Carry On Up The Kali Strata

Which is what I did yesterday. I just popped down to the post office and the bank, not that popping back up again is much fun. Actually, it was, and I am still able to manage the walk without being out of breath. Mind you, I do tend to lose half my body weight in sweat which is a bit embarrassing if you stop off at the top to buy something from a shop. It’s not the time to try on clothes, that’s for sure.

So today, I thought I’d share some of the photos I took on that trudge up the hill (which I enjoyed). A tip is to stop now and then to take pictures, as that gives you an excuse for a pause without anyone thinking you’re shirking your exercise. Another tip is to have a bottle of water with you, and a third is to stay in the shade as much as possible. You hear people say that they copy the locals and zigzag up the steps to make it easier. I’ve never been sure about that. Yes, people do, but maybe that’s because the mules do and thus folk think it’s better. I reckon the mules have to because of the way they walk, and I don’t find it any easier to zigzag than to go straight for the direct route which must surely involve fewer paces. I go where the shade is, so some tacking is unavoidable. However you do it, remember that there’s also a book by the same name, ‘Carry On Up The Kali Strata’, and it holds all kinds of info and stories and articles which are often fun to read.

And now, the walk:

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Let’s hurry this along

I’m aware that I’ve been back nearly a week and still not much news from Symi so I will end my UK trip story with a few photos to bring it to a close today.

I left you on Romney Marsh yesterday, and that’s where I was for three days. During this time, I met up with four other old friends from school days, had lunch with my old deputy headmaster, and there’s another coincidence there, a couple actually. He lives in a house we lived in 50 years ago, so I was able to see inside it again after a long time. I also briefly played their piano. It stood three feet away from where my first piano stood and where I had my first piano lesson. Also, in a revue at school in 1980, not long after we did ‘Cox and Box’, Box and I dressed up as the ugly sisters in a panto sketch where the headmaster was portrayed as Cinderella. Box and I were dressed as the two deputy heads, one of whom I had lunch with in my old house. He remembered it fondly, I am pleased to say.

I also took a long walk along the beach, and out into the marsh to see places and fields I used to play in with my farmers-sons friends, took photos of wildlife for research purposes and had a couple more hearty meals and pints of Old Rosie (cider). The next highlight was seeing my brother at Dungeness for the first time in 14 years.

On the last day of my trip, my nephew came down from Folkestone to pick me up. We visited his grandfather’s grave, drove to Ashford to see two of my nieces I’d not met before, and then spent the afternoon and evening in Folkestone behaving badly. I was able to take a look at the theatre I used to work in back in 79 to 81, now derelict and awaiting its fate. We had a ‘sesh’ at a Champagne bar stuck out at the end of the harbour arm, and the next day, the boys drove me to Stanstead. Here, Jet2 were on time until a couple of passengers got lost, and then we were delayed for 20 minutes. Ha! You should try 20 hours, love. We arrived in Rhodes only ten minutes late where the Angela Suits upgraded me as a returning visitor, and I had the biggest bed ever invented. The room was also spotless, unlike the hotel on the outward trip.

And so, back to Symi on the Blue Star 2 where, after I arrived, I was resolved to walk up to the village with my case but was rescued by Adriana’s husband who gave me a lift. I arrived at the Rainbow around 17.30 but didn’t get home until 22.00, and home is only fifty yards away. We had dinner at the taverna where I was welcomed back with two main dishes, water and a litre of wine for €20.00. About the same price as I paid for a bowl of lettuce, a trace of wine in a huge glass and a bottle of water in the Travelodge in Covent Garden. Mind you, I’d also had a glass of wine at Stanstead for €11.00 – the cheapest they could manage.

So, that’s it. No more travelling for me for a while, apart from a trip to Athens in winter, Scotland for a wedding, New Zealand in a year or so… Perhaps.

Scroll down for the rest of the photos.

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Saddling Church

I hope you had a great weekend. I did. I was working on ‘The Eastling’ when not relaxing at the bar or entertaining at home, putting in a claim with EasyJet for my cancelled flight and listening to the party at LOS in Yialos at four in the morning. (I was awake anyway, and you can’t hear it from inside the house.) It’s hot here, of course, it’s August, and it’s busy in the harbour but more relaxed in the village, as always.

Now then, on my ‘Rainbow Tour’ (as I named it after Evita) we have reached the south coast, and from Brighton, I travelled to Romney Marsh, the ‘my home town’ of the Tom Lehrer song. [“No fellow could ignore, the little girl next door, she sure looked sweet in her first evening gown. Now there’s a charge for what she used to give for free, in my home town…” And other naughty verses.] So, today’s blog is about Saddling.

Saddling is a place that doesn’t exist. If you have read the first novel in the series, ‘The Saddling‘ you might even think that it’s a mythical place that our hero, Tom Carey, wandered into, arriving as he did through the mist and more or less stepping back in time. In the stories it is real but ignored and only connects with the outside world on its own terms, and we do have to wonder how can that be possible these days, but it’s a novel, so it doesn’t matter. The point is, the village of Saddling, where all four of the books will take place, was inspired by Fairfield church, seen in these photos, which is a real place. An isolated church more or less in the middle of nowhere that’s still up-kept thanks to local people and the Romney Marsh Historic Churches Trust to whom I will be sending a small donation when my pension comes in. It’s one of those places that has a sign outside: ‘If you want the key, it’s in the box outside the first farmhouse to your left’ which is about half a mile away or something. We didn’t go inside, my driver was keen to get on, but I did stand there for a while and take in some sights and sounds forgotten since youth.

We’d already had lunch in The Woolpack, a 15^th-century inn out near Brookland and had visited Brookland church which was open and came complete with an honesty box for someone’s locally grown marrows. If you are ever down that way, a day on the marsh is an experience not to be missed. We drove from Brighton to Hastings, through Winchelsea and Rye and then down onto the marsh; Brookland, Fairfield (take a map) and then onto New Romney where, that evening, I was to meet some friends we know from Symi.

I had a perfect stay at The Broadacre, a hotel I used to hang out at with my eldest brother in the 1980s. It’s only slightly changed now, very friendly and with everything, you’d need including very helpful staff, though it wasn’t costly. I had a room that opened onto the garden where I’d sit at night watching the foxes. I was rather impressed.

Later, I went to dinner with Christina and Roger at The Ship Hotel at the other end of the high street. It was in the children’s room of this hotel/pub that I, when about six, famously threw an older brother over a sofa and cut his head open. I don’t remember that apart from it being a story from my childhood. I think I have been long forgiven. On the way to dinner, we took the backroad to view the church and my father’s flagpole – one was erected in his honour after he died in 1997 to commemorate his work on the town and district council and his job as town mayor for four years. We found the church open, and so had a look inside where I enquired about the organ…

This was the instrument I learned to play on when I was 15/16 and the vicar, on hearing my ‘returning home’ story kindly let me play it. Later, she stopped me as they were about to have a service and then asked me to play the first hymn which I did rather badly as I’ve not played the organ for many years and I don’t like playing in public at the best of times. But, it was an experience, and Christina and Roger were able to get some photos and a short video for me – thank you!

And then on to dinner, where an old school friend popped up to make arrangements for the next day, and finally back to my foxhole for a nightcap and a sit in the garden at night to reflect on the journey so far. There are more delights of the marsh to come in the next couple of days.

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And so to the Seaside

As it’s Saturday and I usually only post photos on a Saturday, I thought I’d get a couple of days of my trip over with in one batch. I’ll put a little bit about each one as the caption for the photos and share some more of my holiday with you.

Next week, we’re going to Saddling, the imaginary village on Romney Marsh based around Fairfield church, which is not imaginary. I know that because I was there. But that’s for Monday. For the weekend, here are some of my personal photos from my trip and I’d just like to say thank you for bearing with me and, I suppose, traveling with me.

Although it was hot in the UK at the time, I had become chilly in the garden in the evening so an early morning dash to Primark for long trousers and a hoodie was called for. I’ve never queued to get into Primark before, so it was a bit embarrassing, but no-one saw me.

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Every Cloud Has A Silver Lining

The origin of the idiom “every cloud has a silver lining” is most likely traceable to the year 1634, when John Milton penned his masque, ‘Comus.’ In it, the quote appears as “Was I deceived or did a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night?”

There’s some info to get us going, and it’s appropriate to today’s travel post. You will remember I was left flightless like a Galapagos cormorant and had taken myself to the Plaza for a relax before heading back to the airport. My new flight was at 3pm, and I had, by now (Sunday morning) lost my Hilton room and train journey to Brighton. I spent some time chatting to the friend I was due to meet on Monday, and we eventually came up with a new plan. When I did get to London, instead of going to Brighton for the night and then racing back in the morning for our scheduled meet at 12.00, I’d stay in London. This is where the silver lining comes in, but first, you need to know what was going on with Mr Box.

Back in 1980, Pete and I appeared as Cox and Box in the one-act operetta by Sullivan and Burnand. (It’s presented on the programme as Gilbert and Sullivan because we were also in Trial By Jury in act two, but the libretto is by Burnand.) Actually, it is a one-act triumviretta as there are three people in it – and here’s another thing I just noticed. There was a TV version of the show made in 1982 with a guy called Russel Smythe as Mr Cox (my part). Russel was a friend of my uncle, and I used to go to the gym with him when I was in my late teens. That’s just one of many coincidences in this story. Anyway… Cox and Box were due to meet on Monday 30^th July outside the theatre where the show was first performed. But…

Mr Box, over for four weeks from New Zealand where he now lives, had taken as part of his family trip, a week in Italy. There were eight in his party (parents, sister, various children) and they were flying with Ryan Air. I know what you’re thinking, and you’d be right. Here’s a list of their holiday highlights: Ryan Air flight out, delayed. Arrive Genoa with all luggage missing. Hire car (minibus I guess) that was booked was not available. €350 taxi trip to Viareggio. Luggage arrived at airport two days before return journey when there were no seats left on the train back to Genoa. No hire cars suitable in Viareggio. Found one in Pisa. Drove to airport for return flight, picked up luggage but found the flight cancelled. No other flights out of Italy (for eight people) until Wednesday – return to New Zealand was Thursday/Friday. Train to Milan for overnight. Found flights for eight people leaving from Zurich on Sunday. Train to Zurich. Managed to fly back to London landing at 10.30pm Sunday.

By which time I had: Downloaded the EasyJet app and secured my boarding pass. Arrived at Rhodes airport, had lunch over the road, joined my comrades in departures where there was still the plane outside the window doing nothing and no sign of activity. Mr Lancashire was still on the phone suing anyone who would listen and threatening to burn down houses, Ms Italy was screaming at some poor floor sweeper, a few people had sourced more vouchers, and a few of us were just waiting calmly. At this stage, people started talking to each other and bonding, which was quite jolly and there were two factions; those prepared to go with the flow and those who wanted a riot. A policeman was called. I popped a couple more blood pressure tablets. Messaging Mr Box to keep him updated and he was sending back shots of wonderful scenery taken from a train travelling through the Alps. That party was happy then. Finally, staff arrived at the plane and eventually we were able to board.

The crew were great; a bit worried about their reception, but folks had calmed down now – I think the Astonomia had a word with Mr Lancashire and Ms Italy, and they were noticeably quiet. The captain explained what had happened (delays elsewhere had put them over their allowed flying time and no other crews were available), and then it fell to the cabin crew to explain that the trolley had not been restocked but what they had would be given away, apart from booze (eyed Mr Lancashire sideways). Took off. Landed, took the train to Victoria (only me, not the whole gang), tube to Temple, wandered up to the Travelodge in Covent Garden arriving around 8.30pm. Sorted rooms, waited for Box who finally arrived at 12.30 Monday morning – the others in his party had gone to Cambridge. Again, no point in him going there and then coming back the next day.

So, the silver lining for both of us was that instead of having only 21 hours together after 37 years, we had 34. By the time we’d stopped hugging and chatting, laughing and saying, ‘Oh my God, how long has it been?’ it was 4.00 a.m., and I’d had three hours sleep in the last 48, but I didn’t care.

Now then, the story of ‘Cox and Box’ (or ‘The long lost brothers’ as it’s subtitled) is that these two men share a room without realising it. The landlord, Bouncer, has kept them apart until they meet, and the farce ensues. The irony here was that Cox and Box were finally sharing the same room knowingly. (Earplugs in as Box snores.) Sleep at 4.00, awake at 7.00 as I’d forgotten to turn my alarm off, and one of the best days ever followed. More coincidences came into the script: We’d lost touch at 18, but he’d lived 20 miles away from me in the Lake District for a while, and two miles away from me in London where we went to universities that shared some campus space, he’d been in Brighton for a while about the same time as me… Anyway, there we were, reunited and behaving like teenagers again.

But more about that tomorrow as you’ll be getting reader fatigue now. By the way. Many of these photos were taken on my new phone, hence they are blurred and I’d not got the hang of selfies.

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