Slingsby's Miscellany

At the end of our few days in Scotland, it was time to travel south back to Kent. So on the last day we booked a couple of bed and breakfast overnight stops on-line, making our choices based partly on price, and partly on the photographs shown on the websites. Both places we chose were excellent, but because our geography and knowledge of Scotland and northern England was a little less than ideal, one was basically only just on the outskirts of Edinburgh, and the other was only just over the border into England, which left a much greater distance for the final drive than we had anticipated. But we enjoyed both places, and would certainly recommend them to anyone travelling to that part of the UK.

The first was at Dalkeith, just a few kilometres south of Edinburgh. We had no difficulty finding it, having safely navigated our way through the incredible road works either side of the Firth of Forth, as part of the new bridge crossing. The B and B, known as Smeaton House, was originally a 15^th century courtyard castle which had been largely destroyed by fire in the 17^th century, and subsequently rebuilt as a very nice, turreted country residence. One of the original towers has been incorporated into the restored building, whilst another, still ruined, forms part of the courtyard wall.

There are traces of the old moat, and two of the vaulted cellars are now used, one as the dining room and another as a sitting room. All the common rooms have an open log fire, whilst the bedrooms are centrally heated by radiators. It is a very lived-in and cosy, relaxing guest house, and is on an estate owned by the Duke of Somewhere, who is, apparently, one of the largest land holders in Scotland. The grounds are delightful, with pheasant (definitely) and deer (reportedly) roaming freely. It is currently leased to our host John, who runs it almost singlehandedly as a B and B.

John is an interesting character. He bought a mobile fish and chip van when he left school, before he was old enough to drive, and engaged an aged pensioner to drive it for him. It was clearly a very lucrative business, and he subsequently bought a fish and chip shop, and now also owns several properties in Edinburgh which he rents out. He has only recently entered the B and B business, and all the indications are that he will make a success of that too. He appears to be doing all the work himself, although he did call on his mother in Edinburgh to prepare the plate of fresh fruit for our breakfast. The fruit platter was followed by a full Monty breakfast, prepared to perfection. When it was time to leave and to pay the bill, we discovered that John was only able to accept cash; the reason being, he explained, was that he wanted to see how the business went before committing himself to a four-year contract for eftpos facilities. This meant that we had to pop back to Dalkeith and find an ATM to get the necessary amount of cash. We had deliberately run down the cash in our purse, as in Scotland ATMs give you notes of Scottish currency, which are not very welcome in England. So having taken out just the minimum we needed to make up the £75 we thought we owed, we returned to the B and B, proffered the cash, to be told it was only £60. So we still had £15 of the unwelcome Scottish notes left!

Leaving Smeaton House, we travelled south on the A68 through the Boarder Country. This is a wild and beautiful area, which, over the centuries, has seen more than its fair share of battles and skirmishes between the Scots and the English The road skirts the ancient Abbey town of Jedburgh, and anyone visiting this area for the first time would be rewarded for spending a couple of days at least here. However, we did not have that time, so continued on our merry way south to Knitsley, in County Durham.

Knitsley is more of a rural area than a village, on the outskirts of Consett, of which we saw very little. But once, Consett was one of the most important steel towns in the UK. In the 1840s, Consett was a village with a population of 145, but with the vast local reserves of coal, iron ore and limestone, it had a rapid expansion as the industrial revolution kicked off, and by the 1960s, the steel works alone employed over 6000 workers. Many more were employed in mining, and the many service and peripheral industries around mining and steel manufacture. But it couldn’t last for ever, and it didn’t last for long. By the 1980s thousands of jobs were lost as the steel mills and coal mines were closed, and unemployment reached nearly 40%. Today, Consett is largely a dormitory town for people who work elsewhere, and the town still has one of the highest unemployment rates in the country.

But just outside Consett, in the Knitsley area, is the delightful Old Mill Restaurant and Bar, which also has bed and breakfast accommodation.

It is only a couple of miles or so from Consett, but it could be a million miles away in another world. At a cross-road of tiny country lanes, and with the old mill stream running in front, it is an idyllic setting. We did have a little difficulty finding the place, as I turned off the ‘major’ country lane (which wasn’t very wide) into a very ‘minor’ country lane one intersection too soon. The lane we took was little more than a farm track, and fortunately we didn’t meet any on-coming vehicles. But we did meet a small flock, perhaps six or seven, of very small lambs! It was amazing how they were too frightened to run back past us, but as they took flight along the lane in front, they suddenly stopped for a moment or two to eat the lush green grass on the roadside. But eventually we persuaded them to nip back past the car, and they scampered back up the hill to the field from which they had obviously escaped, but still frequently stopping to eat. Cleary the greener grass on the other side of the fence was sufficiently appetising to overcome their fear of being run down.

When we eventually arrived at the Old Mill we were made very welcome by the very friendly and efficient Pauline, who showed us to our room, and told us about the facilities available. The room, in a building separate from the main restaurant/bar was very old, with a beamed ceiling and stone walls. It was clean, cosy and warm, and the bed was very comfortable. The bar was also cosy and very warm, heated by a huge log fire. The other patrons in the bar were mostly residents of the surrounding area, and were all very friendly. The restaurant part was a little cooler, being further away from the log fire, but still very pleasant. And the food was first class. Unfortunately, (or perhaps fortunately), we had to stay longer in the bar after dinner to make use of the wifi, as the walls, like those at Smeaton House the night before, were very thick stone walls, through which the wifi could not penetrate. But the beer was excellent, and the fire was cosy, so it was not too much of a hardship!

We spent a very comfortable night, and at breakfast picked up a couple of tourist information brochures. One of these drew our attention to the Bowes Museum, of which we had never heard, but toward which we bent our steps after breakfast.

Bowes Museum is just outside the small Yorkshire town of Barnard Castle, about an hour’s drive from Knitsley. The drive itself was very pleasant, but when we reached the museum we were, to use a rather hackneyed phrase, ‘blown away’! It is a massive building very much resembling a French chateau, plopped there, right on the edge of the Yorkshire dales. We couldn’t believe our eyes as we looked across the very formal French style gardens to the building itself.

But the story of the museum is as romantic as one would like to hear. The founders were John and Josephine Bowes, whose story is truly amazing.

Just to set the scene, it is necessary to note that the late Queen Elisabeth, the Queen Mother was a member of the Bowes family (her maiden name was Bowes-Lyon), and therefore the present Queen Elisabeth has Bowes blood in her very royal veins. Now John Bowes (1811- 1885) of the museum, was the illegitimate son of the 10^th Earl of Strathmore, and whilst John inherited his portion of the estate, his illegitimacy prevented him from inheriting the title, which went to his uncle, who was the Queen Mother’s ancestor. But John took himself and his money to Paris, where he bought a theatre, and promptly fell in love with, and married, Joséphine Benoîte Coffin-Chevalier, a clock-maker’s daughter, who was one of the dancers at the theatre. For a wedding present, he bought her a chateau just outside Paris. Josephine had a penchant for fine things, and became an avid collector of very fine porcelain, silver, paintings, and a whole range of what might be called ‘decorative arts’; and she was also a very fine artist, exhibiting in the Salon de Paris and the Royal Academy in London. John himself also had an eye for beauty, and between them they amassed a huge collection comprising several thousand extremely beautiful, and of course, very valuable, pieces. Josephine had longed to have a child, but her delicate health seemed to intervene and they remained childless. But the collection continued to grow, and in the end, they sold the Paris chateau, and built the Bowes Museum in John’s home town of Barnard Castle, and bequeathed it to the people of Yorkshire. Unfortunately neither Josephine nor John lived to see the building completed; the museum opened in 1892, seven years after John had died. If you find yourself in this part of the world, and have a few hours to spend, it is very well worth a visit.

Like all museums, it has a souvenir shop, and I was surprised to find quite a number of Dickens’s books, and a few biographies of Dickens. I then recalled that Dickens had made quite a name for himself in the Yorkshire area from his book Nicholas Nickleby, which denounced the “Yorkshire Schools”. So digging deep into the memory banks, I recalled that Dickens did indeed visit Barnard Castle, and the nearby village of Bowes, gathering material for Nicholas Nickleby. So we then drove the few kilometres to Bowes and in the churchyard there, found the grave of George Ashton Taylor, one of the pupils who had died in The Bowes Academy, (run by Mr William Shaw) one of the notorious schools, and whom Dickens had mentioned as the inspiration for Smike,

We also found the grave of William Shaw and members of Shaw’s family, who, it is widely believed, were the prototypes for Wackford Squeers and his family who ran Dotheboys Hall at which Nicholas Nickleby taught. Dickens denied this, claiming that Squeers and Dotheboys Hall was a synthesis of many characteristics of all the Yorkshire Schools, rather than a description of any particular school. However, largely because of Dickens’s polemic on the schools, Bowes Academy, along with many other Yorkshire schools, closed within a year of the publication of Nicholas Nickleby. It is now claimed that Dickens had been very unfair toward William Shaw, who was, according to his great great grandson, a very kind and conscientious man.

But despite the differences of opinion as to whether Dickens had been unfair to the Bowes academy, Barnard Castle has certainly made use of his name! We spotted a Dickens Road, and a Nickleby Close; and on the front wall of what previously was the King’s Head Inn (now a retirement home) is a blue plaque commemorating the fact that Dickens stayed there for two days doing his research into the Yorkshire Schools.

Almost opposite is a mediaeval building with a blue plaque commemorating the possibility that Oliver Cromwell may have been entertained within.

So after this very enjoyable and interesting day trip to Barnard Castle and to Bowes, we returned to the Old Mill for another excellent dinner and a good night’s sleep before heading further south, toward Hetton, just north of Skipton in the southern part of the Yorkshire Dales. We had made an arrangement to join with our nephew Rob and his wife Sal for lunch, and the chosen venue was The Angel at Hetton. In order to get there, we had to drive across much of the Yorkshire Dales National Park, and what a beautifully unspoilt part of England it turned out to be. Mile after mile of pretty much nothing other than rolling, undulating hills, mostly grassed, but with scrubby bushes and the odd stunted tree.

Drystone walls were used to keep the sheep in place, and for much of the drive, the walls were very close to the edges of the road. Fortunately we came across very little traffic; just the occasional cyclist or group of walkers. It was a slower drive than we had planned, but we arrived at Hetton in time to enjoy a very nice lunch in the company of our young relatives, before we had to take our leave to complete the day’s journey to Colchester—still five hours away even using the motorways!

Arrived at Colchester, we caught up with Sue, an old work colleague from more than 50 years ago! In one of those strange quirks of fate, we lost touch with Sue when she married a year or so before we did, and moved away from East Kent. We left the UK for Australia a few years later, but after a gap of the order of 52 years, contact was re-established and Sue visited us in Melbourne. And now, only 5 months later, we were to be her guests in Colchester! Unfortunately, it was only to be a one-night stop, but we did have time for a sentimental stroll around the nearby village of Earles Colne, where Ann had spent a few childhood holidays with her aunt and uncle.

We also made time for an excellent lunch with Sue in a local pub, The Shoulder of Mutton,

before heading over the bridge which provides the south-bound part of the Dartford Crossing (of the Thames), and driving the last few miles back to Herne Bay.

Arriving at St Andrews on Saturday May 7 a few hours later than planned, we went direct to the hostel where Ann’s brother John has been a resident for the past ten years or so, and we were very pleased to find him somewhat better than we had expected. But his Parkinson’s is progressing, and he is certainly more frail than when we were last here, and as it was by now quite late in the evening, we did not stay too long, but went with our niece, Gill, back to her place at Cupar where we would be staying for the few days.

Over the course of the next few days, we were able to borrow a wheelchair through the local branch of the Red Cross, and take John out into the town. Whilst his short term memory was fragile, John was very good at navigating the way through the streets of St Andrews to find his favourite coffee shops! On this first outing we had not strapped John in securely because when we got him into the chair, we found he was sitting on the seat belt, so we decided to do without it, rather than haul him out to retrieve the belt. I felt somewhat concerned as we bounced him along over the cobbles and other unevenness’s in the pavements, but fortunately we did not bounce him out of the chair, and John himself was so pleased to be out, he was quite unconcerned about the perils we had put in is way. And we easily found all three of his favourite cafes, under his expert navigation whilst we were there. On the second outing, we did strap him in, but on our return to the hostel, we tried to get him out of the chair having forgotten to undo the belt. By the third outing, we were getting pretty good at the whole exercise.

As well as taking John out, and cooking him a couple of meals as a change from the Meals-on-Wheels service, we also managed to find some time to do some exploring on our own, finding the cheese shop we had visited on a previous visit, and also finding a second excellent cheese shop the existence of which, we had no idea.

We also found an excellent bookshop where I managed to purchase the book entitled Sir Henry Neville was Shakespeare: The Evidence. Now I am by no means a Shakespeare scholar, but I do enjoy the plays, and I was aware of the various theories as to the identity of the Bard, all of which I treated with a high degree of scepticism. So having heard about this book, and it having been suggested that it is the definitive evidence on the identity of the author of the plays and sonnets we all believe to be William Shakespeare of Stratford on Avon, I could not pass up the opportunity of buying a copy. Thus far, I have had very little spare time for reading, and have only managed to read the first few introductory pages, which have largely recapitulated the reasons why it could not have been Shakespeare himself. I shall forbear commenting further, until I have read more of the book.

We also took a walk along the first hole of the Old Course to the Swilken Burn, but as we have been here before, took no photographs this time. (See Travel Blog; July 22 to July 27 2012 for descriptions of previous trip to St Andrews). We wandered around the old ruined castle, and the harbour, and sat for a while on a seat overlooking the sea, like a couple of old pensioners!

As already mentioned, we were staying with our niece at Cupar, in her small cottage set on the top of a very windy hill, in the middle of farmland. The views across the fields down to the town are very attractive, and one can see why Gill loves her cottage so much—even though she does not drive, and has to walk up the very steep hill to get home! Cupar is a fairly unremarkable town, but it does have a very nice river-side park, an excellent patisserie, and a superb bistro, Café Montmartre, run by a French man. We dined there one evening with Gill, and the moules marinières entreé and the confit de canard main dish were excellent.

We took a cross-country drive to the small village of Crail, which claims that its harbour is the most photographed harbour in Great Britian. It is certainly a very pretty harbour, and you can find my photograph of it in an earlier blog (if you would like to!).

And that is about all we did in Scotland this trip! The next blog with be Travelling South!

Having stayed in Kent until Geoff’s funeral, we left on May 5, and pointed the car toward Scotland to visit Ann’s brother John. Knowing that we would not get off to a particularly early start, we decided to go only as far as Ely in Cambridgeshire on the first day. Skirting the university city of Cambridge, we came across the tiny village of Great Wilbraham, which we had never heard of, but which had many thatched cottages along the street. As it was just about lunch-time, we called into the first (and as it happened, the only) pub we came across in the village, the Carpenters Arms.

Dating back to the 1640s, it has been a pub continuously since 1729. It is said to be haunted by an unknown man, but the ghost has not been seen in recent times, and we certainly felt no spectral presence. The Carpenters Arms brews its own beer, although demand for the beer has increased to the point where they now have to make it off-site. I was lucky to get a pint of the last batch to be brewed in the pub itself, and it was certainly a good drop, so I can fully understand the increased demand. I just hope that the move to larger premises, and the larger-scale production, does not result in a lower standard of taste! Leaving Great Wilbraham, we passed through the even smaller Little Wilbraham, and made our way to Ely.

We had taken the precaution of booking our first night’s accommodation at one of a chain of hotels, which I shall not name! The hotel was easy to find, and that is all that was good about it! But it was close to the centre of Ely, so that is where we bent our steps during the afternoon. The first stop was, of course, the Cathedral. It is a magnificent building, both inside and out. There has been a religious building on this site since 673 AD, when St Etheldreda, the daughter of the Saxon King of East Anglia became a nun and founded a community for men and women. Her Saxon church was destroyed by the Danes in 870, but was restored in 970 as a Benedictine monastery for men only. This was subsequently demolished to make way for a Norman church built between 1081 and 1189, and there have been subsequent modifications and enlargements ever since, giving us the magnificent building we see today.

After visiting the Cathedral, we walked down to the River Great Ouse, where we found a very nice pub, The Cutter. It had been recommended by the young man who served us tea in the Cathedral café, and it overlooked the river, which was very pretty with the collection of gaily painted ‘narrow boats’ and other types of river craft.

The beef casserole we had for dinner was delicious; the sticky toffee pudding was superb; the young ladies who waited on us were delightfully cheerful; and it all made for a lovely evening. The crowning glory came as we were walking back to the car and spotted a notice at the gate to the King‘s School Music Department, advertising a piano and oboe recital by two local musicians. They played a varied programme, with items from the baroque to very modern, with classic and romantic numbers in between. It was a lovely end to our first day, which was then spoilt by a less than ideal night in a rather disappointing hotel!

Next morning, we set off with the intention of stopping a night at Skipton, on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales, or is it the Moors? I can never remember which is which, but suffice to say, we drove through some magnificent scenery! Even now, it never ceases to amaze me how much wild and unspoilt country there is in this sceptred isle…set in the silver sea… with nearly 55 million inhabitants! The journey itself was uneventful, driving as much as we could on the green roads, and as little as we needed to on the blue ones. But because we were using the more minor roads, we didn’t make it all the way to Skipton. In the small market town of Otley, we called into the Tourist Information Office, who recommended a bed and breakfast place right around the corner! So we bent our steps in that direction and decided immediately to stay there.

It was a lovely old building, dating from the 1700’s, and was owned and run by a delightful couple. We were lucky to get the last room available, and there were six other guests for the night.

We had a stroll to the River Wharfe, and found an excellent Italian restaurant for dinner. The bed was beautifully comfortable; the room was very quiet; and the other guests were delightful. Such a contrast to the chain hotel, which shall remain nameless, the night before!

After an excellent night’s sleep, we were treated to a splendid full Monty English breakfast before heading off on the last leg to St Andrews. We drove through miles of spectacular dales (or moors), stopping at a very nice farm shop/café for a coffee, until we reached the M6 motorway. Then it was full steam ahead passing by the Lake District, and heading toward the Kincardine Bridge over the Firth of Forth. All went well, and we successfully negotiated all the road works. But!!! We then missed a turn-off from the motorway we were on, to one we needed to be on! It was at least 10k before we could get off the wrong road, and then, having done so, we spotted a sign for St Andrews. As that was exactly where we were heading for, we followed that direction, which turned out to be a very scenic, but very long and winding road to our eventual destination, arriving about two hours later than planned. But at last we met up with brother John, and our niece, Gill.

More about our stay at St Andrews in the next blog.

I cannot remember when we were last in England during the spring. Our first trip back in 1978 was certainly August/September, and the next trips, during the children’s school days were, per force, during December/January. More recent trips have been mid-summer, and as I said, I cannot recall a springtime visit. And maybe that is why I am totally blown away by the brilliance of the spring flowers! Even though it has been cold, the days have mostly been sunny, and the flowers are more colourful and bright than I remember them ever to have been! Whilst we were a bit too late for the daffodils, the tulips and other flowers, most of which I do not know the names of, are stunning. Gardens are so well tended; the grass is so green and freshly mowed; the wild bluebells, which we saw in the sleet and snow are magnificent this year. Mind you, the imported Spanish bluebells, which are brighter, stronger, and slightly bigger than the native ones, are taking over. So far they have not invaded the wild woodlands, but they are certainly spreading rampantly through domestic gardens. There was even a short piece in the national daily newspapers expressing concern at this Iberian invasion! This blog will not have many more words, but I hope you enjoy the pictures of the flowers!

Day 7 of our visit to England, and I cannot believe that I have not yet set foot in an English pub, or had a pint of English beer. That is not to say that I haven’t had a drink or two, but so far drinking has comprised exclusively red wine and single malt whisky. But that is soon to be remedied. We decided to leave the Westbrook Lodge Bed and Breakfast on Friday April 22, a day earlier than originally planned, and headed toward Herne Bay to spend some time with my sister Brenda, and her husband Eddie. We had collected our hire car on Thursday, and after a last breakfast at the B & B loaded the car and headed off through Westgate, stopping briefly in St Jean’s Road where we lived prior to emigrating to Australia.

We also took the opportunity of taking a photograph of the primary school in St Bennet’s Road where daughter Helen spent her first few weeks of schooling.

We then continued toward Herne Bay, but decided to drive through the East Kent Marshes on the way, rather than stay on the main Thanet Way. Now these marshes are all that remain after the silting up of the once navigable Wantsum Channel, a channel about three kilometres wide, separating the Isle of Thanet from the mainland. 1,500 years ago the River Stour emptied into the Wantsum Channel, and the stones used in the building of Canterbury Cathedral were brought by boat from Caen in France, and up the Stour to the port of Fordwich. From there they were taken the last 10K to Canterbury by horse and cart. A century or so later, the channel began to silt up, and today the Stour empties into the English Channel at Richborough, which in Roman days, was the southern end of the Wantsum.

The remains of the Wantsum, now only a metre or so wide, is one of many small marsh channels emptying into the Thames Estuary near Reculver (between Herne Bay and Birchington) at the northern end of the original channel. There are still significant ruins of Roman forts at both Reculver and Richborough. The great majority of people travelling along the Thanet Way between Herne Bay and Birchington are completely oblivious to the existence of the tiny Wantsum River, which to this day means that Thanet is indeed still an island! As a child I used to go fishing in the channels of the East Kent marshes, so this short detour through Marshside was something of a ‘sentimental journey’ for me. Just as one reaches what was originally the mainland coast of the old channel, there is the tiny village of Boyden Gate, with its pub, simply called The Gate.

Thus far not having set foot in a pub, I took very little persuading to stop and venture inside, and very soon was enjoying a pint of Shepherd Neame Master Brew bitter, whilst waiting for a lunch of scampi for Ann, and bangers and mash for me, to be brought to the table. So at last the drought was broken.

There were a number of patrons in for lunch, and The Gate is by no means a large pub. Consequently we were all sitting close together, and it was impossible not to overhear the various conversations. At the table to my left there was a trio comprising a married couple and a single lady. I use the word ‘single’ purely to signify that there was only one lady, rather than that she was unmarried, as for all I know, she might well have a husband somewhere. Both the married couple and the single lady had with them their pet dogs, which fortunately seemed to ignore everything and everyone in the room. The conversation between the members of the trio was pretty unremarkable until the single lady asked the married couple how they would be voting in the up-coming referendum which would determine whether the UK would leave, or remain in, the EU. The couple replied that they would both vote in favour of leaving the EU, whereupon the single lady became very loud and vocal in her support of Britain remaining very much in the EU. It was then on for young and old, both sides getting very het-up, and quite irrational in voicing their personal reasons for the stands they were taking. Phrases such as ‘uncontrolled floods of migrants’, ‘trade agreements’, ‘lost markets’, ‘lost jobs’, ‘mass unemployment’, ‘agricultural disasters’ and so forth were bellowed forth with great vehemence from both sides. Faces were getting redder by the minute, and whilst I was dying to put in my two bobs worth, I forbore doing so, knowing that Ann would probably give me a pretty vicious kick under the table if I so much as even looked like opening my mouth. Their argument then shifted slightly to medical education, and how ridiculous it was that England was training doctors in the National Health Service at great expense, and as soon as they were qualified, they went overseas to places such as Australia. Surprisingly, I still forbore entering the discussion, displaying amazing strength of character not to weaken and open my mouth. So I meekly went to the bar and ordered another pint of Master Brew.

Whilst the EU discussion was in full swing on my left, the group on my right, comprising three young women and one young man, were having a discussion about childbirth, waters breaking, forceps delivery, and so on. The young man seemed rather out of his depth, and sat there very meekly and somewhat embarrassed, whilst the young women continued their chat, comparing their personal experiences of childbirth, and putting away a couple of bottles of fizzy drink, which may or may not have been alcoholic.

For our part, the most interesting conversation that engaged us revolved around bell ringing, as I mentioned to mine host that my late father and my even later maternal grandfather had, on occasions, rung the bells in the church in the nearby village of Chislet, as visitors from St Martins at Herne, and St Nicholas at Sturry respectively. Mine host claimed that his daughter had all the records of visiting campanologists, and he would see what he could find out about my two ancestors.

Quite clearly we shall shortly have to make a return visit to The Gate, to see whether anything has been discovered. And of course, whilst there, to indulge in another pint or two of Master Brew before the drought sets in again.

Saturday April 16 and Sunday April 17 were largely spent at the hospice with Ann’s brother, who passed away peacefully on the evening of the 17^th. But as I have previously mentioned, this blog is more to do with other aspects of our trip than with immediate family matters.

So it came to pass that there was time to have a good long walk, and a closer look at Margate. It is only fair to say that Margate, from Dreamland to the clock tower is a sad and sorry sight. Admittedly it is ‘out of season’ and bitterly cold, so one should not expect too much action along this part of the town. But nonetheless, the several pin-ball machine arcades, interspersed between the empty, nearly derelict shops and cafes, are not at all inviting. Further along the front, from the clock tower to the bottom of the high street is just as bad, but around the harbour and the old market square, things are looking more prosperous. I then continued up Fort Hill and along the cliff-top road, to the Wintergardens.

Built in the early 20^th century, by excavating a huge hole in the cliff face, largely with pick and shovel, a venue was created for entertainments during the long cold winters. I recall seeing Humphrey Lyttleton’s Jazz Band there more than 50 years ago. It was also a favourite performance space for the local amateur operatic and dramatic societies; dances were held there, and the London Symphony Orchestra and the famous comedians of the day performed there. Having looked down on it from the top road, and noting that the gardens were very well maintained and looking very spring-like with tulips and other flowers, I wandered down to the Promenade below the cliff, from which the Wintergardens are entered.

From this point of view, it was a depressing site. The building entrance was all shuttered up, and wind-blown rubbish had accumulated in nooks and crannies. One hoped that this is only a pre-season mess, and all will soon be cleared up, as I have been assured that inside, the Wintergardens are just as they were, and are still very much used.

Continuing my stroll along the promenade, I next came to the Lido, originally built as public baths in 1824 as more ‘up-market’ dwellings and boarding houses were built at Cliftonville.

This was even more depressing, and with all the graffiti on the shutters and walls, presented as an area where no-one would feel safe if walking alone at night. The once popular ‘Lido Sands’ looked more like the local tip than a place of unbridled pleasure.

So passing quickly on, I climbed a steep slope to the top, to discover a very well-maintained children’s playground and lawns, many splendid new apartment blocks, and some very well restored original dwellings. Such a contrast to the desolation along the lower promenade!

I continued walking away from the seafront, toward Northdown Road. This was a major shopping strip in days gone by, and is still fairly vibrant, given the season. But the shops seemed rather tired and tatty, and less affluent than I recall. But I did find a very nice coffee in a café toward the eastern end of Northdown Road. From there I wandered to find Approach Road, where we lived for the first two years of our married life, 50 years ago. Finding number 42, there was a gentleman washing his car in the street right outside. I sought his permission to take a photograph, which he readily gave when I explained my reason for doing so.

We had quite a chat, and he lived in the ground-floor flat, whilst we used to live on the first floor. Externally the building had not changed one bit, and I suspect that internally it would likewise still be the same. Something must have changed, though, for I had not realised that from just outside the front door, there was a glimpse of the sea! Maybe a couple of trees had been removed? I could not be sure.

I continued my walk through nearby Dane Park, and so back to Margate, passing as I did so, the Theatre Royal. Built in 1787, this grand old theatre has had its share of ups and downs, but now is in an “up” phase. Freshly painted on the outside, it looked very prosperous. The boards outside promised a Harold Pinter play (The Birthday Party) coming soon (but after we return to Melbourne). The Royal Ballet was coming, and there seemed to be a very full program of touring Rep companies about to visit. The current production was a play called The Joke, and I secured two tickets.

Now I have to mention here that the last time we were at the Theatre Royal was in January 1963. That was the year the sea froze, and it was bitterly, bitterly cold. The theatre could not afford to run the heating, and for the production of Great Expectations that night, the eight of us in the audience were issued blankets to huddle in to keep warm. It was freezing, and the words left the actor’s mouths as blocks of ice which stung our ears each time they were fired. But it was a great performance. Since then we have met, in Melbourne, another member of the audience of 8, who was there with his brother, mother and father! So now we have identified six of the eight, and we often wonder what happened to the other two!

I continued on my way, and once again passed the main sea-front of Margate. Dreamland has been refurbished, but still looked pretty desolate, and the entrance to it is still down an alley adjacent to the Odeon Cinema—-now abandoned and looking more like a disused gasworks than a cinema.

I thought then how Westgate, the next place along the coast, which had always lived in Margate’s shadow because its beaches were not so good, and even non-existent at high tide, now seemed to have much more pride in itself than Margate appears to have. Westgate cinema is all freshly painted, looks great, and has the latest films showing. Such a contrast to the Odeon at Margate!

So, what is to become of Margate? It does seem to me that its attempts at pulling itself out of the mire by using the power of the arts, is having an effect. The Turner Centre has led to the re-birth of the old harbour and market area with some nice cafés, bars and so on. The Theatre Royal appears to be prospering. If Margate can shake off the old ‘kiss-me-quick’ hats and candy-floss thinking; if it can redevelop the main seafront with some good accommodation, (holiday or more permanent residential), some decent restaurants, all of which would have direct sea views, it might get there. But certainly the source of its previous wealth, the London day-tripper, no longer exists, and is very unlikely to return.

Wednesday, April 13, 2016, and we were preparing to leave for the UK on Thursday 14. But all preparations were put on hold as we drove the hour or so to Drouin to attend a house concert presented by the Baw Baw Trio. A programme of Mozart, Smetana, and Brahms was not to be missed, and we were truly rewarded with splendid performance followed by an excellent lunch, all in the company of good friends.

But of course, from such a great start to a day, things could not help but go bad! Back home, a miskeyed Net Bank transfer left us with $1000.00 floating somewhere in cyberspace, and all we could get from the bank was the reassurance that ‘it would eventually find its way back home’. The next problem was getting the ever-increasing number of passwords and PIN numbers mixed up—–two failed attempts, and then a caution that a third failed attempt would leave the plastic card stuck inside the ATM. And only a few hours before it was time to leave. The queue in the bank was hours long, so back home for a desperate attempt to reset the PINs on-line. For us, this is nail-biting territory. But fortunately all went well,— that is, until the lights on the car taking us to the airport malfunctioned, and we had to go back home and swap cars. But at the airport, all went swimmingly. We scored adjacent seats, and the check-in staff, the ‘Border Force’ staff, and everyone we had to deal with before we could get on the plane, were great. The carry-on baggage scanner man even had a sense of humour, commenting that the colour of Ann’s green handbag that I was carrying whilst Ann was being manually scanned for her steel knees, didn’t suit me!

The Cathay Pacific plane left on time, and we could not fault the service provided by the cabin crew. A two-hour transfer at Hong Kong Airport went very smoothly, and apart from having to pay too much for very second-rate coffee, (and getting the change in HK dollars for which we had no further need), there were no problems there. It was a bit disappointing that the weather at Hong Kong was bad, and we could see nothing as we flew in, as we sipped our coffee, or as we flew out. But at least we did not have to go out into the rain, unlike our great niece Martha, who is currently studying in Hong Kong (from the UK), and our grand-daughter, Amy-Ann, who was there visiting her cousin, taking advantage of Martha being there.

The route then took us north over China, west across the top of Russia, and south over Scandinavia and so to England, where we shall be staying for the next five weeks. It was interesting to note that for most of the trip between HK and the UK, there was complete cloud cover beneath us, so it wasn’t just Hong Kong that was getting lousy weather. And when we reached Heathrow, we found that it was raining, and about 11^oC.  So on the whole, the flight was boringly smooth and uneventful, which is as it should be, and just how we like it to be.

Our nephew Roy picked us up at Heathrow and after a brief stop at their home to pick up our niece Kate and to eat an excellent but very quick dinner, Roy drove us to Margate and dropped us at our bed-and-breakfast accommodation. This was a change of plan from the original intention of stopping the first night with Kate and Roy. But circumstances necessitated an earlier arrival at Margate, and we were fortunate that our B & B had a spare room available for the night. So, after 27 or so hours in the air, and a couple more on the road, we arrived at Westbrook Lodge Guest House around 9.00pm Friday April 15.

The reasons for the timing of this particular trip to the UK included the fact that the health of both of Ann’s aging brothers was deteriorating; John, living in Scotland, has for several years, been suffering the slow decline due to Parkinson’s, whilst Geoff, living in Margate, has the more rapid trajectory of cancer. The reason for the last minute change of plan on the day of our arrival was a sudden deterioration of Geoff’s condition. Suffice to say, that for the first few days, our strategy has been to spend as much time as possible with Geoff and other members of his immediate family. But this blog will concern itself more with the other aspects of our trip, starting with a stroll to Margate town centre for the rather prosaic purpose of organising a mobile phone!

So, to continue. Friday morning, after a splendid Full Monty English breakfast, I bent my steps toward the centre of Margate. It was a bright clear morning, with a north wind that could only be described as freezing. I don’t think I have experienced the sensation of tingling ears for over 20 years—-since we made a trip to England one Christmas. There were a few hardy Englishmen, who normally only venture forth with their mad dogs during the noon-day sun, on the beach exercising said dogs. I stayed on the promenade holding onto my hat with one hand, alternately trying to warm the other in my pocket. Margate sea front has changed little since our last visit (2012), but maybe just a little lest mindless graffiti, and maybe one or two seafront amusement arcades looking less depressed. One noticeable change was that the clock in the tower built to celebrate the Jubilee of the late Queen Victoria had been repaired, or maybe just wound up, and actually displayed the correct time.

I continued around the front toward the harbour, and to the bottom end of the High Street. Now this is an area which is continuing to improve, albeit slowly. An article in the local newspaper states that the much maligned Turner Centre has, in the five years of its existence, injected in excess of £50 million into the local economy. There are some very inviting cafés established, but before I ventured in, I found a phone shop, purchased a new sim, and got it installed. I then went to Café G at the very bottom of the High Street, with glimpses of the harbour, and had an excellent coffee, whilst sitting out of the bitterly cold wind making a few calls.

One of those calls was to my sister, Brenda. It was lovely to speak with her, and we arranged that she and husband Eddie, would join with us for dinner that evening at the B & B. Here, I shall just mention that the Westbrook Lodge falls well into our usual standard of   accommodation, being in the shabby-genteel category. The current owners (less than two years) are a delightful couple of youngish Italians. They are very obliging, interesting to talk with, and are making a great effort to systematically refurbish the rooms. Our room is ‘up-stairs’, and the view from the bay-window looks out across an area of grass which includes a bowling green, and used to include a 8-hole putting green, to the sea beyond.

Our dinner comprised simple Italian home cooking, and a bottle of Italian red wine, and was a nice way to finish our first full day in Kent.