England

Summer at last! Poor rain-soaked England rallied the troops and finally managed to turn on the sun, at least for a week or so. So we hit the beach. Driving south to Swanage in Dorset, we were joined on the motorway by literally thousands of like-minded sunseekers, creating the mother of all traffic jams and turning a two-hour drive into a five hour crawl of pain. Still, we all put on our best smiles as the sun had got his hat on and was coming out to play, as the song goes. Coming from Australia, I’ve seen my fair share of packed beaches. I grew up at Cottesloe Beach in W.A. and now Sydney’s Bondi is my local. Never have I seen a beach so busy. Ne-ver. There were youngies and oldies, fatties and skinny-ies, babies, families, trendies… you name it, they were there turning an unflattering shade of lobster. And there were beach balls, tents, mats, towels, windbreaks, kites, boats, huts, blow-up animals, liloes and even flagpoles (yep, two separate, forward-thinking beachgoers had brought their own flapoles so their mates could track them down). It was a rainbow of colourful chaos, like a clown had thrown up.
Our visit coincided with the annual beer festival in nearby Studland (no, I’m not making that name up), at the ye-olde Bankes’ Arms. With over 200 different beers and 30 ciders all in one tent, we could see we’d be there a while. Throw in some live music, a barbeque and a gorgeous sea view, and a fine afternoon-that-became-evening was had by all.
We did all the English-beachy things like getting sunburnt, eating breaded scampi with chips laced with vinegar, licking clotted-cream ice creams on the pier, fighting for our place on the sand and collapsing each evening with a (warm) ale.
The day we left, it rained, and the grey skies kept the temperature to a minimum. Well, I guess that was the English summer over for another year.

Driving south from Scotland, we were able to get a real feel for the English countyside. As we swept past open fields and wound down narrow lanes (often right behind a tractor who was conveniently going exactly the same way), the sun came out and we were able to see England in all her summer glory. First stop was the epic Hadrian’s Wall and Housesteads roman fort, apparently built to keep the Scottish Barbarians at safe distance. Still (sort of) standing after all this time (close to 2000 years), they could show Multiplex a thing or two. Next, it was off to the Yorkshire Moors for a Bronte moment. And we were just in time to see the heather blooming, creating a deep purple carpet for miles around, and only adding to the brooding, windswept landscape the moors offer. We saw grouse scuttling through the scrub, pheasants fluttering out of our way, and literally hundreds of sheep with a death wish. Well, to be fair, it was kind of their paddock – they are free to roam wherever they want across the moors which, unfortunately for drivers, includes the road. Things they like to do on the road include:

- walk into the middle and stop abruptly, looking the other was
- sit on the very edge to eat the grass but appear as if they may wander into said road at any given moment
- rush straight across for no apparent reason as soon as they hear a car
- variations on above that cause a) heart attacks for driver and passenger, b) a seriously decreased life expectancy for them, judging from all the carnage displayed along our route.

Having made it to a settlement without bloodshed, we decided not to push out luck by continuing the drive. Instead, we had two highly amusing and slightly odd nights in the area. The first was in an old blacksmith’s forge, so ancient that is appears in the Domesday Book (11th century), and so petite that we couldn’t stand up straight downstairs without banging our heads. We thus appeared as two young hunchbacks limping about any time we wanted to go in and out. The second said on the brochure, “a romantic farm stay in the heart of the moors”. Brilliant. We needed some romance after all that sheep-dodging. On checking in, we noticed a somewhat powerful odour but, too polite to mention, ignored it. Well, I ignored it for a few minutes until I decided to ask, “Err, what sort of farm is this exactly?” Response? “Pig”. Riiiiight. Nuff said. The smell, plus the squealing, was a little off-putting, but once we got over the initial shock, we (well, me, Mike is always well behaved) got on with it. I didn’t want to be the fly in the, um, oinkment. I mean, it was slightly unporktunate but we’d be bacon the real world soon enough. Needless to say, I took the ‘eggs only’ option at breakfast the next morning.

Drive around 7 hours north of London and you'll reach the Lake District. Home to the stately Lake Windemere, rolling green hills, England's highest mountains and the lodgings of a certain Ms Beatrix Potter. We set off one lovely English summer day (read rain, rain and more rain - this was The Weekend that South West England seriously flooded) and pulled into Windermere late Sunday afternoon. After negotiating more than our fair share of tourist coaches, stuffed Peter Rabbits and shops selling Kendal Mint Cake (more on that later), we reached our self-catering digs. Sure, they were also part flooded, but it added to the "we're all in this together, so grab a bucket and start bailing" vibe. Quite cosy really.
Four days goes remarkably fast when you're dodging rain storms long enough to dash up mountains, but I pride myself in saying that I embraced my Northern-English roots, not to mention a pair of rainproof trousers and a ski jacket (yes, I went to the shop and bought a ski jacket in England in the middle of 'summer'), and hiked up those hills like it was 100 degrees in the waterbag. As we were practically the only ones brave/stupid enough to be out tramping about, we saw lots of gorgeous sights - lambs frollicking in fields, cygnets bustling after Mummy Swan, even the lettuce patch left for Peter Rabbit in Beatrix Potter's own garden at Hill Top. Ooh, and I have to say, we stopped in for a refreshing ale in Beatrix's local boozer - a mere 10 steps from her front gate. She could totally have staggered home, no need for a cab. She must have loved the convenience, and what a perfect way to soothe the writers' block.
And I can proudly report that I climbed my first mountain. OK, so it wasn't exactly Everest, but it was called High Pike and was, well, very high. It was driving rain for the first half the way up, when I recall whinging to Mike, "Um, I'm really not having very much fun". He tried to shut me up with the aforementioned Kendal Mint Cake, a white, sugary, mint-flavoured mass used by Sir Edmund Hilary on climbing expeditions and native to the Lake District. Italy has pasta, France has croissants, the Lakes have Mint Cake. It tastes a bit like the middle of an After Eight, so it really is the least painful part of climbing up a mountain, quite pleasant really. Anyhoo, after quite a few hours of clambering, scrambling and moaning, I made it to the top, and it really was worth the effort. An amazing view of the whole district with no-one to share it with but Mike, a few curious sheep who probably couldn't believe a human wanted to go to all the effort to gatecrash their high-altitude paddock, and some bird of prey, circling the skies, most likely saying to eachother, "Damn, I really thought she was going to bite the dust a few miles back. There goes lunch".
After four days of hiking, climbing and dodging rain showers, we were completely exhausted and ready to curl up by the fire to read about pesky bunnies, silly geese, motherly hedgehogs and naughty little kittens. Thank goodness for the genius of Miss Potter - a balm to young and old alike.

I did it! Me at the top of High Pike

I love horse racing. The super-groomed thoroughbreds, the thundering of their hooves, their speed. The bright colours of the jockies' silks, and the hats and dresses in the crowd. The top hats, the buttonholes, the old fashioned traditions and the fact you can drink champagne at 10am without anyone blinking an eye, rather joining in on the festivities. So, when I realised I was in Surrey on the day of the world famous Derby at Epsom Downs, only a few stops away on the local train, I got excited. But since I hadn't packed a floaty frock and sharp straw trilby for obvious reasons, I decided to join the ranks on the other side of the tracks. Epsom is one of the few racing venues in the world where the public can attend for free, get up against the railings, and have pretty much the same view of the fillies as the Queen does from her royal balcony opposite. Pretty amazing really. I wanted in. Over 100,000 people who shared my love of the old-fashioned sport of horse racing? Bring it. Here are a few things I hadn't considered, however:
1. While I arrived around 3pm, most folks had been there since the crack of dawn staking out their pozzie, some with blankets, the more organised with marquees, one group of ladies going so far as to decorate their marquee with floor rug, seating, an oil painting of roses for the wall and even a brass candellabra.
2. The drink of choice was vodka. Not with a mixer or even a cube of ice...oh no. Neat. From the bottle.
3. It was a 24 degree day, after a week of near-freezing temperatures. Why would you wear a top when you needn't? In fact, why would you need to wear practically any clothes at all?
4. If you can make some money at the same time, brill! Not by betting on the races, mind, but by selling an array of bizzare things not usually needed at the track. Things like, say, manilla envelopes in a range of sizes, a set of steak knives, a 2m glass coffee table with faux-greek pillars for legs, a cut-glass fruit bowl or perhaps some perfume?
5. Sick of watching the ponies? Why not engage in some bare-knuckle fighting for fun? Or take a ride on a rollercoaster where you can sick up your battered sav?

Needless to say, I was stunned, amused, enchanted and a little bit terrified all at once. Apparently the gypsies come from all over the country for the races and stay on site for a few days. They set up their stalls, a fun fair, their caravans and make a weekend out of it. Having never really seen gypsies, it was pretty exciting. Boy, do they party hard, though. I was more than a little relieved to make it safely back on the train and get home in one piece. Oh, and I now see where those Little Brittain guys got the material for Vicky Pollard, and where Catherine Tate gets her info, too. But what I loved best about this bizarro day out, was that, across the track from the complete madness that was going on in the centre, the Queen and her entourage, plus London high society ( who arrived throughout the afternoon via chopper) were watching the same races, sharing the same spirit, though perhaps in slightly different conditions. And when it came time for the Derby, I was pressed up against the railings, watching those horses thunder past with 100,000 other fans. And what could be better than that?

Today, I saw Stonehenge. Not by going there and paying and wandering around it. Simply driving past on the motorway. There it was, in all it's grey, stony splendor. So dramatic. I was blown away by how eerie and bizarre it is, just sitting there in the middle of a paddock, next to a busy main road. Apparently the stones come from riverbeds miles and miles away from the site on the Salisbury plains. And they're huge and on top of eachother. Now, I know I'm not telling you anything you don't know, but just seeing it there made me so curious. "How did it get there?" I asked. "How did they do it?" and "Why is it here, in the middle of nowhere?". But that's the thing about mysteries isn't it. There are no answers. That's the point of them.
If you drove along a motorway in rural Australia, you'd see the Giant Prawn, or the Big Banana. Not quite so mysterious I should think. Ah, the joys of travel!