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That patch of bright inviting green behind me? That's a bog 8ft deep. Try to run through it and you'd go straight down.</td></tr>
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He pointed out way-markers, fifty metres apart, to guide travellers across the moors in the dense fog.<br />
And finally, in the car park which had once been a school, the pine tree that had been once a Christmas tree gifted to the students in the 1920s by the inmates of Dartmoor prison. Now it's huge and the canopy fills the schoolyard.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Ta3sWgx9n-tWwiNi073UaMwv4eYOuXxT6HecMu6ynYFP9CkmQWkLtEA3mvvUJfcGgBuGgOq43spm8zU12M33iQtmHaK0s4uhyVrtT79cQDCUyTJZqj2q4SkWAdOcH5BseUEEDPBUves9/s1600/IMG_2582.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Ta3sWgx9n-tWwiNi073UaMwv4eYOuXxT6HecMu6ynYFP9CkmQWkLtEA3mvvUJfcGgBuGgOq43spm8zU12M33iQtmHaK0s4uhyVrtT79cQDCUyTJZqj2q4SkWAdOcH5BseUEEDPBUves9/s640/IMG_2582.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mother and foal at Four Winds</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyu9D2SguNaMFRfR7Wts8dg7j-zHzf7aETUBY3Djn5pQhihHM6wd9hujPUXalM5_w_6OCatPondy4TsIF7AJ6EQ79d-5tfpkne42dXWo0V0kaACfOsgDklraUnZqzE6AZ1E6EVTX04TTVv/s1600/IMG_2580.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyu9D2SguNaMFRfR7Wts8dg7j-zHzf7aETUBY3Djn5pQhihHM6wd9hujPUXalM5_w_6OCatPondy4TsIF7AJ6EQ79d-5tfpkne42dXWo0V0kaACfOsgDklraUnZqzE6AZ1E6EVTX04TTVv/s640/IMG_2580.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The A's lead to Aschcombe. The T's on the other side lead to Tavistock.</td></tr>
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Despite mixed weather - coolly pleasant to driving mizzle, I had a really great time. Simon knew so much and was so enthusiastic, and had all the names for the weather and the features of the landscape. Well worth the money, and a great first day. Always take the guided tour!<br />
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I'm staying at the YHA at Bellever, sharing a dorm with some other women. There's a surprising (Is it surprising? Why is it?) number of singles here. We have<br />
- a middle-aged lady from Ireland doing a cycling tour of Devon, who had come up from Exeter that morning.<br />
- two couples with at least one German-speaking partner both with younger kids.<br />
- a woman waiting to move into her new house<br />
- a sole female walker from elsewhere in Devon<br />
- a mid-twenties marathon trainee from Southampton<br />
- three teenage girls bunking together<br />
- lone dad with grumpy bleach-haired teen<br />
- hardcore walking sports psychiatrist guy<br />
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The variety, and the high number of female singles, most of them older than me, having a perfectly nice time and enjoying each other's company, is very encouraging to me. In the evening we all just sit about and chat, which is why we chose to hostel in the first place.<br />
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Bed + board: £15 (I'm self catering out of the contents of the freezer bag)<br />
Guide: £30<br />
Parking in Princeton: £2<br />
Top-up groceries: £5Michelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6495076709366887714.post-11236659218402014892017-09-29T23:43:00.004+01:002017-11-15T00:26:22.954+00:00South West holiday - The SeaToday the cheap holiday was briefly derailed so I could go buy a new raincoat, the old one having finally succumbed after years of hard service and The Kinderscout Incident, after which it has never been the same. I like the new one though, and it's a little bit smarter so it will do for work as well.<br />
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That done, I let the sat nav drive me to Burley by any number of tiny back roads. Some lovely scenery though, and it gave the day time to turn from a misty cool morning into a day of cloud breaks, sudden sunbursts and, dare I say it, warmth. I stripped right back down to my Tshirt.<br />
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I like Burley a lot. It's very tiny, almost not there, but the surrounding countryside is wonderful. You can park above the village in the Forestry Commission car park for free and then just go off wandering into the heath. Gentle climbs and easy paths take you through the endless purple of the heather in bloom. It sounds like fanciful poetry, but I swear it's true; when the wind was right, the air smelled like honey. <br />
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And there were ponies everywhere. <br />
In gangs of three and five on the moor, thirty of them in a squad at the cricket green, ambling round the pub car park and haunting the woods. They move through the trees like ghosts, and want little to do with you. Poised study bodies moving slowly as their constantly graze, apart from their lips, which are rapidly mumbling over the ground. There are curve-horned cattle up here too, which I stayed well clear of.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_KCsIu9yxjDNyJLmFUDM1v6M2iJYyv8WyW9KC5ntxIZJGgEQww3p4F9By7H6rXSAkAsoF4YdfNdbkP7JK2N33tDv4HzHSyELHwcFuM5g8UjDiTiCi7Wiu_9xWLPI2ZC3Rovb9egNezH8s/s1600/IMG_2510.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_KCsIu9yxjDNyJLmFUDM1v6M2iJYyv8WyW9KC5ntxIZJGgEQww3p4F9By7H6rXSAkAsoF4YdfNdbkP7JK2N33tDv4HzHSyELHwcFuM5g8UjDiTiCi7Wiu_9xWLPI2ZC3Rovb9egNezH8s/s640/IMG_2510.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGF4y22JgfrkuO3gWW8hVo1i1_ZZYW_25BJA56VbdH9isEU8fjOMofs8ploKW27ZaHDPy-hFE_Xygj9KkdUVheUY7tiaO_paYNb3u6uQm0FGnKhNoT5e4prrl2BTeNH8-OUZDqNzUDU22U/s1600/sybil-leek.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGF4y22JgfrkuO3gWW8hVo1i1_ZZYW_25BJA56VbdH9isEU8fjOMofs8ploKW27ZaHDPy-hFE_Xygj9KkdUVheUY7tiaO_paYNb3u6uQm0FGnKhNoT5e4prrl2BTeNH8-OUZDqNzUDU22U/s320/sybil-leek.jpg" width="233" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sybil Leek (and Mr Hotfoot Jackson)</td></tr>
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After wandering for an hour or so I went down into the village, which is mostly small shops and one large pub. Burley's claim to fame is a witch namesd Sybil Leek who lived here in the 1950s, announcing herself just after the laws against it were dropped. She flew the flag proudly and garnered quite a bit of attention; a plump middle-aged lady in a black cloak and a pet crow on her shoulder. A few of the shops are themed around witchcraft for that reason, and it made me chuckle when I stuck my head in, as if that's what really witchcraft was; a funny hat and some faux-torn clothing in tie-dyed purple. Not that I want any part in spell-casting, but I know enough wiccans and pagans to know that for all it's spiritual dabbling, it's mostly people in their kitchens, or jumping over a fire on particular days, or trying to feel part of a fringe philosophy. None of this tourist paraphernalia. <br />
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A village has made a living out of one lady who dared to look a bit odd in public. Well, fair enough.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ8C6uDtuIiCB1w-Vebbxm7aQEdykweZle8xvZLRHGW8fGsArMAwJkcAomOoqr4abaLMvsHY-G1W0BdieB3r5MHXrmj4katJWpCTcqfqv3YQwa3QZUgZqp9rm7HuLiXT-o0-7G9ClcTDi7/s1600/IMG_2513.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ8C6uDtuIiCB1w-Vebbxm7aQEdykweZle8xvZLRHGW8fGsArMAwJkcAomOoqr4abaLMvsHY-G1W0BdieB3r5MHXrmj4katJWpCTcqfqv3YQwa3QZUgZqp9rm7HuLiXT-o0-7G9ClcTDi7/s640/IMG_2513.JPG" width="640" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ8C6uDtuIiCB1w-Vebbxm7aQEdykweZle8xvZLRHGW8fGsArMAwJkcAomOoqr4abaLMvsHY-G1W0BdieB3r5MHXrmj4katJWpCTcqfqv3YQwa3QZUgZqp9rm7HuLiXT-o0-7G9ClcTDi7/s1600/IMG_2513.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><br />
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Popped into the local shop for a few bits, picked up some fudge (for work) and cider (for me), watched the ponies some more. Obviously I'm enjoying the novelty of them, but it must be a pain when they poo all over the village, and try to get into your garden. Most of the houses have cattle grids across the drives to keep them out.<br />
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Went for a drive down to Brockenhurst (mostly just for the watersplash!) stopping at various points to meader and watch more ponies. Some mothers and foals were having naps on the roadside. As long as you don't move to touch them, they don't mind you sitting there quietly. I'm used to seeing people feeding pigeons and squirrels by the roadside, but not something quite this large!<br />
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Finally I headed down to the coast and Milton-on-the-Sea, a gravel beach from which you can see the Needles and lighthouse on the Isle of Wight. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBBETZ9PYNt0JwNxYevRp5xDzyBLW31651C4x7oiQKoPasnqLumLymhGbNZu5__d3D_6eRwIGf-S61NlkEAW7nd9VZu08Kc2vE7NLMZ75PP9XcedJ_-vHs8YWKNbNHcLtD2Wc8Y5c-aUk-/s1600/IMG_2544.JPG" imageanchor="1"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ptJtjhLSjdtD7HhdZMMCFNGonW_0-3F4AhvDlzEpG0gPam5ceVhdxDhHP0v_wuSxUapLz4_LsWOb2CGSmIlncI4naqV_ryNEpPM2abvxsRLQjRAV9JZ9hg6Lf_Dtp5SGBEZC7F4y9cor/s1600/IMG_2555.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ptJtjhLSjdtD7HhdZMMCFNGonW_0-3F4AhvDlzEpG0gPam5ceVhdxDhHP0v_wuSxUapLz4_LsWOb2CGSmIlncI4naqV_ryNEpPM2abvxsRLQjRAV9JZ9hg6Lf_Dtp5SGBEZC7F4y9cor/s640/IMG_2555.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5JFvLWxK_Zy609IorsN-xiKvYB-k8wxLzLOp1caxlxZUb7iaiRyh2yLx6hVVMnHhit-OAGXEI9nUuudI1jon6Klg_3NSYSJyWRLGw6L2WNs49H9Rjh1X3d4GtQq_clAwfFKHjYc_ecf_M/s1600/IMG_2554.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5JFvLWxK_Zy609IorsN-xiKvYB-k8wxLzLOp1caxlxZUb7iaiRyh2yLx6hVVMnHhit-OAGXEI9nUuudI1jon6Klg_3NSYSJyWRLGw6L2WNs49H9Rjh1X3d4GtQq_clAwfFKHjYc_ecf_M/s640/IMG_2554.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Towards the Needles</td></tr>
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I sat here for a long while, mulling to myself and looking out at the sea. The weather was warm, if a bit too rough for a swim, but I paddled, as I always do. I've never been to the sea and not gone in it in some capacity. This time I stayed in the surf, walking along in the foam of the breakers, and suddenly felt moved to read a Psalm out loud s a prayer. Arbitrarily I picked 24 and 25, and spoke them to the sea, which seemed especially right considering how 24 begins. I was in tears at a few points but having made it through I felt somehow fresher and more awake afterwards.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv9Ws3k39HaWOAlY-dStbkmAaVhU8wIJexRgdkj44GZHdcOfPUlD8odcG4s359Lp2SAHmolEx-JqWO7CtYp_-Ib0k9vChZ0-hXfcudDN7MC7v29HGXa6TLYjGOAZsvO1jXqh0RK65iRA9x/s1600/photo+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv9Ws3k39HaWOAlY-dStbkmAaVhU8wIJexRgdkj44GZHdcOfPUlD8odcG4s359Lp2SAHmolEx-JqWO7CtYp_-Ib0k9vChZ0-hXfcudDN7MC7v29HGXa6TLYjGOAZsvO1jXqh0RK65iRA9x/s640/photo+2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Light over the water</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4QPDvlIwE4xu9GcaEmAWd_vHiOU4i0uPFFpzqYmyDGXSeN4FZkHtUo3Omw-tRFwglTLicDinAS367u2th03wKV0nDqCwmsH2CcFReNXuTrd9uhh4NnzlrOOWd370pwR_T2N-ulf1OBHhX/s1600/IMG_2550.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4QPDvlIwE4xu9GcaEmAWd_vHiOU4i0uPFFpzqYmyDGXSeN4FZkHtUo3Omw-tRFwglTLicDinAS367u2th03wKV0nDqCwmsH2CcFReNXuTrd9uhh4NnzlrOOWd370pwR_T2N-ulf1OBHhX/s640/IMG_2550.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Feet in foam</td></tr>
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It's funny to be on holiday when people are working. You're there to look at things, at spectacles, which only are the way they are because people got on and lived their everyday lives. And now their lives are an attraction. It's very strange to think that one day our lives, individually and as a mass habit, will provide entertainment and tourism for someone else. People will visit our homes and say "someone did Something here once." We can do Something too. We must not imagine that all the Somethings are done only by other people in the past. We must make Somethings happen now, to us.<br />
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Spent the evening in with the grandparents again, watching University Challenge. There was a round on Hamilton, of all things, and I got every question right! And my sister phoned, which was lovely. I'm now packed up, and ready to head on to Dartmoor tomorrow.<br />
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Bed + board: Pleasant company, and a certain amount of opera<br />
Cider and sandwich materials: £5<br />
Fudge x2: £7Michelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6495076709366887714.post-71121060352138947572017-09-29T22:54:00.000+01:002017-11-15T00:10:17.770+00:00South West holiday - The ForestSunday today, and it has been raining quietly but insistently all day. Had a slow breakfast and chat with Grandad, who was doing Bible study before the morning church service. He was full of rejoicing over the subject, as he usually is. I was mainly full of tea and chocolate croissants.<br />
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Around 9.30, slightly later than planned, I headed off to Lyndhurst. It seemed sensible to try that far side of the New Forest today, partly in case the rain was less there (it wasn't) and also to see if the visitor centre was open (it was).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNP5xrQ-5BkeHvla6xETT9UGg2kcuUkmw0aAWYvnOeGaw0opqgBRXMI7YzdPrLWSCuIbZCrea-ks-Vmjqy0iWu8cEzI6SVRKn3jPCGqkFSVNZSiUkSHouLq_KBfVOX6nci1Ah7bIatHqIs/s1600/IMG_2429.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNP5xrQ-5BkeHvla6xETT9UGg2kcuUkmw0aAWYvnOeGaw0opqgBRXMI7YzdPrLWSCuIbZCrea-ks-Vmjqy0iWu8cEzI6SVRKn3jPCGqkFSVNZSiUkSHouLq_KBfVOX6nci1Ah7bIatHqIs/s640/IMG_2429.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
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<a name='more'></a>I picked up some leaflets and walking maps, and had a look round the museum, which tracks the life of centuries of Forest dwellers. The best bit for me was the Lyndhurst Embroidery, which is a beautiful long strip in two parts, chronicling all four seasons and the major events and characters in the area's history. It's a meticulous and wonderful piece of folk art. Over the road there was a craft show going on, so I stopped in there too. Was tempted by some books but ultimately left with a jar of blackberry jam, which the maker let me sample.<br />
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Rain still raining, so I decided to get on and do some walking and just be wet. I headed out the East side of the village and up past Bolton's Bench onto White Moor. Immediately met a small herd of ponies, some with foals, coming across the road. <br />
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A sharp right turn and I was on the circular walk which orbits Lyndhurst, taking you through Pondhead Inclosure, Clayhill and Gritnam Wood. This stretch had some lovely wooded walking with breaks of heathland, and I saw a hind in one of the Norman Oak plantations. We stared at each other for a while before then she trotted away. I'm quite fascinated with the heather, as I've never seen it in flower over such a large area before. Individually the flowers seem like nothing, but as a mass they create this purple haze that looks almost neon, even on such a grey day.<br />
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The rain carried on, I got wetter, and had left it far too long to put on my waterproof trousers so I continued without. Annoyingly my coat, which I've had for over seven years, has started to give in to a lot of hard wear. After a point it will soak up water rather than run it off. I think I need a new one! After two hours of nice but soggy trudging I called it a day near the Oak Inn at Bank and headed back into Lyndhurst. My leaflet map had turned almost into a fabric and was beginning to adhere to itself!<br />
I'd eaten my homemade sandwiches, but stopped in at local teahouse TeaTotal to dry off a bit and have a cup of tea and a jam & cream scone. The tea was called Ooh La La and it was probably one of the nicest teas I've ever had (no doubt helped by the fact that in my drowned rat state I would have found anything hot delightful). Even the scone was warm. Simple pleasures!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Soggy but happy at Bratley View</td></tr>
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I have a map of all the Forestry Commission car parks in the New Forest, and decided to visit some of them. This turned out to be a great idea, as off the picturesque A35 (much nicer than the A31) are lots of side roads and places to stop. I went up Bolderwood Ornamental Drive, which the Queen once took a trip up, and got to Bratley View. Even in the drizzle this is a lovely spot, high and quiet, and I went for a wander. <br />
It occurred to me that in my need to be productive and Do Walking I'd forgotten to stop and just enjoy being. This may be a little easier in Dartmoor where I'll have more time. For now, I stood still and took in the blankets of fluorescent purple heather.<br />
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Back to Poole for tea, and had a nice long chat with Grandma, who was telling me mainly about the life of their church and it's doings. She's quite old now, and getting frailer, so she doesn't do much travelling these days and I haven't had the chance to spend this much time with either of them in quite a while. Their faith is so straightforward and trusting it seems almost unreasonable to me, and yet I kind of envy them for it, for their confidence in how things are. I wonder if this is something you preserve from when you are young, or something you discover anew when you are old.<br />
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The one thing about taking yourself on holiday is that you take yourself with you, and all your emotions. I couldn't always respond to my grandparents declarations of optimism with the same enthusiasm they had, but we spent a nice evening together in the heated living room; eating dinner, drying out my gear, discussing opera and classical music and dogs, playing about with the ukulele (which Grandad has never seen, although his brother makes them in Canada). After quite an active day I'm in bed by 11am - very early for me!<br />
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A day's parking: £4<br />
Walking map: £2<br />
Museum donation: £5<br />
Jam: £2.60<br />
Tea and scone: £5<br />
Bed + Board: An evening of pleasant conversation<br />
<br />Michelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6495076709366887714.post-18500469955765958972017-09-29T15:03:00.002+01:002017-11-15T00:00:37.611+00:00South West holiday - The BoatThis blog is fast turning into a travel journal! I think it's because I'm doing so much paid work that the 'Fun Things I've Made' aspect of this blog isn't really needed at the moment. I'm sure it'll pop back up soon.<br />
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At the end of the summer, in the first week of September, I took myself off on a much needed holiday. I'm trying to buy a house at the moment, so I knew it had to be as cheap as possible. I emptied the contents of my kitchen cupboard into a cool bag, and brought along a sandwich box. No lunches out for me! This was also the least planned holiday I'd done in a while. I'd had no time to look up any activities, other than where I'd be sleeping. Instead the idea was to turn up at a location, talk to people, get hold of a map, and figure it out as I went. In some ways this took a lot of the pressure off.<br />
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I also knew that that I'd be travelling alone. Given that I've been very out-of-sorts lately, I wasn't sure if I'd be in the right headspace for this, so I decided to go visiting. The week-long trip would connect me with friends and family I don't often get to spend time with (with the bonus of being able to sleep on their spare beds and couches, saving money on accommodation). Although in the end it turned out that my favourite location was the one where I was completely alone after all...<br />
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My first stop was in West London, where I joined my friends Matt and Eloise on their narrow boat, the Tittlemouse, travelling from Hayes to Brentford...<br />
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<a name='more'></a>Matt and Eloise have't done their habitual canal tour this summer, after a small fire on the boat meant they had to re-panel and repaint around the kitchen. However I didn't get to visit them last year, so I was determined to make it this time. As a last big challenge for the summer they were on their way to team up with three or four other boats and go as a flotilla down the big scary tidal Thames, to Limehouse and back. I joined them at Willowtree Marina in Hayes on Friday evening, and would be travelling with them through at least a dozen locks to Brentford to meet the others.<br />
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Even after two years apart (they're both busy teachers, and even more infrequent on social media than I am) it's reassuring to see that they're the same people. Matt is pleasingly artless; he says what he thinks, means what he says, and unashamedly likes what he likes. Eloise remains such an obviously lovely person, gentle and quietly wise, and has a knack for seeing quality in both things and people. I find I've missed their simplicity in what for me has been a complicated year. <br />
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We make a start, cruising for while before mooring for the night. Eloise and I steer and catch up across the tiller, sharing the challenges and joys of the last year, and the hard truths that come with getting older. We eat good pizza and chocolate eclairs, turn the dining table into a bed for me, and I fall asleep early and easily. I slept well on the boat last time too. It's dark and quiet, few people are on the towpath at night so the window hatch is left open to let in the fresh air, and the whole thing shifts and moves under you. It's a lovely cosy nook, but feels surprisingly spacious!<br />
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Woke at 7am, an hour before my alarm, and dozed about till the others were up. Cereal in pyjamas, and then tea left balancing on the roof of Tittlemouse as we worked our way through a series of locks. Matt promised us five but I swear there were at least eight! Mostly Eloise piloted, Matt ran ahead to prepare and fill the next lock, and I closed the gates and paddles behind us. As a trio we worked through them smoothly and swiftly, but the sun was up and it was quite a workout! Stiff paddles and constant hand-winching with a windlass is hot work. <br />
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Between two sets of locks Matt and I wound up walking on the towpath together and had a good chat, mostly about the kinds of trees we know and the changes in our living situations that were coming up. They are also buying a house - a different kind of life in a stationary dwelling - but will keep Tittlemouse too. There's never an awkward silence, just an occupied one, as there's always something to do; steering, looking at the water, naming birds, strolling along, winching paddles.<br />
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What I like about the boat is the sense of being somehow apart from everyone else. There are people on the towpath but they can't touch you or get at you, and mostly the world doesn't bother you. People are out there, driving by or rushing about, but you just slip quietly by behind screens of ash, hazel and hawthorn. A relatively straightforward and serene pathway through an otherwise chaotic world.<br />
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We reached our mooring spot just in time for lunch (which was lovely, and at which I learned about this weird cod roe paste that Matt loves. It's disconcerting, which is mainly down to the very very pink colour of it, but oddly nice to eat on a cracker!) We found that we'd stopped right next to two of the boats that were joining the Thames flotilla, so the owners popped in to say hello.<br />
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About that time I had to head back to my car. Matt and I found time for a quick music session perched on top of the boat, with his fiddle and my ukelele, and then I had to go. I went to a train station to catch a bus, to get to another train station, to get on a train, and when I got off that train I walked back to the Marina along the towpath, which took about an hour. It was fine enough weather though, and I saw a lot of herons, some sleek and serpentine and others a bit bedraggled. There's also a lot of cormorants around here! Found the car and drove down to Dorset, my next stop. My grandparents live in Poole, and had dinner waiting courtesy of my uncle Jeremy, whose pie is delicious.<br />
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Cost:<br />
A tank of fuel: £40<br />
A day on the Tittlemouse, with Bed + Board: 1 loaf of banana bread, and a lot of winching.Michelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6495076709366887714.post-84126374447063596822017-09-20T20:24:00.000+01:002017-09-20T20:59:27.693+01:00To be beside the seaside - North Norfolk Coastal Path part 2<h3>
Holkham to Blakeney - 10.9 miles</h3>
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After Holkham the next stop is Wells-next-the-Sea, which is a small town with more facilities. It's a walk I've done before, along the beach, but this time we struck to the path properly and found ourselves wandering down wooded lanes, behind the tall dark pine trees that this stretch is known for. On another breezy but still sunny day, the shade was nice, and we had company! A relay race was taking place, beginning at Hunstanton and going all the way round to Great Yarmouth over the course of a day or two. We kept moving over to let runners pass, each wielding their barcoded baton. We emerged at the carpark for Wells Beach and followed the sea wall back into the town. </div>
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John captains the clinkerbill boat, so called for the Viking-style rivets in its hull.</div>
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I have lots of happy memories of Wells. It was the seaside spot our parents usually took us to once we were old enough to not need all the facilities and diversions of Hunstanton, and it's still a great place to visit. Small, with a little arcade and ride-on train for the typical beach-goer, a lovely beach and a sea wall that's always full of people crab fishing. Dropping a line baited with bacon into the sea at certain times of day will almost guarantee that you'll pull it back up with a stubborn crustacean dangling from the end of it, waving it's little pincers about defiantly as you deposit it into a bucket (of course they are released again at the end of the day). There's also the Albatross, which I refer to as 'The Pancake Boat', a ship-cum-cafe that serves a selection of drinks and crepes. Since it's floating in the channel that divides the town from the sea marshes and runs out into The Wash, it rises and falls with the tide. Depending on what time of day you visit, you may have to walk the gangplank up or down to get aboard! This was the first time I'd ever been on it for a meal, and I had a pretty nice cheese and salad savoury pancake.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipetVFlebXZeJYRzSm-ccd9FbzeAu8Cqbe8Oly_0U_KRmorVJI3W-sKrmhpcy8rzHvvn3vUQMU9rNQ6V1AmGj2AwCrJqIs3F2CkeOV7B7cIhWh0DMz10-8FerNjm6i3RyGojv63wPRB_Y2/s1600/IMG_1233.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipetVFlebXZeJYRzSm-ccd9FbzeAu8Cqbe8Oly_0U_KRmorVJI3W-sKrmhpcy8rzHvvn3vUQMU9rNQ6V1AmGj2AwCrJqIs3F2CkeOV7B7cIhWh0DMz10-8FerNjm6i3RyGojv63wPRB_Y2/s400/IMG_1233.JPG" width="400" /></a>Leaving again, we had some of the nicest views of the trip, including passing the villages of Stiffkey (pronounced 'Stew-key) and Morston. These are best known for the six hundred strong seal colony that likes to haul out on the sand banks at low tide, when they've returned from fishing. They're always lovely to watch, and very curious about the boats that they've become so used to. </div>
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Apparently the colony has been shifting locations recently, shunning the sandbanks for the shore nearer Stewkey, so it will be interesting to see if they stay there and what that does to the tour boats there. There's another colony round the coast at Horsey Beach, so maybe that'll become the place to go in future.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo8LWa71k_K_GL-L6qAsa5k-KOhr0rowmbsnCiWVE4chQKzIGlNArRYHelRUaDzk3xOmBA1qJzMU1rMiL_XGtGZ6-nbuvtWVHBQdLFCtV7FD3SZuHMrkSQMTvZHZQ5SfFYLWPt9aIjrsQk/s1600/IMG_1238.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo8LWa71k_K_GL-L6qAsa5k-KOhr0rowmbsnCiWVE4chQKzIGlNArRYHelRUaDzk3xOmBA1qJzMU1rMiL_XGtGZ6-nbuvtWVHBQdLFCtV7FD3SZuHMrkSQMTvZHZQ5SfFYLWPt9aIjrsQk/s640/IMG_1238.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our last seal visit. These few were hauled out on the beach, <br />
but there were another sixty or so in the water round the sandbanks.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-rpQ4PZiI2qCcWmUVWcEL1Hx_54vmcFKlJD33IvP3SMKNaQxlgv1Sdj4tLtBFDOZTST4rOdKwmFJ-Xa8WCcTW_ZMrLZzwHGKjrDKe-0BPZYusKB-RHKVe6HpKtMj14bILxAETkHkP2eKV/s1600/IMG_1260.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-rpQ4PZiI2qCcWmUVWcEL1Hx_54vmcFKlJD33IvP3SMKNaQxlgv1Sdj4tLtBFDOZTST4rOdKwmFJ-Xa8WCcTW_ZMrLZzwHGKjrDKe-0BPZYusKB-RHKVe6HpKtMj14bILxAETkHkP2eKV/s640/IMG_1260.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset over Blakeney Point</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiab8CpAndO_w8On-ZRI1ATBRlAmZInmpafNLHYdRCo-Fxpp4ea9Kn8b5IKZTfqaLQh2j2gbP4DpqqdcWa70m8UfuHOtvLMpe6D54H6g4cyn0NYTC-o9pyY6lLUArWRqTKtjC63S3Ni_edI/s1600/IMG_1263.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiab8CpAndO_w8On-ZRI1ATBRlAmZInmpafNLHYdRCo-Fxpp4ea9Kn8b5IKZTfqaLQh2j2gbP4DpqqdcWa70m8UfuHOtvLMpe6D54H6g4cyn0NYTC-o9pyY6lLUArWRqTKtjC63S3Ni_edI/s640/IMG_1263.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boat carcass in the salt marshes</td></tr>
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The path back to Blakeney, where we were staying in a lovely little flat above a shop, is deceptively windy. Five or six times we thought the next turn would reveal the village, and Dad's legs were getting a bit sore, but eventually we did make it back. Somewhere small and quiet like this is perfect for us, and the road through the top of the village has a bus called the Coasthopper, which makes getting to that day's walking location really easily.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4wniSiSxPqO_17zS0DViSP5802VdLinAu8GiEnB7Aazt2JP3zW9QSr_hKjVYj6RbDrXAq64jdU75FhOeApn6v_chPuHw0_4EjsIW0-SQCIA8Q7bNKPIe1QEEKOe5dG1-MvlAhNXhtTnBK/s1600/IMG_1245.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4wniSiSxPqO_17zS0DViSP5802VdLinAu8GiEnB7Aazt2JP3zW9QSr_hKjVYj6RbDrXAq64jdU75FhOeApn6v_chPuHw0_4EjsIW0-SQCIA8Q7bNKPIe1QEEKOe5dG1-MvlAhNXhtTnBK/s640/IMG_1245.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from outside our rented accomodation in Blakeney - straight down to the estuary and salt marshes.</td></tr>
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Blakeney to Weybourne - 7.7 miles</h3>
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This is one of the shortest legs we did, but probably the hardest. Leaving Blakeney, at first it's more of the same firm dirt paths we're used to, but at Cley the lovely smooth sand suddenly morphs into gravel dunes, sloping more sharply down towards the surf. This means that you're suddenly walking on a shifting, sliding slope of tiny stones. A few steps forward also takes you one step down, so you've got to constantly turn uphill. They ask you not to walk on the top of the dunes too much, as they also function as sea defences and too many walked would wear them down, but it was hard to make progress any other way. At one point we went down the back side of the dune and that was much better, although we did have to contend with some very large puddles. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfMAmfzSbWvWu2mpQ2FzCbMcsUsGkkGygW8xyZEkBZV9c547iTxK-O2FgHxp11WaPTxT1aWS2nDPaq3_mrBcc8QSGsSdg5hjvIKOzsE6FateR2e9Ga2t4HsQjoOngNQcvyY7mwMUSPBeWi/s1600/IMG_1517.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfMAmfzSbWvWu2mpQ2FzCbMcsUsGkkGygW8xyZEkBZV9c547iTxK-O2FgHxp11WaPTxT1aWS2nDPaq3_mrBcc8QSGsSdg5hjvIKOzsE6FateR2e9Ga2t4HsQjoOngNQcvyY7mwMUSPBeWi/s640/IMG_1517.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the tidal marshes of Blakeney...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn5kd2cdbQ79ueXgIEBIhkVBcjF8MhTo2elFyYnu8RFCl9nn2QRUebF_HwDaEx2dh0HB3_8jMgNAg6wNEEDY46EiDuHI0LlhbOO8Yc4G94N6Uqf5uN7B2-6VZ4nc18pJE4Z7S2SIY0xpaF/s1600/IMG_1519.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn5kd2cdbQ79ueXgIEBIhkVBcjF8MhTo2elFyYnu8RFCl9nn2QRUebF_HwDaEx2dh0HB3_8jMgNAg6wNEEDY46EiDuHI0LlhbOO8Yc4G94N6Uqf5uN7B2-6VZ4nc18pJE4Z7S2SIY0xpaF/s640/IMG_1519.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...to the gravel dunes of Cley!</td></tr>
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The majority of this day was mostly trudging, each of us mutely contesting with our own slidey, draining footsteps. Gravel really is the worst, but it had to be done and at least we had a sunny day for it.</div>
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As we neared Weybourne things suddenly got a lot noisier. The Muckleburgh Military Collection has tank tracks and runway that peters off over the beach, so suddenly we heard the tinny keening of biplanes. Three or four of then took off, one after the other, right above our heads, and circled for a while like metal birds of prey before heading off together. We also saw a tank charging along towards the centre, leaving a trail of exhaust-like dust in the air.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp9mgFWIcuhRDnzmRN2g6tcuVWALZCQsISeEtmlgAK5aPzn4ChzZb7RQBwbdK2AyaTQgyBVia6upOtAySXn04lMS7mIryq1_mv2GNKoEimLsklfAo_4nfjYcIae91YeYvPdXc4DB6TpLck/s1600/IMG_1521.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp9mgFWIcuhRDnzmRN2g6tcuVWALZCQsISeEtmlgAK5aPzn4ChzZb7RQBwbdK2AyaTQgyBVia6upOtAySXn04lMS7mIryq1_mv2GNKoEimLsklfAo_4nfjYcIae91YeYvPdXc4DB6TpLck/s640/IMG_1521.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
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We'd been trudging along the gravel for what felt like ages, but just as we hit the car park at Weybourne beach, that part of the trail came to an end. There are low dirt cliffs here, only ten or fifteen metres above the beach in most places, but much pleasanter walking. Having only just reached them, it was a bit frustrating to have to stop, but at least we knew they'd be waiting for us next time. We went off for some well deserved lemonade.<br />
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<h3>
Blakeney grafitti</h3>
On our drive back to Blakeney I made a request to pull in at the parish church, because of something I'd seen in a Youtube video. Matthew Champion heads u<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">p the <span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">Norfolk Medieval Graffiti Survey, who have been travelling round the county documenting the medieval graffiti that appears on all the old stone churches across Norfolk. I remembered him saying something very particular about Blakeney church... a column containing more than fifty scratched drawings of ships, covering over 200 years between them all.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">It took some looking, because I couldn't remember which pillar the carvings were on, but finally, to my delight, we found them! Here are some images from the project (carvings have been drawn over for clarity). They are very faint, but once you'd found the first one you started to spot all the rest quite easily. It's lovely to be looking at something that the people who lived here hundreds of years ago had left behind - some small token of the lives they lived.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn80kMX2WldkBM2Mi8ztVnr1bvjZdFe7_cN2LdvFkwzF_GikfTN3aO2kMLBjqkdFSJpY04hcp8GribfdN1EId67avcpJ-4P4qc7e5IcMRIfwVr8CPAktwuCB6yL7h_7A8RxogP43retRml/s1600/Shiptwo.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn80kMX2WldkBM2Mi8ztVnr1bvjZdFe7_cN2LdvFkwzF_GikfTN3aO2kMLBjqkdFSJpY04hcp8GribfdN1EId67avcpJ-4P4qc7e5IcMRIfwVr8CPAktwuCB6yL7h_7A8RxogP43retRml/s320/Shiptwo.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5LPxaAkqtVioex5CZsN7AwCrfgZBSo9mSw5hFKy1pgy69EG4z1QC-gJEICfqZROYU_xfOIIZSF7rpQbmZKe-tUL1B7254N5PQ_vf_pJvHuk9VOnBhPx-CqRdeWqpxV32CJ6OY2Rpt2z-z/s1600/shipfour.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5LPxaAkqtVioex5CZsN7AwCrfgZBSo9mSw5hFKy1pgy69EG4z1QC-gJEICfqZROYU_xfOIIZSF7rpQbmZKe-tUL1B7254N5PQ_vf_pJvHuk9VOnBhPx-CqRdeWqpxV32CJ6OY2Rpt2z-z/s320/shipfour.jpg" width="280" /></a></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">Here is Matthew's talk about the project.</span></span><br />
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<h3>
Weybourne to Cromer - 8.5 miles</h3>
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In May 2017 Mum and I came back to tackle the final leg of our journey. We left the car at Cromer and took the Coasthopper bus back to Weybourne, stopping to use a cafe loo and and a sausage roll. We picked up exactly where we'd left off, at the start of the low dirt cliffs at Weybourne. The day was rather less sunny! Atmospheric, let's call it.<br />
We picked up in the car park at the start of the cliffs, seeing ahead of us the first of the only two hills we would encounter on the entire walk: Dead Man's Hill, with it's lighthouse on top.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The cliffs just past Weybourne, looking east towards Dead Man's Hill and the drizzle!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thrift, or Sea Pink, grows in tuffets all along the path.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking back west to Dead Man's Hill</td></tr>
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You'll pass a short row of houses up here, bare metres from the cliffs, which are slowly being eroded down by the waves beneath. Someday soon the people there will have to move out, and the houses will be left to crumble away and fall into the sea.<br />
<br />
The next town we go through is Sheringham, which you'll know is coming when you pass the Lifeboat Station, and then a row of smart sea-facing houses. The coastal path takes you along the seafront and past the main beach and museum, where you'll see a long mural painted on the sea wall by David Berber, following the history of human life on the Norfolk coast from Palaeolithic times to the present day. Fossils have been found here, including those of mammoth, hippo skulls and bison. The cliffs are SSSI (Sites of Special Scientific Interest) so citizens aren't allowed to dig there (and you wouldn't want to, as the unstable cliffs have been known to collapse on top of people), but much of the findings are still kept in the area.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIDIc3_ugbbJ8CQeM5gh0K244z7trYPGZgOaC5JNbmyx0eOlsWJg5Ka33PPNJ01EjRWwwEdYEywhWrRnlF8QVMIn0eTo-pNF5zgZM4C2cw4EzSghdR10nQizW56gB8gHIAhcqUcwR_Na82/s1600/IMG_2103.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIDIc3_ugbbJ8CQeM5gh0K244z7trYPGZgOaC5JNbmyx0eOlsWJg5Ka33PPNJ01EjRWwwEdYEywhWrRnlF8QVMIn0eTo-pNF5zgZM4C2cw4EzSghdR10nQizW56gB8gHIAhcqUcwR_Na82/s640/IMG_2103.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boats on the slipway at Sheringham, waiting to be taken out.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ0C9DhxPQvyler6emNWOAr0qVOa4VJIhbQLu7aKT27f1wHvojUJO5StOedR-qqkzNFRVyMpliBqFStQMKrJQfQfatT2V8Wkq-QLqPlDKSg9_lXGuBpj2dQoBXhb4qiMljYWUNAbstaKp1/s1600/IMG_2104.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ0C9DhxPQvyler6emNWOAr0qVOa4VJIhbQLu7aKT27f1wHvojUJO5StOedR-qqkzNFRVyMpliBqFStQMKrJQfQfatT2V8Wkq-QLqPlDKSg9_lXGuBpj2dQoBXhb4qiMljYWUNAbstaKp1/s640/IMG_2104.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One end of the Sheringham seafront mural...</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd5vBYW0-5lQrhrTtJLvmNUiQT3pSl_8Sbm2YLyd0AtFfLwc5BBO8AvzP_O2YQIe0cJsJYAwkX2dixDWpxXWtqVISDLhbWQHr_x3Fa-hBW0v00tYD4vhqgjhDacBsBa8jwEQJk07VAMzrQ/s1600/IMG_2106.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd5vBYW0-5lQrhrTtJLvmNUiQT3pSl_8Sbm2YLyd0AtFfLwc5BBO8AvzP_O2YQIe0cJsJYAwkX2dixDWpxXWtqVISDLhbWQHr_x3Fa-hBW0v00tYD4vhqgjhDacBsBa8jwEQJk07VAMzrQ/s640/IMG_2106.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...and the other.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFl7qZ-olroHJgAkb5_lABMJRNTODKFqRAqfbDoIsqaoLMPwv6oW98rlxldXyfvCK0-cZ9Mf4t75fICXAMPKIbFlQ4-bE4WPY1UfKLoburZan2wADTh_Iz4GzkePW3R8P5L2_4txPy-Git/s1600/IMG_2110.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFl7qZ-olroHJgAkb5_lABMJRNTODKFqRAqfbDoIsqaoLMPwv6oW98rlxldXyfvCK0-cZ9Mf4t75fICXAMPKIbFlQ4-bE4WPY1UfKLoburZan2wADTh_Iz4GzkePW3R8P5L2_4txPy-Git/s640/IMG_2110.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This fisherman stands in the shallows to stop his boat turning broadside <br />
while he waits for his friend to reverse a truck and trolley down to the sea.</td></tr>
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</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Out the other side, and up the only other hill we'll see on this whole trip, the Beeston Bump. After so much general flatness it seems like a very large hill, but it barely takes five minutes to get to the top. There's a concrete base of a Y-station at the top, an World War Two signal tower for relaying coded messages to Bletchley. The Bump is also the home of the Black Shuck, a red-eyed hound of ill omen who lives inside the hill, and emerges to roam the fields, sometimes surrounded by mist. They never harm their victims, but anyone who sees the Black Shuck will be dead within a year, so you may want to steer clear of the Beeston Bump late at night!</div>
<div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDBFMAHtMBXa2ECJ-QUSCs0zpdOkdASZkFRB8iumJ1x6jgeQGqlXXjtiBjh1-VUTx8FFYtNDyKehK7nJli6b8wIbxcCzp6vYzdKRbLVMz__PTsfxkbVsbWcuhvpWMbOM-Tn3eyndwqSX73/s1600/IMG_2113.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDBFMAHtMBXa2ECJ-QUSCs0zpdOkdASZkFRB8iumJ1x6jgeQGqlXXjtiBjh1-VUTx8FFYtNDyKehK7nJli6b8wIbxcCzp6vYzdKRbLVMz__PTsfxkbVsbWcuhvpWMbOM-Tn3eyndwqSX73/s640/IMG_2113.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sheringham seafront, looking west</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOjpDvxIpOD6HMnKQ48Hkx9WgHXuCWzFPDyNKdVHXE3HI0P94hlEn65eSIM3P033kfsixPwIvaW-5mDna1SlwJTwnNukoU_4BOI4xdjoNr969TDDI5Y1hk4JvUUv99EDXu8WqQlH-sl0XK/s1600/IMG_2111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOjpDvxIpOD6HMnKQ48Hkx9WgHXuCWzFPDyNKdVHXE3HI0P94hlEn65eSIM3P033kfsixPwIvaW-5mDna1SlwJTwnNukoU_4BOI4xdjoNr969TDDI5Y1hk4JvUUv99EDXu8WqQlH-sl0XK/s640/IMG_2111.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mum on top of the Beeston Bump, with Sheringham behind</td></tr>
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<br />
At some point after this the path turns away from the beach and takes you up through fields into Row Heath and Great Wood, a deciduous woodland. There were bluebells to see here, an older gentleman who kindly helped us decipher the map, and a stopover at the site of a Roman campsite! Archaeologists had found the remains of their sojourn there, and it's a lovely spot; a genuine silvan haven of tall old birch trees wood which I think would have made the Romans very happy when they were so far from home. Now there's just the birds and insects, and the odd adder. It's a very peaceful place for a break and a bite to eat before the last push to Cromer.<br />
<br />
The Coastal Path now takes you south to the landward side of the town, and then downhill towards the sea again, so you get to see a few of the sights before reaching the pier and the end of our walk.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNSPF8M74HV8HoYuWIXgsvdBRjWsr9adVil_RCpdTkT33boNeIgo3kPOg0jLr2swXzKhZmLcvTqTCqR0FsrpUva2zWhC8tDWntRc-qhLC79hkdvIlRRlmKREkoOWZEmZNs-DU8uCuiqXhv/s1600/IMG_2121.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNSPF8M74HV8HoYuWIXgsvdBRjWsr9adVil_RCpdTkT33boNeIgo3kPOg0jLr2swXzKhZmLcvTqTCqR0FsrpUva2zWhC8tDWntRc-qhLC79hkdvIlRRlmKREkoOWZEmZNs-DU8uCuiqXhv/s640/IMG_2121.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cromer Beach, looking East</td></tr>
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We asked a nice man in a studded leather jacket to take a photo of us together. He even managed to get Cromer pier in behind us. Good job, sir.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnUtVmI84pSPdFsBUVgObGNJWDhtGsCpLjJ3F7_gGD_K6SKLQ3OceC6NwezXr5sg5EKMm-Jz3Q7PwxO6cAp8H0QBorOByuEGQGwhyvSo0rSAprfkh1eYlEhyWoANWAPNHNk4KgJMt61JkS/s1600/IMG_2115.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnUtVmI84pSPdFsBUVgObGNJWDhtGsCpLjJ3F7_gGD_K6SKLQ3OceC6NwezXr5sg5EKMm-Jz3Q7PwxO6cAp8H0QBorOByuEGQGwhyvSo0rSAprfkh1eYlEhyWoANWAPNHNk4KgJMt61JkS/s640/IMG_2115.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our final stop at Cromer Pier!</td></tr>
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At the far end of the pier is the lifeboat station, where you can see recorded on the walls all the times they boat has been let down the slipway to go and aid a craft stuck in The Wash. There's less now than there used to be, with sea transport less necessary and better technology and safety precautions, but they still get sent out. You can see the ramp for the boat in the photo below. It's pretty steep!<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHqHIEiQl_ftHzlY7-br2sbqS2SFF_ARAN0x9bZIqumkBKG1pprT_2JjWUPlf0_RpuPAZaLw90LI05zMlPA4QArP6gV4jc-mVKvVp2SGDtMccmE3YU317uOIdEoWpx2TCBZe3uGFYyWmTQ/s1600/IMG_2123.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHqHIEiQl_ftHzlY7-br2sbqS2SFF_ARAN0x9bZIqumkBKG1pprT_2JjWUPlf0_RpuPAZaLw90LI05zMlPA4QArP6gV4jc-mVKvVp2SGDtMccmE3YU317uOIdEoWpx2TCBZe3uGFYyWmTQ/s640/IMG_2123.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
<br />
We relaxed on the beach for a while (I paddled. I always paddle. I always paddle too deep and get splashed too. More often than not I end up swimming!) watching surfing lessons, eating chips, and talking about life. One of the nice things about walking with my Mum is that even though we get on so well anyway, spending so long on the march with another person seems to tune you into each other a little more than usual. You see them honestly, at their sweaty, tired, generous, persevering extremes, and appreciate just how good it is to have their friendly company ambling along beside you. Like sitting in front of a wood fire at night, walking together somehow allows you to talk about things you wouldn't have said otherwise, and she happens to give very good advice. I think that's one of the things I enjoy most about our walks together.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs96kkubfBsbFNWb2a7Ica4MH9wiPN5mV0KUE2gGxGuEc8LY7dPQB7VWi3uz2ub2ChNvkQo7JPnDV7tC0CQwQH9_IZkbW2LZZRsR2UAsuCUy4g8wBSdI1mAUOQj-WTyocBNHTUU_3g_Njz/s1600/IMG_2131.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs96kkubfBsbFNWb2a7Ica4MH9wiPN5mV0KUE2gGxGuEc8LY7dPQB7VWi3uz2ub2ChNvkQo7JPnDV7tC0CQwQH9_IZkbW2LZZRsR2UAsuCUy4g8wBSdI1mAUOQj-WTyocBNHTUU_3g_Njz/s640/IMG_2131.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Now, where shall we go next?</div>
Michelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6495076709366887714.post-13797731667023327782017-08-10T15:51:00.000+01:002017-08-10T15:52:10.454+01:00TLDR: I hate Esther (or, the Perils of Privilege)<div class="tr_bq">
In the Bible, there are two women with stories significant enough to merit their own books. In a culture where men were the ones writing and women had quite specific roles to fulfil, any named woman in the Bible is worth paying attention to. One is Ruth; the story of a young widow from the wrong country, the wrong religion, speaking the wrong language, who passes up re-marrying to become a benefits scrounger in order to provide for her ageing mother-in law. And yeah it ends well, but that that lady has gumption. I like gumption!</div>
<br />
The other is Esther. Whom I <b>hated</b>. For years. <br />
<br />
Held up as the model of ideal womanhood, Esther appeared to be your Actual Disney Princess, and I mean that in the most scathing way possible. Plucked from obscurity because of her astounding good looks and apparently nothing else, Esther is made Head Queen of the Xerxes, King of Persia. Tipped off by her uncle, a minister, she saves the king from assassination, earns a spot in his good books, and later uses this to wine and dine him into awarding the Jewish people the right to defend themselves in a society where they are outcasts and refugees. The Jewish festival of Purim celebrates her story, being told much like a pantomime, with cheering and booing and 'he's behind you'. <br />
Beauty Queen, actual queen, national hero, Esther was annoyingly perfect. She was that cute, perky girl from school who managed to be captain of the netball team, head girl, and never without a boyfriend all at the same time.<br />
<br />
For teenage me, the moral of this story was that being pretty will get you more or less anywhere. Which is peachy... if you're pretty. Which teen me (and sometimes adult me) was not always convinced of all. Way to make a girl resentful, Bible. Congrats.<br />
<br />
Now I am a decade older, a lot more comfortable with myself, and therefore able to be a little less self-interested, I have to admit something. I may have misjudged Esther a tiny wee bit. But not in the way I thought...<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
Brief tangent. There's a film called 'Legally Blonde'. It is the kind of film I ought to hate, a classic 'chick flick', but to my surprise I really like it. It took me a long time to work out why.<br />
The story is that Elle Woods, a perky blonde-haired sorority girl who absolutely loves the colour pink, is determined to win back her ex-boyfriend by bluffing her way into Harvard where he is studying law. In the process she discovers that he wasn't worth the trip but actually she's quite good at being a lawyer, and wins a court case that seemed hopeless. It's a bit silly, but still a very heartwarming story. What surprised me was that Elle was the epitome of that high school girl I resented so much, and yet I liked her. Because she's a genuinely nice person, and that surprised me for some reason. Yes her looks initially get her into Harvard, but at the end of the day it's her self-belief, hard work, support of others, and genuine good-heartedness that gets everyone on her side and allows her to win the case. <br />
<br />
I watched this film recently with a friend, who sneered a bit when I explained it to them, and without thinking I responded "Hey, the pink ones have feelings too." <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_JIp-I4bMf5OXSMQpi-W8GhF23Nd4IcEWoJgGFqIjdmZ6A1Ie-ZWSWyu5ye7EZzAtg7QzwFK_hbPjMPx5l6yHy-Bl8VYlN8WoTknwtltLK3EARNiFpo1dnrhE_3sUQPwN8HcA-Ouc3uHF/s1600/3218ebdb9c7bd71d6039dd41b770396b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="337" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_JIp-I4bMf5OXSMQpi-W8GhF23Nd4IcEWoJgGFqIjdmZ6A1Ie-ZWSWyu5ye7EZzAtg7QzwFK_hbPjMPx5l6yHy-Bl8VYlN8WoTknwtltLK3EARNiFpo1dnrhE_3sUQPwN8HcA-Ouc3uHF/s400/3218ebdb9c7bd71d6039dd41b770396b.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
This film taught me something that I hadn't really considered - being pretty can come with with it's own expectations, and not all of the them are positive. Yes Elle gets a free pass sometimes because of her looks and bubbly nature, but also people assume that she's shallow and ditzy when she isn't. Her boyfriend and even her own parents don't believe she's smart enough to succeed - because of her looks. People disrespect her, disregard her, make inappropriate comments and sexual advances, refuse to consider that maybe there's more to her under all that pink.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Because of my own difficulty coming to terms with myself, I'd disregarded the difficulties of another (admittedly fictional) woman because they were different than my own. There's this thing called 'intersectionality' which in a nutshell means 'considering the struggles of people who aren't like you'. So in feminism, for example, that might mean white, or straight, or Western women considering the struggles of non-white women, or LGBT women, or women from other cultures than their own, and all the crossovers within that. And hey, yeah, women with different levels of attractiveness considering the struggles of each other. I'd failed to apply that to Elle, which was unfair to her. And I'd failed to apply it to Esther.<br />
<br />
In the spirit of intersectionality, before I give my white British woman's perspective I would direct you to <a href="http://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/vashti-esther-a-feminist-perspective/" target="_blank">this Orthodox Jewish woman's perspective on Queen Esther, and her predecessor Queen Vashti</a>, which is arguably a lot more valid than mine.<br />
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To start, Esther's name isn't actually Esther; it's Hadassah. She's a Jewish immigrant living in the Persian empire after her people were exiled from their homeland of Israel. Basically the Persians abducted them <i>en masse</i>, and now there's a Jewish colony living in the royal city of Susa, figuring out how to prosper and keep their identity in a culture not their own. Hadassah's parents are dead and so she's been brought up by her uncle Mordecai, and already we see this dual aspect to her; she has two names, a Jewish one and a Persian one.<br />
<br />
There's one other character here that's worth mentioning too, although they only appear very briefly in the story, right at the beginning. Another named woman; Vashti, the queen Hadassah is chosen to replace. She's basically written out of the story, but I think she's just as amazing, if not moreso. <br />
<br />
Why does Xerxes want a new wife in the first place? What did Vashti do wrong? <br />
Like most stories, it started at a party, but less usually the partly was on it's 180th day. The king was having a lovely time, and sent for Queen Vashti to appear before him wearing her crown so he could show her off to his friends. Vashti refuses to come.<br />
She refuses the king who could execute you for coming to visit him without an invite.<br />
Some readings of this verse have cast her as proudly and disobediently forgetting her place, making her the first villain of the piece, but more recently another interpretation has emerged which makes a little more sense. She's told to come wearing her crown... the unspoken implication being that it's <i>only</i> her crown. This seems to make more sense than her wanting to not show her face for ten minutes, no matter how tipsy the guests. But being naked, in a room of drunken men, paraded around like a thing? I can see why she'd turn that down!<br />
Disobedient or preserving her modesty, it took guts, and I've got to admire that.<br />
The king's advisors suggest that her disobedience might inspire the other women of the kingdom to be similarly obstinate towards their husbands and have, y'know, <i>opinions</i> about things, so Vashti is banished from the king's sight. Her fate clears the way for Esther to come in. Vashti loses her power, but perhaps keeps her self-respect and sense of identity, which is a key theme in the exile of the Jewish people.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgukFxOLRt4auflGKOOebYSXS4tdxwn_LDeaaGcmkK4tLuN-6DmNMIytRFYwO0JPGvLe1DlvQ3wWVl_RWXk8xJOfqi0cggJDJT0NP6s6WVqNN83DzujQpWyEN_oECojkZDXYqcM3bKlCXR6/s1600/xerxes11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgukFxOLRt4auflGKOOebYSXS4tdxwn_LDeaaGcmkK4tLuN-6DmNMIytRFYwO0JPGvLe1DlvQ3wWVl_RWXk8xJOfqi0cggJDJT0NP6s6WVqNN83DzujQpWyEN_oECojkZDXYqcM3bKlCXR6/s320/xerxes11.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fun fact: Xerxes I was the same Xerxes who ordered the <br />
Battle of Thermopylae, which is that one with the 300 Spartans!<br />
In the movie they made him look like this, which is inaccurate, but <br />
a great photo of a grown man having a tantrum.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
After Vashti's dismissal, King Xerxes I is advised to get a new queen, and so the command is given to coll<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">ect up "all the beautiful young virgins" and "bring them into the harem" where they would receive six months of beauty treatments before being taken to the king for what was basically a sexual audition. "In the evening she would go there and in the morning return to another part of the harem... She would not return to the king unless he was pleased with her and summoned her by name."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">This part generally gets skimmed over, but if you stop and think about it, it's pretty horrifying. To be removed from your family, with no choice in the matter, just because you have a pretty face. To be placed in a completely strange environment, with people you don't know and are immediately put in competition with, and then to have your entire future depend on the first sex you ever have, which is with a man you've never met and might not even like. Notice that once that night is over, the unsuccessful women aren't let go, but moved to 'another part of the harem'. They can never go home now, and if they did no other man would take them, since virginity was a prerequisite for marriage back then. The king's whim defines their entire future. A palace is a beautiful prison, but a prison nonetheless.</span><br />
Despite the circumstances, Hadassah gets people on her side (like Elle Woods, perhaps!), rises to the top and is made the new Queen.<br />
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Meanwhile her uncle Mordecai is proving to be the quite the pot-stirrer. On overhearing a plot to assassinate the king, he informs Hadassah, who informs Xerxes, and the schemers are executed. Later he gets in trouble of his own when he refuses to bow and idolise the grand vizier, Haman. Horrendously offended, Haman performs some racial stereotyping that would give the Daily Mail a a run for it's money, and declares the whole Jewish race (who, let me remind you, are only there because Persia abducted them and won't let them go home) to be nasty troublemakers who refused to integrate properly and therefore deserve immediate extermination. He pays the royal treasury for the right to have every Jew in the country murdered on a particular day, and the king issues the decree. I think he must have not read the small print or something, because he and Haman have a pleasant drink together afterwards, and he later seems not to recollect the bill at all.<br />
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Apparently the city of Susa was "bewildered". No kidding.<br />
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The Jews, understandably, go into terrified mourning, and Mordecai goes to see his niece. I say 'see' her but actually they have to pass notes back and forth via a eunuch, because he can't go into the palace harem and she can't come out. He asks her to take the issue to the king, despite the fact that this would mean revealing her Jewish identity, could lose her the position as queen, and would make her subject to the cull. On top of that, the king hasn't summoned her for over a month so she might not be in his good books any more. If he doesn't want to see her, and doesn't extend his sceptre to her, she will be executed for merely coming into his presence. Either way, it's a massive risk. Mordecai's reply shows just how high the stakes are, but also his faith that the risk will be worth taking:<br />
<blockquote style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="text Esth-4-13" id="en-NIV-12776" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box;">“Do not think that because you are in the king’s house you alone of all the Jews will escape.</span> <span class="text Esth-4-14" id="en-NIV-12777" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box;">For if you remain silent<span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-12777I" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-12777I" title="See cross-reference I">I</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span> at this time, relief<span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-12777J" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-12777J" title="See cross-reference J">J</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span> and deliverance<span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-12777K" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-12777K" title="See cross-reference K">K</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span> for the Jews will arise from another place, but you and your father’s family will perish. And who knows but that you have come to your royal position for such a time as this?” </span><span class="text Esth-4-15" id="en-NIV-12778" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box;">Then Esther sent this reply to Mordecai:</span><span class="text Esth-4-16" id="en-NIV-12779" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box;"><span class="versenum" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: bold; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"> </span>“Go, gather together all the Jews who are in Susa, and fast<span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-12779M" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-12779M" title="See cross-reference M">M</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span> for me. Do not eat or drink for three days, night or day. I and my attendants will fast as you do. When this is done, I will go to the king, even though it is against the law. And if I perish, I perish.”</span></span></blockquote>
This is the moment where Hadassah takes the greatest personal risk. It's not just her freedom or position that's at stake her, it's her life, and the life of everything she cares about; her family, her culture, and the lives of thousands of people throughout the empire. She's gotten into this position of huge privilege mostly due to her looks, and has been passive throughout the story. She has been obedient, quiet, done everything requested of her, but now she has the choice to hide behind the palace walls or to take what she's been given and use it for something greater than herself.<br />
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And, God bless her, she steps up. <br />
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She's clever about it, inviting the king to a banquet, buttering him up, and making sure he's in a good mood with her before broaching the subject. The king, rather drunk and unexpectedly outraged that anyone would plot against his marvellous wife's people like this, asks who is responsible and Hadassah identifies Haman. I mean, technically the king actually signed the thing, but that might not have gone down so well as an answer. The king storms out in a righteous fury, Haman realises that the Biblical poop is hitting the Biblical fan and is pleading with Hadassah right when the king returns to catch him pawing at her, and has him very literally hoisted on his own petard. The day is saved! The Jewish people are saved (and more importantly given the right to self-defence in the realm)! Mordecai gets Haman's job! The Persians still attack, but the Jews fight back and overpower them so thoroughly that no Persian bothers them after that! Haman's family is disgraced! Purim is invented to commemorate it all! Hooray!<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzCsCiOtsmUqnVS7IOlvXxRQp5g5za7r1cn2-PHxA8H-8YMAb2-CElVgKiG4wGYRUpQQWHN4YHTIQB2uAl-60jgKS4TJvebZFEpjWt43STHUqZMlQZKPUAB7GaR7-DJKXBu1RTb9EnvVFr/s1600/x_0.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzCsCiOtsmUqnVS7IOlvXxRQp5g5za7r1cn2-PHxA8H-8YMAb2-CElVgKiG4wGYRUpQQWHN4YHTIQB2uAl-60jgKS4TJvebZFEpjWt43STHUqZMlQZKPUAB7GaR7-DJKXBu1RTb9EnvVFr/s320/x_0.png" width="320" /></a><br />
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I had always looked as Esther as some unattainable figure of perfection, but that wasn't being fair to her story or her experience. Yes, her society placed her on a pedestal based on entirely the wrong thing, but it wasn't a pedestal she ever asked for or even necessarily wanted. It placed a lot of restrictions, obligations, and even danger on her, through no choice of her own. The admirable thing about Esther isn't that she was made queen, it's what she did <i>after</i> she was made queen. She was put on a pedestal but used it for a soap box. She was hidden away from the people she loved, but used that to fight on their behalf. She was made royalty by others, but she became an activist and a hero through her own bravery and selflessness.<br />
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We all have struggles, but if you're able to read this at all, chances are you're in the wealthiest 5% of the world. You have power and privilege too, in some form or another. The question is, who will you use it for?Michelle Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17573450769773227616noreply@blogger.com0