Welshpool

Birmingham News Street station isn’t an appealing place at the best of times. With half the lights switched off thanks to an electrical fault, the resulting gloom does nothing to improve it’s appeal.

More of a worry that as well the escalators, the electrical mishap had closed all the concessions on the concourse, apart from a dimply lit branch of WH Smith. While this might have been a minor inconvenience for those in the magazine rack reading library, for me it could have been disastrous as my favourite muffin supplier was out of action. I was facing a long train journey at the mercy of the onboard catering trolley.

A quick dash up to the shopping centre above the station and a bit of hammering on the counter sorted things out as I purchased the last double-chocolate muffin in the place. Even better, it was so freshly baked the choccy chips were gooey as I sat and ate it three-quarters of an hour later.

My trip to Welshpool was a spur of the moment decision. Faced with a department meeting which didn’t concern me but promised to be limb-gnawingly dull and held in some out of the way centre that I suspected would tax my limited ability to navigate the roads of Coventry, I decided that a day off and a nice train ride was in order. The destination was one I’d promised to myself a couple of times looking out of carriage windows from passing trains. The weather was threatened to be superb, what was stopping me ?

Birmingham to Welshpool is served by a surprisingly long train that was unsurprisingly low of passengers. In my carriage there were no more than half a dozen of us. A couple of seats in from sat a sharply dressed man in a pale grey suit that contrasted with his Virgin Media t-shirt. When the guard arrived to check tickets he surprised me by pulling out an old-fashioned roll of cash rather than a piece of plastic to pay up – more Dell Boy than Gordon Gecko.

Some say that England is disappearing under concrete. I disagree as the gaps between towns are still huge when viewed from the train. “They” may need to revise there opinions however as the latest thing seems to be to cover fields in plastic sheet. Long, shiny strips of the stuff are laid in neat rows covering and protecting (I assume) the precious seedlings. For anyone who complains about bright yellow fields of oilseed rape, the sight of striped grown visible from miles away should have them prepareing to fire off a missive to the Daily Telegraph.

At Telford the sharp dressed man left and was replaced by two very clean cut men in identical suits and ties who sat facing each other around a table. On the lapel of the one facing me was a large black badge on which I could read the words “Elder O’Brien” and “Jesus Christ”. I’d guess that it was Mr O’Brien on the train and not his boss, although if I’m wrong then the journey was surprisingly uneventful – no water into wine, raising the dead or that sort of thing. Closer inspection later allowed me to read the full text showed him to be a representative of the Church of Jesus Christ and the laterday saints – more commonly called a Mormon. Followers of this faith often carry out 18 months to 2 years full-time missionary work around the world apparently (OK, I looked it up on Wikipedia). It would appear that Elder O’Brien and his colleague were off to the wild lands of deepest Wales to print religion to an area where strange people spoke a funny language...

To be frank, the scenery on this trip isn’t much to write home, or even a blog post, about. It’s green and pleasant enough but rarely diverted me from my book, a slightly turgid tomb on the history of Radio 4. When we reached Shrewsbury the keen observer would notice some slight changes. The railway signals are the old-fashioned semaphore type rather than traffic lights.

The station entrance is guarded by a huge signal box and the multiple platforms speak of a town of considerable importance. The platforms are graced with a brace of train-spotters, the first I’ve seen. Where once would have been displayed adverts there is now an art show by the Shrewsbury Youth Project. Each arch on a wall is home to a large canvas that has been decorated in a style the cognoscenti would call “Street Art” and others “Graffiti”. I suppose it ads a splash of colour to the scene and keeps the kids off the streets where they might choose to paint surfaces that can’t be easily replaced. You have to wonder if the architects and builders of the station ever envisaged that we’d be less interested in repairing the canopies than hanging up aerosol cartoons of people on bikes by “Shaz”.

The hills arrive as we approach journeys end. I could tell that I was in Wales thanks to the local speed camera van having something unpronounceable written in big letters on the side. Presumably “Safety Camera Partnership” or similar doesn’t translate naturally but you don’t want to annoy someone who has just been nicked for racing his Ford Escort down a windy road built for sheep by imposing law from a blatantly English vehicle”. Business looked slow as the only powered transport other than the train was a distant tractor.

Welshpool has several stations but the one travellers arrive at is a single platform affair with a bus stop shelter and connections to the town on both sides via a straggly metal footbridge. In an effort to completely avoid any steps and the straddle the neighbouring bypass the designer produced a structure looking like an enormous daddy-longlegs that someone painted in pale, municipal, grey. Contrasted against this were several fluorescent jackets belonging to one of the largest Police presences I’d seen for a long while.

Exiting the giant insect I wandered over to the Old Station. It was this building that caught my eye as I’d travelled past previously. A magnificent bring building obviously intended as a show-off gesture by a confident railway company. Now separated from the platforms by the main road, it has been turned into a sort of shopping centre where women buy clothes inspired by the countryside, rather than the sort of thing real country people wear which is mostly wellingtons and baler twine, for themselves and their husbands. For the gentleman there is a golf shop and surprisingly a small room full of Hornby trains and Scalextric cars. For the tourists, Welsh fudge and rock plus all manner of lovely souvenirs were on offer for that last minute present buying spree. While poking around and realising that even I was too fashionable for the garments on offer, I asked why the local constabulary were out in force.

“The Queen has come by train to open the new livestock market” was the reply. This explained it, when the monarch arrives then every copper locally is expected to polish his or her boots and keep the local population under control. Judging by the numbers on duty, it would have been a field day for burglars in the surrounding areas. Even though there was no sign of the royal train, every exit on the footbridge was guarded and a small group sat on borrowed chairs by the end of the station building.

Now the livestock market appeared to be on the other side of the tracks to the town in an industrial area. On that basis I didn’t expect to see HRH during my visit. How wrong I was. At the end of the short walk into town were streets bedecked with bunting and crowds filling the pavements – only prevented from encroaching on the road by cattle barriers and even more burly coppers. In the distance were some official looking cars and in front of these were some armed forces cadets, a lady in mayoral garb, lots of press wielding cameras and in the middle of the scrum, a very short lady dressed in blue.

To my right was the Royal Hotel, obviously the destination for the party and outside there more official types who were presumably wishing her maj had stayed in the car and ignored the crowds so they could have something to eat. Instead she was making her way down one side of the street talking and collecting bouquets from the public. On the other side of the road, Prince Phillip performed the same function although you get the feeling that those there felt they had got Wise and not Morecombe – good but you wanted to meet the bigger star.

Eventually the Queen got as far as me to the sound of cameras and mobile phones snapping away. A spontaneous burst of applause rang out – presumably clapping to congratulate her on being Queen or something. The general feeling was “Isn’t she tiny” and “Doesn’t she look lovely” followed by “Thank God she’s got here, now we can have something to eat” from those by the hotel.

Even then the entertainment was not finished. The BBC correspondent Andrew Marr was doing a piece to camera, presumably desperate to link the new market into some election farming story. “Hello Mr Andrew Marr” shouted someone close to me although he received no acknowledgement. Possibly Marr had already discovered that the big political story of the day was happening elsewhere...

With the Queen in the hotel feasting on the best this part of Wales can offer, the crowd dispersed. I headed off down a side street – fighting up the main road wasn’t an option as everyone had decided they needed to be somewhere they weren’t. Feeling a bit peckish myself I found a fish and chip shop with attached café and ordered fish (unspecified and no options were offered) chip and peas (mushy, again, not options). I’d picked up the local paper to read as it had a suitably apocalyptic story on the front page regarding the recent Icelandic Volcano. The editor had obviously decided that this was a bandwagon not to be missed and leapt on it with aplomb - “Volcano wreaks havoc in Powys” - which translates into “bowls players held up abroad thanks to lack of flights” . The food was very hot and very tasty. If I'm being picky, the peas and chips got a bit mixed up on the plate but who cares ? Not the local population as the place was filling up nicely as I finished munching. You could hardly hear “Loose Women” playing on the large screen telly opposite the serving counter.

After this I took a gentle stroll up the high street. For pudding I tried a shortbread biscuit, which was disgusting, and then a chocolate covered ring doughnut from a different shop which wasn't that much better. Handy diet hint: only eat food that you throw away before the second bite.

The town hall has been turned into a rather nice indoor market. Lots of local food on offer plus hardware, second hand books and two stalls of “stuff”, those weird gift like things involving far too many fairies and elves plus added dream catchers. How do they make a living ? Also, perhaps I was being unfair but on seeing another bakers stall, I decided against more cake attempts in that direction even though the comestibles on offer looked tempting and home made in a good way.

Over the top of the hill is the third station which belongs to the Welshpool and Llanfair Light Railway which although it closed in 1956, lives on in the hands of enthusiasts who run steam engines on days when I'm not there leaving me with a view not much better than that available from Google Streetview.

Never mind, I wasn't there to look at steam trains. Even if I'd wanted to I didn't have time. Besides, the canal museum spotted on the way into town looked very interesting with an unusually shaped warehouse. Back in town the Queen had started to move so the straight route was blocked but some nifty navigation past the chip shop circumnavigated her. It's at that point my luck ran out – for future notice, the museum is shut on Wednesdays. Still, there were some nice wooden sculptures outside to look at, if you like giant handbags and fake birds anyway.

Back at the station the royal train was parked in the platform looking very nice and purple. Wale's best were blocking all entrances to the footbridge just in case anyone tried to find a seat on-board. A few people hung around but by this point she was ensconced in the travelling throne so there was nothing to see. Eventually the train pulled out and the plebs were allowed to wait for their own rather less grand conveyance.

Sitting on the platform a concrete mixer drove past with a fantastic claim, “Longest concrete conveyor in the world” . What a claim and what a way to finish up the day.

In summary: Welshpool, lovely town but give it a miss on Wednesday and try to avoid your visit clashing with the Queen.

See more photos on Flickr

Chester

Exactly a year ago I set myself a challenge. The plan was to visit every town on my NRM Railway posters Calendar. Those who know me won't be that surprised that I failed. By the 30th of December I had visited exactly none of the places. So with one day to go, I made a dash for Chester.

The trip involved 35 quid and 2 changes of train but at least I'd have achieved one goal. That and I've been off work between Christmas and New Year so I needed to get out and about a bit to ease the effects of close proximity to chocolate. Even the weather seemed to be on my side.

First stop was Birmingham which is easy enough. A quick walk from Moor Street to New Street and on the departure board leaving in under 5 minutes was a train to Crewe, my next stop. This left me with a dilemma, I could make progress or catch the next train while purchasing my preferred travelling fare, vis a muffin from the Millie Cookies beside the ticket barrier and some soft drink. (Note: Other muffin outlets are available but for some strange reason they just don't seem to taste as good). Abstemiousness won and a few minutes later, after a search for the mysterious hidden platform 4C, I was on an electric train that made noises last heard emanating from the BBC Radiographic workshop in the 1960's.

Fear not dear reader, I did not starve. On the train I was able to fill up on a chocolate orange muffin notable for it's unworldly colour. To be honest if you sat in front of it for long enough you'd get a suntan. I own an orange colour car and even that isn't this orange. It probably doesn't taste as nice as this did either.

The trolley operator was surprised when I purchased my food. She'd obviously spent the day dragging the thing up and down a quiet train and from the look of the stock my travelling companions weren't hungry. Mind you, the only other people in the coach were a couple who seemed to be studying closely the Daily Mail which was proclaiming that dissatisfaction with rubbish collections was resulting in 3 attacks on bin men every day. Presumably the writers of the paper though this was a good thing as they sat in a warm office in front of a computer having arrived at their desk some time after 9am. Later the couple turned to the Telegraph and the husband took great delight in reading items from the letters page agreeing with the Chinese Governments deployment of the death penalty.

Crewe is a station with a small town attached. Until 1831 it was a village with only 70 residents, then the Grand Junction Railway decided that it would be a nice spot for an engine works and station. Even today the station is impressive in a ramshackle kind of way. The low winter sun made for some spectacular photographic possibilities and I think I took what is possibly my best railway photo ever.



Of course Crewe station is home to the much maligned train spotter. Even on a cold New Years Eve there will still a dozen of so men in their late middle age and hearty outdoor clothing hanging around the platform ends watching trains. I feel a bit sorry for them - not only does the general population and mass media stigmatise their hobby as being worse than terrorism and mass murder, the railway have let them down. Once upon a time trains were made up of coaches with a locomotive at the front. Nowadays the coaches have engines and all look the same. On this one day though, with the sun shining, the trainspotters got a gift - into platform 10 (I think, Crewe is a bit of a maze) came 3 engines, being moved around for something technical to happen. 3 in one train ! You could see the faces light up.

More photos of Crewe.

I seemed to be one of the few heading to Chester. The train was quiet again although at one end of the coach there was a lady with one of those wheely suitcases who insisted on standing up with it in the aisle rather than availing herself of the many comfy seats available. From the way she clung on grimly to her luggage I assume that she was moving the crown jewels...

Chester starts with a huge railway station. The frontage is enormous - it's far too wide for my camera and even a decent panoramic outfit would struggle. The signposts point two ways into the city centre and I took the one that lead over the canal and past the slightly over restored Steam Mill. Once this will have made something useful but now it's a multipurpose nightclub and small business venue with what appears to be a greenhouse placed very tastefully on to. It's a very handsome building and rather more industrial than I'd expected to find in a historic Roman town.

Once into the city centre there was another surprise. It shouldn't have been of course as even the most cursory research (or looking things up on Wikipedia) would have forewarned me about the Rows. Chester's shops are a curious and unique design with two floors of frontage. The top row is set slightly back from the front and has a walkway along it. Therefore to see any street properly you need to make 4 passes, 2 at ground level and 2 at the first floor. On a rainy day I can see the upper levels doing good business as people shelter from the weather. Even those buildings that have been re-built maintain the design. Most of the structures are black and white wooden but there are a few that date from the 1960's and later yet have been incorporated into the frontage sympathetically.



Another rarity are the city walls. For the casual visitor a quick nip along them allows you to loop from one area of town to another without retracing your steps. They afford excellent views of the cathedral and surrounding area. Some bookshops have even taken up residence along side them. In fact one of the joys is wandering as there are so many side streets and little alleyways to explore. Knowing I was tight for time I didn't had to pass many of these by but a weekend would be more appropriate to do the place justice. A complete circumnavigation by walking the walls ought to take a couple of hours, although this isn't possible at present due to a collapse earlier this year. At present repairs are being made but the archaeologists are taking the opportunity to find out more about the construction while access is available. Things should be back to normal by summer 2010 though.

Chester doesn't stand still though. A major re-working of the town cetre is planned, in fact the tower cranes are already looming. One casualty would appear to be the indoor market. Always a fan of these, this isn't one of the best but it has atmosphere, a lot of variety and a Christmas display that left the song "Rudolph the Red Nose Raindeer" rattling around my head for the next couple of hours...

My train home left in a different direction from the way I'd arrived which was exciting as that means a trip through Wales via Wrexham, Ruabon and Gobowen. This last stop is somewhere I've been before. For the leisure train traveller it represents the furthest west you can go on a West Midlands ranger ticket - any further and the network is Welsh (Gobowen is in Shropshire) and you'll need a different ticket sir. Sadly although the station is intact, the enormous coal conveyer and sorting system that delighted those of a mechanical bent is long gone and replaced by an icy puddle of a car park.

On the train, half the passengers were Arriva trains staff who told "war stories" to each other. One recent tale involved a passenger who was unhappy that people kept checking her ticket. She refused to show it to the guard on the grounds that he'd seen it several times already. As told the man said, "The more she protested, the more determined I was to see this ticket" and his comrades nodded in ageement, doubtless all with simialr stores to tell. Not all end quite the same way though. Eventually the woman reaslised that she hadn't show this guard her ticket after all because, "The last person I showed it to was a female." and promtly produced said item.

The trip through Wales was beautiful, or at least world have been if Arriva ever cleaned thier trains. If you are going to paint the coaches silver, get a system to wash them as they look terrible when covered in muck. Worse, from the effect from inside of a glorious sunset over snow topped hills was slightly lessened by all the mud on the windows.



More Chester Photos.

So I made one destination and thoroughly enjoyed it. Let's hope 2010 works better !

London sights

Not all visits work out as well as expected - my trip to the cartoon gallery would have been more successful if I'd checked and realised that it doesn't open on Monday - but that doesn't mean a wasted day.

Strolling around London, in the grounds of Burlington House is the amazing sculpture "The Tall Tree and the Eye" by Anish Kapoor. At a guess, it's over 80 feet tall and absolutely amazing.

The mirror finish on the spheres reflects the view of the courtyard from many slightly different vantage points. Unsurprisingly, it was surrounded by photographers all shooting their reflections. Even those who don't like modern art will appreciate this - I wish it could go on a tour as I'd love to see it appearing in other cities. Victoria Square in Birmingham would be a good start - watching the fountain in reflection would be a treat.

It's not just art that caught my eye though. Wandering down to the International Magic shop I happened upon Holborn Bars which is just the most stunning brick built building. Now home to the Prudential and RBS, it stands on the site of the building that was lived in by Charles Dickens.

The place was built in an age was labour was cheap and civic buildings were erected with pride and intended to stand for many, many years to come.

Beetle Drive, Crich Tramway Museum

Terrible isn't it – you wait ages for a VeeDub event and then two come along all at once ! At least that's what the organisers of the annual Beelte Drive (geddit ?) must have thought when their low key show clashed with the much bigger VW Action. However I didn't know this at the time, so chose Crich for a day out. Anyway, Action won't be the same at any venue other than the Stoneliegh park site I remember visiting all those years ago just after I got my bug...

Another reason to go is that as a member of the Tramway museum getting in would be free. Besides, I haven't been there since last year and there has been quite a bit of building work on site since then and it's fun to spot the changes.

For those not familiar with the museum at Crich, it has a street scene at one end where you can board one of the many beautifully restored tramcars. You then ride up the line, turn around and return to stop off at the half way point where there is a mining display (the site is shared with a quarry) followed by another ride back to the tram sheds and displays. Trust me, if you like vintage transport, it's fantastic.

Add to this a load of old Volkswagens, not just Beetles but Type 2's, Wedge's, Ghias and (grits teeth) some of the watercooled stuff and what better way to spend a Sunday, even if it does involve a drive up the M1 ?

When we arrived, there were old VW's everywhere. In the car park, around the bandstand and filling the street scene. All the time the trams kept up a shuttle service and seemed to be doing excellent business. I don't remember the average age of the audience being so young either which shows that the museum is very cleverly attracting a new audience with these special events.

After a tea and choccie cake stop we took a ride on the top deck of a Liverpool Green Goddess. The weather was fine and the Derbyshire countryside looked lovely. Even the farm in the next door valley appeared to have been tided up a bit. Well the vehicle graveyard looked a bit smaller anyway.

At the mining exhibition there is a little hut where a fantastic, enthusiastic and very knowledgeable lady sells you some rocks from around the world. I can't resist this every time – there is no high pressure sales technique, just fascinating things which she insists you don't leave with until you understand what they are and where they come from.

Back at the street end we arrived just in time for the first parade. Most of the cars withdrew to the car parks and then drove in convoy back down the street, turned around and did another lap. There were so many of them that the tail was quickly caught by the head of the line and we had a few minutes of continuous dubbin'

Lots of exuberant horn blowing was quickly stopped – the local residents don't appreciate it apparently. Shame really as it was a very happy sound and can't be any louder than the blasting in the quarry can it ? Most of the drivers complied but there are always one or two especially an idiot in a while bug wearing a neck brace who seemed to be under the impression none of the shouting applied to him. The brace was obviously not to hold up the great weight of his brain...

Because of the clash, trade was limited to a model stall and one selling the coolest VW shirts I've ever seen. Very sensible prices too. If they had take plastic or I hadn't spent so much the night before my wardrobe would be even fuller At least I bagged one which will be on a trip to the pub very soon.

All in all, a really lovely little event. OK so there wasn't the pizazz of the bigger shows but this was fun. People laughed and smiled and clearly enjoyed themselves even if there weren't the tradition piles of rusty exhaust bits to sort though found at bigger shows.

By now all you want to do is see photos, so please head off to my Flickr collection where they are waiting for you.

Tramway Museum official web site.

Little bits of London

A couple of months ago the Guardian printed a couple of booklets entitled "Secret Britain". Normally these head sort of things head straight for the recycling box as soon as the paper is opened but this one caught my imagination. Reading through, the obvious starting point was to try and "do" the London bits. I love London but need an incentive to visit the areas I've not been to before. The easiest way to see the city properly is to pick some destinations and then walk between them, then who knows what you might find ?

For me, the capital is about 90 minutes away by train. Chiltern Railways provide a nice efficient service and also sell "e-tickets". My plan involved killing two birds with one stone and trying out one of these as well as getting a cheap trip. An e- ticket has to be bought on-line in advance. The "ticket" is then texted to your mobile 'phone as a picture of a bar code. No trees are harmed in the production of this ticket. To be honest, once these arrived I wasn't entirely convinced that this would work but maybe this technology stuff will catch on one day.

From the guide I picked a couple of secret objects to visit: The smallest Police station in Trafalgar Square and Samuel Gurney's drinking fountain in Holburn. To this I added one of my own, the prototype red telephone box at Burlington House. According to the map these were walkable in the time available and would allow me to travel through places I'd never been.

At Leamington station the ticket barrier monitor didn't look at me stupid when I showed him my phone - he just opened the barriers for me (as an aside, where is the saving if you have to employ someone to man the automatic barriers) and I wandered up the the platform. With all the efficiency you'd hope for, my train arrived and just before lunchtime I was in the big smoke. Price to get there - a tenner.

Normally I make an effort to get in to "town" early to get the most out of the day. Buying cheap tickets limits this a lot during the week as Chiltern can fill all the commuter trains they like with people paying full fare and so have no desire to make things easy for the plebs wanting to play tourist. The benefit of a lunchtime(ish) arrival was that I managed to tick off another London thing - sausage, egg & chips at the cafe opposite Marylebone station. London cafs are great and for £2.95 I had 2 sausages, egg and chips. Tea in a mug and a cookie (to eat while wandering around) brought the total to just over the fiver. Excellent value and very delicious thank you very much. Just the thing to set you up for a good stroll. And I took a picture since it seems everyone likes photos of food judging by the response to a recent shot of some Yorkshire pud I posted once.

The first destination was Burlington Arcade, first introduced to me by AA Milne in his delightful 1920 collection of essays, "If I may". Milne used the arcade as a place to shelter from the rain before a lunch appointment. He describes the vendors as offering choices between regimental colour pajamas and strings of beads. Nowadays things have changed little. The pajamas are probably still available but mostly the gentleman is presented with a selection of cashmere sweaters and brogues. The former seem to me to be like normal jumpers, just rather more expensive. One even looked just like the sort of thing a granny might present you with at Christmas - the chest was a picture of a yacht deck with the sleeves in a gaudy blue and yellow. Yours sir, for a shade under 600 quid. Yes really.

The jewelers fared a little better. Perhaps the London Jewelry week promotions, the arcade was carpeted with a red rug decorated with crystal designs, we helping move some stock but not much. Inside one shop the laptop on the counter was set to the Windows Vista game section of the programs screen. Someone was presumably having a lot of Patience while they waited to sell a Solitaire...

A couple of doors down was my first objective, Burlington House. In the entrance archway there are two traditional London telephone boxes, K2's for the cognoscente. The one on the right is extra special. Thanks to John Timpson's book "Requiem for a Red Box" I know that this is the prototype for this archetypal British building designed by Sir Giles Gilbery Scott. A small British Telecom plaque inside tells the visitor that this was the original, as does tapping on the sides - it's made of wood rather than the cast iron of production versions.

Of course most people ignore the box - London is littered with them as well as the later and slightly smaller K6 versions - they are heading for the art gallery inside. By accident I had happened upon the Summer Exhibition. This is when 10,000 artworks are submitted by absolutely anyone and 1000 are chosen for display. It's an annual event that often appears on TV with some presenter trying to get their daub through the judging process and on to the wall. I've never been so in the spirit of adventure, I paid my 7 quid and went in.

I don't know much about art, but I know what I like (who said that, oh, me just now). What I know is that on that basis, an awful lot of this was rubbish. And quite badly displayed. For example, the Small Western room is a small side gallery, the walls of which are covered in pictures. Many of these are wonderful small pictures but are displayed 10 feet above the ground. How are you supposed to appreciate them from the floor ?

Other rooms feature larger works with much more space around them. Perhaps my favorite showed off architects models on black shelving. Again, the person "hanging" these ought to realise we don't all come on stilts and if it's too high off the ground we can't see through the shelf either. Some nice stuff though and I appreciate the skill involved in making the models. One point, those who are comissioning the new Newport Station might want to do a quick search on "Ladies reproductive organs" before approving the model that was on display. You will thank me for that advice.

Having said that, the sheer variety of work on display meant there is something for everyone. Postcard from Heaven was simple enough, the back of a postcard asking the judging panel to put this in the exhibition because her mum would be so proud. Winter Allotments was another joy, a slightly cartoonish painting of a man on his allotment surrounded by plants and other horticultural stuff. It was one of those pictures you could look at again and again and see something new each time. Sadly even if I could have afforded it, the painting had sold by the time I visited, as had much of the art on display.

Exiting the main exhibition, via the room with video art (all video art is shite by the way so I won't bore you with it) and pausing only to discover that the meagre selection of postcards in the shop didn't include any of the works I'd liked, I wandered across the stairs to the free, fine art part of the hall. Here, in incredibly ornate rooms, were some of the most serious and dull oil paintings you can find, However, even here I learnt something. I am an Aestheticist. Basically I take my art at face value and consider that if something has to be explained to me, it's probably rubbish. Actually this isn't entirely true, I can appreciate the workmanship in producing something too but if it's badly made and looks a mess then it can go in a skip rather than a gallery. This will not endear me to the art world which prefers inaccessible toss.

Enough art however, I needed to be on my way but outside Burlington House was another distraction - Fortnum & Mason. For those not familiar with the name, it's a posh grocer. They still display the Queen Mother's crest proudly although I wonder if someone ought tell them there is a reason she's not been in to pay her bill recently. This is one of those shops on the tourist trail along with Harrods and probably Hamleys. Inside is sumptuous and full of pricey stuff. I'd love to be the sort of person who considered this to be a handy local shop I nipped in to regularly for provisions, it's so wonderfully olde-worlde.

A short stroll led me to Trafalgar Square and my second objective - the world's smallest police station. Stone built with slit windows and surmounted by a lantern, this was apparently used to keep look out during political demonstrations and had a telephone hot line to Scotland Yard. This isn't as unusual as you might think, those famous police boxes a la Dr Who were also used for the same purpose. Some were even made large enough to house a temporary cell. Nowadays radios and squad cars have left the station as a cleaners cupboard.

Next stop was to be Holburn and this was reached via The Strand and a short stretch of Fleet Street. En route I took in such gems as Somerset House and the Royal Courts of justice. Tripping over locations like this so often makes you realise how small London really is. As a tube user you simply don't get the geography or the concentration of good things in such a small area.

Gurney's fountain took a little finding but it's in the railing of St Sepulchre's church oppose the the Old Bailey. I'll admit I wouldn't fancy trying it, even if the water were working. The cups attached by chains my be nice an original but I feel hygiene may have been compromised in the 150 years since it was installed.

Having completed my mission and still with several hours to kill before the return train I looked around and spotted sign - the Smithfield Market. Now I've heard of this but again, never been there. Smithfield is the last surviving wholesale market in London. Once upon a time Covent Garden used to be the place to go for fruit and veg and not a tourist attraction and there were others. Times change and only the meat trade still works in this way. Even they have had to make changes as you aren't allowed to hang carcases on hooks in the open air any more.

The first thing that strikes you, or at least me, is the sheer size of the place. It's enormous. Apparently during WW2 the market was evacuated as it was easy to spot from the air and the authorities didn't feel regular concentrations of people in such a good target was a good idea. Arriving mid afternoon, everything was pretty much shut down apart from a couple of people hosing down a stand hidden behind some thick plastic curtains. Even empty though, the hall was striking. Imagining, with the help of a photo display handily provided for tourists, a market in full swing wasn't difficult and it must have been some sight. Apparently all the work was helped by local pubs opening early in the morning to lubricate workers who had clocked on well before dawn.

After this, my route is a bit of a blur. Trusting my sense of direction, and not being able to work out properly on my little map where I was I picked my way across the city heading in what I hoped was the right direction. Working on the basis that the Post Office Tower was too north and too west of where I wanted to be helped.

A couple of discoveries helped my trip. International Magic is a small shop but in the back of its dark interior you can buy magic tricks and have them demonstrated to you. A few doors down there is another business selling stainless steel screws...

All this walking made me peckish and by chance there was an "All you can eat" Thai Buffet. The food looked good and indeed the first plate was. Washing this down with some guava juice I headed up for a second dose, well you want to get value for money don't you, and it seemed the a switch had been thrown to make all the food taste less nice. Not nasty but just bad enough to stop the casual diner from eating all day. Do they all do this ? Is it just me ? If not, can this trick be patented - I foresee big sales in similar restaurants !

Last stop was Marylebone village. To me Marylebone is just the name of a station but it appears once upon a time this was a discrete area of the capital, probably in the days where there was hunting in Soho, and some marketing guru has decided that it would be profitable to keep the concept. Hence in a few days, there will be the Marylebone Village Fayre. Probably with maypoles and other rustic stuff. This is a reminder that London is home to around 7.5 million people, some of whom live in very nice little places indeed. Real communities exist so I suppose stores like Fortnum & Mason really are some peoples local shop.

As the sun set, crowds gathered outside pubs for traditional post work drinks. They spilled out over every pavement as the hot weather made sitting inside less appealing. Others relaxed with a cup of tea and puff on a hookah beside several cafes. Many hurried back to their last commute of the day gathering the free papers for entertainment on the journey. Even the half seven train was busy but with my £5 ticket scanned by the man on the gate I was assured of a seat through the countryside as my feet recovered a bit from the pounding. Why are London pavements so hard ?

I took some more pictures, go and have a look.

Long Itchington Beer Festival

Ah, the joys of the English village. Where better to while away spring evenings with delightful, locally brewed, warm beer* beside the duck pond whilst morris dancers whack each other with sticks in a traditional manner ?

In theory, this is just what Long Itchington beer festival promises, apart from the men in bells. The website takes a bit of a dig at nearby Harbury's festival by trumpeting the fact that the festival is spread over 6 pubs rather than the village hall. That way you get to sample the ambiance of the area rather than just one anonymous building, or at least that's the theory. In other words, you can have a drink and see our waterfowl, not be stuck in a municipal building albeit one with alcoholic beverages.

Pub One: The Duck on the Pond.
Nice pub with but with pretensions top be a restaurant, the drinking space is seriously filled with tables, chairs and diners (the pub gets good food reviews in at least one guide to my knowledge). Annoyingly, that drinking space there is in the bar was filled with a circle of friends who hadn't cottoned on that they were taking up all the space where people wish to order and were oblivious to anyone else so didn't move down the bar.

The festival glass is a couple of quid and the beer that fills it eats the rest of the fiver. My mate also buys a glass and then orders beer – which the barman pours into a different, ordinary glass. “I thought you would want to keep this one as a souvenir” he says when the faus pas is pointed out, but then pours the beer from one to another after it's explained that the souvenir would be even better if it had been christened.

With no space inside, thanks to the aforementioned bar hoggers, we move outside to the er, car park. While the village pond, complete with baby ducklings, swans and other wildlife, can be seen from the pub doorway, it is separated from it by a tarmac car park which is home to a collection of exceedingly clean four wheel drives and executive saloons. To make things a little more hospitable tables are set out at the pub end with umbrellas. Nice touch but it's still a car park. The beer's not bad though.


Pub Two: The Harvester.
The plan was to drink a pint in each pub before catching the last bus home. Strolling past the pond we headed for what will soon be known as pub three. It looked a bit busy so we aimed around the corner for The Harvester. To be honest, as none of us knew Long Itchington we just followed people who looked like they were heading for beer. Clutching a pint pot is both a giveaway and helpful sign for those who “Bain't be from round 'ere” and don't know where all the pubs are.

Despite it's name this isn't a chain pub, more your traditional working man's village local. Again, food seemed to be the thing that kept the place afloat and the warren of interconnecting rooms were again full of tables and chairs. Decor was in the manner of a seaside bed & breakfast in a lower class resort so I'd suspect this is where the locals ate or those for whom price mattered more than presentation. The bar staff didn't have to wear corporate clothing or name badges, just like a proper British pub where if you want to know who someone is, you simply ask them.

The bar was heaving. One group of women were discussing the smell of one of the beers. By chance I ordered the allegedly aromatic one and so a round of sniffing ensured. The consensus was that it (unsurprisingly) smelt of beer. Not having a problem with this I took a sip and it tasted of beer too. The complainants then decided that it must have been a different beer and that one had definitely smelt odd. The barman tried sniffing the others on offer but they also smelt of beer. Scooby Doo not being available to solve the mystery we looked for a space to drink – and it was suggested that it was “nice out back” so out we went.

Into the car park.

And what a car park. For a start there were no cars. Hardly surprising as it turned out – access is through a locked gate under a archway. There was a reasonable sized crowd sitting round a couple of tables beside a pile of aluminium beer kegs. We sat at the other tables under some see through corrugated plastic. This was the legally mandated smoking area – hardly salubrious and probably going to put you off your fag in winter, which I suppose is the point. The view, apart from the crowd and kegs, was uninspiring being a wall and back of a few buildings. According to the fancy brickwork, one of these was built in 1861 but that didn't make it any more interesting. Again, a good pint and a busy little pub.

Pub 3: Buck and Bell
Escaping from the tarmac beer garden another attempt was made to get into the Buck. Crowds outside (the beer garden is a 6ft wide strip next to the road) promised a busy pub and we weren't disappointed. Inside, painted signs on the beams pointed us in the direction of the back bar and inevitably, a restaurant. Reaching the end we queued behind a large group already wearing the official festival T-shirts and ordered the same as they were having. While the beer was good I have a feeling that the attraction was the pretty blonde barmaid who had both the main attributes required in excellent bar staff – looks to bring the punters in and the confidence and personality to put them in their place when required !

The place looked like it had been on the end of a redesign from someone who had seen too many makeover programmes on TV. I think the style is called “Faux Posh”, a modern take on the traditional local. Not too many farm implements nailed to the wall I'm pleased to say but plenty of traditional features that were just a bit mock traditional. Add to this some accessorising straight out of a style magazine (sticks in a vase – why ?) and I bet the place does good business with the “travelling out to a little country pub” crowd. One pair of drinkers could be overhead commiserating with each other on the problems of owning a little place in another country. It seems that the Bergerac region isn't that easy to get to regularly and friends and family don't seem to want to use it as often as they expected so it's over three grand a year just for a couple of weeks. And you can't sell them either, not with the market in the state its in now...

Pub 4: The Two Boats
I like a canal side pub and had spotted this one as we came in on the bus. Now it might be the effect of the beer but the stroll out to it didn't seem as long as expected, little more than five minutes from the centre. We arrived to the sound of a live band, who promptly announced a break in the set. No matter, there were more crowds to struggle through and this is a tiny pub. Two rooms, each with a bar, a few tables and lots of people. Waiting time was around 15 minutes, despite the best efforts of the staff who were hurling beer across the counter as quickly as the pumps could pour it. When we were served the barmaid said this had been the second day of this and, “we've two more to go.”. It's obvious this sort of festival works so you have to wonder why more villages aren't trying it.

Beer in hand it was out to the garden, or towpath as it is more accuratly described. All the tables were full outside, often with people we'd seen in the other pubs. The entire crowd from the Harvester seemed to have made it there, or at least the memorable ones anyway.
For the first time in the evening, the beer wasn't to my taste. It's my own fault, above the bar had been a label saying that it had a licorice taste and like every right minded individual I can't stand the stuff so I ought to have known better. Mind you it still took half a pint to decide this, possible due to the pain killing effects of the previous three !

On the other side of the canal and up a slight hill there was another pub. That was where the band were. A Beatles tribute group, they were set up on some terracing so both groups of drinkers could benefit from the performance – and an excellent one it was too. From the short distance you'd have been forgiven, if you were a bit stupid and knew no pop music history, that you were seeing the real thing. Of course that might have been the beer again.

Chatting in the bar, people said that the other pub was even fuller. Quite where all these people had come from was a mystery as the last bus back home wasn't exactly heaving. Harbury certainly generates more green transport users for its festival. Where ever the source though, there were a lot of people having a good time. The pubs did excellent business so everyone wins.

Next year – I think a visit earlier in the day. Lunchtime perhaps, although it might need several lunchtimes to sample everything on offer. There is also a mystery sixth pub to find as well so it's worth the trip.

*Note for American readers. In Britain, proper beer, often known as bitter, mild or stout, is served luke warm. The only reason beer is served cold is to hide the taste. Our beer tastes nice so we don't need the refrigeration.

Living history re-enactment fair

As many people have pointed out, all towns look the same. You wander the high street and see the same shops, or at least boarded up premises that you see in every other town. To travel isn't to expand your mind, it's just to find a branch of Next that you've not seen before. Anyone wanting to get properly off the beaten track increasingly has to fly half way around the planet and find themselves somewhere with no roads or mains sanitation. Even then there will be a McDonalds and Starbucks.

Perhaps in this globally connected world we need to form a new paradigm to describe the travel experience. Instead of visiting a place, we should visit a community. And since we aren't constrained by geography any more then these can be spread across the planet. A personal example: I belong to the Type2.com mailing list, a real community where we chat and help each other with our shared interest in aged VW vans. I know some of these people better than I know many of those who live in my street.

In practical terms this means that simply changing geography isn't enough. Ever since the first printing press stopped knocking out bibles and started on newspapers we have formed links beyond out immediate area. In modern terms, social networking web sites means that where ever we are physically located there is a good chance that we will still know someone. Years ago marrying outside your village was unusual. Now you are likely to work in a different county to your home and think nothing of travelling 50 miles twice a day to do this. To put this into context, the Isle of Man had a railway system even though it's only 30 miles long. And there were lots of stations en route serving local communities whose lives were revolutionised this way. 30 miles is a trip to the shops nowadays.

Anyway, all this pretentious waffle is to say that maybe there is no point going to places any more. Far better to go to communities. Thing is I'm not heading off to live with a tribe in the Amazon, I want something with more clothing you'll be pleased to hear; which is why when I drove past the Warwickshire Exhibition Centre recently, I took note of the banner advertising the Living history re-enactment fair.

I've never felt the urge to live in a tent pretending to be a Saxon or Viking. But lots of people do and so a dip into their world could be interesting. Besides, it's only £3.50 to go in so how much had I got to lose ? I've been in this exhibition hall many times but for the first time I really didn't know what would be in the doors. Not a clue. I suppose I hoped to see people making swords and stuff but as I know little of the subject it was a mystery.

First impressions were - wow, what a lot of people. And clothes, lots of clothes. And lots of the people are wearing the weird clothes. And look there is a man making a longbow. He appears to run a bow and arrow stall. And that looks like a nice suit of armour. With accessories. Nice. Oh, shiny things. Shiny things that could kill someone.

Actually that pretty much sums up my experience. To find a modern parallel, image an indoor market but with all the stalls selling second hand clothes being purveyors of (new) Victorian and earlier apparel. The mobile 'phone stalls (as an aside, am I the last person in the world to prefer an apostrophe before the word 'phone ?) are no more but in their place you can buy bows and arrows. Drapery stalls still exist of course but the cloth is much coarser and looks like it would be as itchy as the jumper your granny knits for your Christmas present. Of course you can buy shoes but these are rather more leather than normal, with quite a high wood content too, especially in the clogs. No slightly icky underwear sellers of course but some serious corsetry in both whalebone and leather (diet, nah just do the laces up tighter and give me more cake...). And those dodgy guys selling "collectable" knives to sad acts ? They are selling various swords and battle axes...

It was fantastic. I still have no desire to live in a suitably period tent or to run around fields attacking people but the hardware fascinates me. OK so I've always enjoyed making things so watching a guy dressed in a medieval smock carving away at a lump of wood is my sort of thing (the carving, not the smock obviously). The craftsmanship is truly amazing too. Knowing a little about metal forming I marvel at how a flat piece of steel can be turned into armour without any evidence of the required hammering. Even the weapons are things of beauty - and very blunt in case you were wondering. In fact if your recreation requires a lot of hitting people with swords then hard foam ones were available so that mock battlefields aren't strewn with real casualties.

Probably the biggest surprise was the amount of Victorian attire on sale. Who exactly is dressing up in the stuff and when ? I'm pretty certain there isn't a big scene recreating workhouses and sadly no one sends children up chimneys as entertainment now. Not that there were many urchin tailors anyway. The styles preferred were landed gentry or perhaps a beadle for those in charge of dishing out punishment.

Of course those manning the stands were especially friendly - they really care about and love what they do. You can't be a blacksmith specialising in creating authentic cooking equipment and not enjoy it I suppose. While all jobs have their dull days, being able to hit bits of metal hard at least allows for some stress relief ! My dumb questions were answered and at no point was I made to feel like an idiot outsider.

OK, so I'm not Bruce Parry but at least I went and had a look. And I think I might go back to have another. Once I've carved the horn I bought anyway. Never worked in horn, I wonder what I can make with it ?

As usual, more pictures on Flickr.

And the official website.