Frozen in Yeovil

I'm still in a farmer's field near Lyme Regis, although in three days' time I move on to North Devon. I haven't seen much sunshine. The forecast better weather hasn't materialised, and it's still soggy underfoot. This inhibits going anywhere. Nevertheless, a couple of days ago I decided to have a longer day out than I've had so far. It was constantly cloudy near the coast: might the skies be clearer, even sunny, inland? It seemed a reasonable notion, so I headed off north-east to Yeovil, about an hour away.

Yeovil is a fair-sized town in south Somerset, but without any special distinction. It isn't even much of a shopping centre. But it was somewhere to go. 

As this was a Sunday, there was free parking, always a nice thing. And, truth to tell, it was dry. No rain! What a novelty! But I can't say I found any reason to revise my previous judgement of the place. True enough, it had a scattering of all the usual town centre shops. Boots, W H Smith, Marks and Spencer, Primark? Present and correct. A Waterstones bookshop was there too, a somewhat surprising oasis of culture. 

But the Beales department store had of course closed two years back, and its former premises looked shabby and forlorn, doomed despite the big 'For Sale' posters to remain empty for eternity. 

Most of the shops in the lower end of the main shopping street were closed, or barely hanging on, as if that section were awaiting total redevelopment. 

Halfway up, they were creating a sunken area, an amphitheatre, for street performers, in a bid to liven up the town centre for people with leisure to gawp at buskers, persons dressed up as Darth Vader, and the like. They might hope for actors and ballet dancers, mime artists and skilful jongleurs, but I think in vain. It'll be a white elephant, used only for skateboarding. 

Further up still, there was more life - more people even - with nicer shops, though still nothing very special. At the top was a square, and a handful of fine old banking buildings - or perhaps newer ones built to imitate fine old buildings. 

And off in a grassy precinct of its own was the imposing parish church, all that seemed to be left of medieval Yeovil. The scene of the magical mid-1970s pre-Christmas visit touched on below.

But I don't think it was open. Two winos sitting by the entrance rather put me off going closer to investigate.

Across from the church, running behind the tatty main shopping street and parallel to it, was a newer shopping development: more pleasing to the eye, and with most of the more interesting shops. 

But for the most part, the town's architecture looked post-war, tired, undistinguished, drab, and unexciting. A sprinkling of modern buildings, such as a big new cinema, couldn't alter the general picture of soulless concrete and dingy brick.

Why go there at all, you might ask? 

Well, Yeovil is the shining star of an old memory. I drove there from Southampton, not long before Christmas, in the mid-1970s. I'd never been there before. It was bitterly cold, and as I walked up the main shopping street - now mostly shut and poster-defiled shops, but much more attractive then - it began to snow. Up ahead I could hear carol-singing. This drew me on, and I emerged onto the church green, where a large choir were gathered next to a lit-up Christmas Tree, and giving their lusty all as the snow fell. I think some of them were holding lanterns. It was magical. 

I wish I could pinpoint the exact date. I was keeping a photograph diary at the time, but there is no reference to taking pictures in Yeovil. So I'm guessing that I made no attempt to capture the scene with a photograph or two. It must have been just too dark for any kind of picture without resorting to flash, and I wouldn't have done that. It would have broken the spell.  

I didn't stay long: the snowfall was just too heavy to take chances with. I hurried back to the car and began the journey home without further ado. I recall that the A30 road on the way back to Salisbury was treacherous, but I made it. It was much easier after Salisbury. 

So, despite its present humdrum reality almost fifty years later, Yeovil redeems itself with a wonderful old memory that is forever in my mind.    

Well, in 2023 all I wanted (or expected to get) was a lunchtime sandwich, and Boots obliged. But I ended up in the HMV shop. 

It seems something of a miracle that HMV survives. High Street record shops once abounded. Apart from HMV, there was Virgin, and Our Price, and several others. W H Smith once had a section (or even an entire floor) for records too. All these shops were mostly in prime positions in the main shopping street, or in a shopping centre. Now only HMV can be found there. Niche shops selling vinyl are still around, but located elsewhere, on the edge of the town centre and in other odd corners. 

Well, what could HMV offer me? I didn't want music, but now that I'd set up a 'dedicated Movie Theatre' in my study at home, I could be tempted to buy the odd box set. I went in. 

Hmm! It looked good for buying a DVD - although half of the videos on display would of course be Blu-Ray. It soon dawned on me that nowadays HMV mostly sells DVDs and Blu-Rays, presumably for the fat and flabby sofa generation, and anybody else who prefers to binge on favourite films and TV shows of the past, rather than endure current offerings. The key thing is that you can own something physical, and avoid streaming subscriptions. Also, if you are watching where the internet is weak or non-existent - as you might if moored in a canal boat -popping a DVD or Blu-Ray into your playing device may be the only entertainment solution possible. Well, the demand clearly remains strong, and sufficiently large for HMV to thrive on. 

One could still purchase music - I noticed some vinyl LPs - but their main trade was in videos; and mostly at prices that you wouldn't hesitate too much over. I decided to spend £30 or so.

What did I get?

I spotted a Jason Bourne film - the fourth of the series, Jason Bourne, which I didn't have in my collection at home - and picked it up without a thought. £5.99. A no-brainer. Matt Damon was older in it, quite a long way on from the confused youthful person without a memory in the first film, but it was still a great action movie. 

Ah, a box set of Inspector Morse, my favourite 1980s TV detective.

But HMV wanted £34.99 for it. Too much for this occasion. Maybe later in the year. But there was another box set that leapt into my hand, and only £19.99. All the episodes of that classic 1990s space romp, Red Dwarf.

I don't normally like watching comedy, but this was a show that did make me laugh. Another one for the Melford Movie Multiplex. I can't wait to see the episode in which Lister kisses what he thinks is a beautiful, sexy girl, when in reality it's a grotesque and repulsive giant house fly with telepathic powers. And of course the one in which Kryten, the hygiene-obsessed sanitation mechanoid, demonstrates his 'groinal attachment' for hoovering. Definitely worth an investment.

What else? Well, I happened on the Disney display. 

Anything there for me? I already had Puss in Boots, and had greatly enjoyed watching it. Some of this stuff would however make me cringe. And then I saw this.

Frozen. Hmm. I'd averted my gaze from this, ever since its 2013 release. Ten years after, should I give it a go? Would it leave me cold and unmoved? I dared myself. Surely I'd like Elsa and her sister Anna? I'd certainly liked Exit Eden's exciting version of what I took to be the title song, with its fabulous singing and frenzied guitar work. 

The DVD was only £4.99. Elsa winked at me. Okey-dokey, then! That made the grand total £30.97 - plus 50p for a bag. 

Back at the caravan, I arranged my HMV purchases for a group photo. 

Well, even if the rest of my holiday was a rain-sodden nightmare, I'd have something to get stuck into once home. 

Poohsticks in Beer

No, not a post about how to add extra flavour to an alcoholic beverage. I mean the game made famous by Winnie-the-Pooh, a fictional bear (of little brain) in A A Milne's 1928 children's story The House at Pooh Corner. The game is called Poohsticks.

I'm afraid the rather daft (though some would say profound) adventures of Winnie-the-Pooh and his friends did not form part of my juvenile reading. I gravitated much more to Beatrix Potter's twee creatures, and to the world of Rupert Bear. Nevertheless I was aware of Winnie-the-Pooh's existence, and I have, since then, seen enough clips of the Disney cartoon to understand - to some extent - what the appeal might be, although I remain no convert. Personally, I think Rupert Bear, certainly as illustrated in the Christmas annuals of the 1950s, takes all prizes.

Anyway, Pooh found a way of making a game from dropping things that would float from a footbridge into a stream. All you do is this. You - and a friend - both drop a recognisable stick into flowing water on one side of the bridge, then rush over to the other side, to see which stick floats into view first, and that stick wins, entitling the owner to whatever accolade has been agreed on in advance. 

It's such a simple game. All you need are two similar sticks (that you can however tell apart), a stretch of flowing water, an agreed spot from which to simultaneously drop them, and some sort of 'finishing line', to determine which stick got there first. A bit like the Grand National by other means. The drop must be a simple act of release, letting gravity do what gravity will. Throwing, spinning, and flicking are not allowed. So the game is a great leveller, as even the most experienced and seasoned Poohsticks participant is forbidden to do anything that might impart some cunning extra motion to the stick that could affect how it enters the water, or how it behaves while floating. 

I suppose it is permitted to kiss one's stick beforehand (ugh), or whisper exhortations to it (such as 'Go, baby, go'), or utter the words to some spell or incantation. Although a moment's rational thought will establish that no kiss, exhortation or go-faster spell can make the slightest difference. 

If the participants both perform a fair drop, it's all down to how the stick behaves in the rushing water, and whether turbulence and flow-rate will help or hinder. The outcome must of course mostly be a matter of chance. I do see however how the right choice of stick could have an influence. Maybe champion Poohstickers know precisely what a winning stick should look like, and, given a free hand, will go for that shape and avoid a stick that they know won't get pushed along so fast by the water. As ever, if you really study your subject, it will repay you handsomely. Of course, an alert opponent might still object, citing Rule 29 (4) (c) of Poohsticks, the subsection on unusual Stick Shapes. I'm sure 'Poohsticks lawyers' abound.  

Nevertheless, it all sounds like a thrilling pastime. But in truth I've never actually seen anybody playing a proper game of Poohsticks. 

Until now. 

I was visiting the picturesque and scenic seaside fishing village (or notorious tourist trap) of Beer. The road that goes down to the shore there becomes steep at its seaward end, and the water running in a gutter along one side of it picks up a lot of speed, eventually turning into a veritable torrent before disappearing into a hole. Over the hole is a grating - there no doubt to prevent hapless screaming visitors disappearing into a watery oubliette. Anything floating on the torrent will end up on top of the grating, thrown there by the water. 

Well, coming up off the shingle beach, I saw a family ahead playing Poohsticks.

There was also a small child in the party, but hidden by the man's legs. One of the sticks was well in the lead, and the woman closest to me was pointing to it. I'm not sure who won, but the sticks ended up side-by-side on the grating.

I'm guessing that the bigger stick took an early lead, having more surface area for the water to push against. But I don't know for sure. It was certainly a fine place to play Poohsticks though. In fact it could easily be that the local council had Poohsticks in mind when designing that gutter for the water. Almost certainly. 

Beer is of course the butt of many a joke about drinking beer - a favourite West Country pastime, I'll warrant - and one of the pubs (named, of course, The Barrel of Beer) sold its own T shirts, which looked like this:

I didn't go in and enquire. The place was full of loud people drinking beer. They might have laughed like pirates if I'd asked for a gin and tonic.

Mud, mud, glorious mud

I had a Master Plan this year, having noticed that for two years running (down to global warming and climate change?) the weather from the start of November was way too wet, and quite uncongenial for late-year caravanning. In any case, once the clocks had gone back an hour at the end of October, the days were really too short for doing all that much. 

So this year, instead of ending the season with a week in early November, squelching in the New Forest, I'd bring everything forward and begin my 2023 caravanning during the second half of March. It was a risk, of course. It might easily turn out to be as rainy as November, and just as chilly. But on the other hand, I had known warm, sunny March weather in several previous years in the area I was going to. It might even be as fine as it was in 2012. Here I am on 25th March 2012 at Sidmouth, walking barefoot on the beach, lightly clad, and sporting sunglasses:

Anyway, I felt there was a sporting chance that I'd see more sunshine than showers. But I was wrong!

I did arrive in dry weather. I had the place to myself too (always my preference). I chose a good spot close to the water tap, with a great view westward into the sunset. Lovely. 

But the sun went in, and it was wet thereafter. Really wet - squally showers that threw rainwater fiercely at caravan and car. The ground, which had taken some rain in the days before, and had been firm but slightly soft when I arrived, now got thoroughly saturated. 

It made no difference to the caravan itself. I was here for ten days, and could expect the ground to dry out before I had to hitch up again and tow the caravan away. But I needed to get out in the car every day, and I became concerned that the place might soon become a sea of mud. It was that on arrival there in March 2018. I'd been preceded by a family in a front-wheel-drive van drawing a larger caravan, and that outfit had got bogged down in muddy ruts. The husband got out and tried to stop me entering, but he was a hundred yards ahead of me, and I didn't realise his predicament and why he was gesticulating, before I too got bogged down.  

The farmer Colin had to haul both of us off the site with his tractor. The weather wasn't his fault, but he still apologised for what had happened. I'd been travelling back from North Devon, and decided - in view of the wet weather - to abandon my booking and press on for home, which I did. (I returned in September, when it was all as dry as a bone)

Conditions weren't nearly so dire this time, in March 2023, but I still wanted to avoid churning the grass up with Fiona's tyres. So I have, so far, limited myself to just one trip out per day. The ground has remained soft and potentially slippery, but the rain has finally eased off, and as I write it's actually sunny. If it stays like this for most of the day, then, combined with a strong drying breeze, the ground will begin to get solid again. 

Fiona herself tackles wet grass with confidence, being shod with expensive grippy tyres suitable for any kind of soft surface in all seasons, plus in any case having permanent all-wheel drive. All-wheel drive is highly desirable for caravanning. It didn't get me out of trouble back in March 2018, but that was a bit extreme. Ordinarily, it's a boon when it's been raining, and I have to pull the caravan on wet grass. In fact, so long as I continue to haul a caravan, I wouldn't want to be without it. (I suppose that's one big argument in favour of hanging on to Fiona, no matter what repairs and replacements might be necessary)

Meanwhile, it's warm and snug in the caravan. When the weather is awful I emerge only to refill my ten-litre water containers, dispose of waste water, pop a bag of rubbish in the bin, and every three days empty the toilet cassttte. And I wear my trusty green wellies, which are serious and heavy-duty, and kept in a plastic box in the caravan, with a boot jack to make getting them on and off a quick and clean job:

I always take wellies along, even in the height of the summer. You just never know when waterproof (and mudproof) footwear will be needed. 

The weather forecast over the next week or so shows an improvement, with drier conditions in Devon and Dorset, though not necessarily with all that much sunshine. But if the ground drains, I'll get out and around again, as much as usual.

A new lap tray

Life is not all troublesome gearboxes. I'm on holiday. The weather so far has been pretty dodgy - lots of wind and rain, and although snug in the caravan it's chilly outside. 

Even so, I've already cheered myself up with two new tops when in Sidmouth, and yesterday I got something for the home in Bridport. A new lap tray. You know: a tray with a soft backing (full of tiny polystyrene balls) that moulds itself to your knees each time you use it, and provides a steady, non-tip platform for your meal plate. Or indeed for your laptop when being creative. Or for any activity really that you want to indulge in while sitting in relaxed comfort in your favourite armchair, or on a sofa, rather than stiffly at a table. 

Lap trays are usually not utilitarian. They are often colourful affairs, with a nice picture on them. I bought my first for £10.99 back on 28th July 2009, at Bridport's little departmental store, Lilliput. It has featured in most of my food photos ever since, although nearly always obscured by the plate of food. Here's the first such photo, dated 2nd August 2009, when caravanning for the first time at what became my favourite site in North Devon:

I hasten to say that this was in my pre-Slimming World days, when I thought it all right to eat fish fingers and plenty of melting butter! Yummy though. Searching through the Photo Archive, I've found a shot from May 2017 that shows the tray without a plate on it. A most attractive design called 'Blue and white China' by the company that markets these trays (Creative Tops): 

And here's another shot from May 2022:

The tray looks no different today, at least on the top side. These lap trays are very durable items, and this one has taken fourteen years of heavy use with few signs of deterioration. Underneath however it's a different story. There is a fabric backing, which conceals a plastic bag full of those little polystyrene balls, and holds it in place. Once that fabric starts to fray, and holes begin to form in it, that bag of little balls is vulnerable. The last thing you want is hundreds of polystyrene balls tumbling out! So once the dark blue fabric on the underside of this tray began to tear, I carefully repaired it. That was three or four years ago. Now it's got holes in it again, and looks tatty. Not tatty enough to junk the tray, but clearly I needed a new one for ongoing daily use, keeping the old tray for (say) laptop work only.

I have in fact been looking around for a new lap tray since early last year. The 'Blue and White China' design was long gone. It would have to be something different, but at any rate something bold and colourful. I saw a contender at Fields department store in Sidmouth last year. You can see it in this shot I took inside the store, on the Creative Tops display stand in the centre of the picture. A design with large red and cream flowers, called 'Flower Study'. (Creative Tops evidently don't get creative with the names of their designs!) In fact there were two versions: one of them a conventional plastic tray with handles, the other a lap tray.

I hesitated and didn't buy at the time, but the flower design stayed in my mind, and I thought that when next on holiday in the area I would snap it up. It was disappointing to find that in the meantime Fields had stopped selling lap trays! But I had another place to go: Lilliput in Bridport, where I had bought the first lap tray in 2009. So yesterday I made a point of looking in there, and sure enough, they had a range of lap trays. Including the one with flowers that had caught my eye. Lilliput wanted £12.99 for it.

It wasn't the only design that might suit. I compared it with one or two others - for instance, a colourful farmyard scene. But for me it was no contest.

So I bought the flower-design tray. Unwrapping it back at the caravan, I felt very pleased with my choice.

All set for another fourteen years of armchair eating!

Oh dear! Gearbox trouble!

Not far from the end of my journey to Lyme Regis from my home in Sussex, hauling the caravan up a hill on the A35 between Dorchester and Bridport, a disturbing message flashed up on Fiona's dashboard: Transmission Service Required. It did it twice, going up that hill. Yikes! It probably meant that Fiona's automatic gearbox was overheating, and that I should stop to let it cool down. As it happened, I knew there was a lay-by only half a mile ahead, at the top of the hill, and I pulled in there, letting the engine run a little at low revs before cutting it. Well, there were no funny smells or funny noises. I took a short comfort break, then fired up Fiona again for the last ten miles. Two steep ascents lay ahead, at Chideock and Charmouth, but my car tackled both with her usual energy, changing gears up and down smoothly, and there were no more warning messages. 

Should I be worried? I've had plenty of past experience with auto gearboxes. I remembered for instance how my previous car, the Honda CR-V, had overheated once or twice, despite having its gearbox fluid replaced. It had covered a lot of miles, and the accumulated wear and tear on its gearbox must have made it sensitive to heat build-up, such as might easily occur from sustained towing on fast roads, or from grinding up too long a hill. 

Fiona's first gearbox, replaced in December 2015, had covered 75,000 miles, succumbing to premature wear because I'd considered my Volvo invincible, and had pushed her hard. The replacement gearbox, treated rather better, had now done 110,000 miles, and might well be good for more. But my little caravan weighs at least a ton and a quarter when laden, and Fiona has to haul that, plus myself and her own weight - a combined load of at least three tons. At a good pace too. No wonder then that her gearbox, young no longer, gets tired and might protest. Perhaps it isn't so surprising that - for best performance, and rock solid reliability - she might need a new auto gearbox every 100,000 miles or so. In which case, it could be 'time up' for the current box. Or nearly that time.

Let's see how Fiona's gearbox behaves during the rest of this holiday. I'm not really expecting any further indications of trouble, but I will be watching out for them all the same. And I think I'd better start thinking seriously about what I should best do if the gearbox plays up, and something simply must be done.

If it comes to another replacement box, that could set me back as much as £7,000 at a Volvo dealer. That's a guess; but the new box in 2015 cost me £5,434. By the end of the year, I might be able to cover all of that £7,000 from savings. Otherwise, with the help of a bank loan. I see that currently my bank would want interest on a loan over 24 months at 7.9% APR. That's a bit steep, but I can manage the £315 per month loan repayments if I divert money that would have been saved to cover them. Obviously I'd hope that replacing the gearbox can be deferred for some while yet, and that by then loan interest rates will have come down. 

As an alternative, would it now make sense to buy a much newer car? I'll think about that too. 

And wither buying a new caravan? Well, a car that I can rely on has to come first. No suitable car, no caravanning... 

Giant wields big club in Sidmouth

I'd paid for two hours' parking in Sidmouth at a car park I don't ordinarily use, as it isn't the cheapest. But the place was full of people, and parking was at a premium. Astonishing for midweek in mid-March! Especially with the weather being so dull and rainy just now. As I write, it's the start of the second full day of my holiday. With twenty-six left to go, I'm certain of an improvement in the weather at some point, but today doesn't look hopeful. Hey ho. It's comfortable and snug in the caravan.

Back to Sidmouth. Returning to the car, I passed this old Austin A40 on the seafront:

This is a 1950s car from my youngest days, and for that reason alone it caught my attention. Not that Dad ever owned one. Back then there was no money for a car like this, which in its day was a perfectly respectable car to aspire to. There were plenty around, usually in a green-blue colour. I saw this nicely-restored grey example last year at a car rally in a Burgess Hill park, which gives a fair impression of what these A40s looked like in their prime:

Yesterday's pink version wasn't in such a good state, although I dare say still usable as a local runabout. The pink paint job, now fading, hinted at a possibly hippy female owner at some point in the past. And the very current green flash on the painted-on rear number 'plate' indicated a wish to be thought green-aware and generally eco. On the bonnet, a large and eye-catching amateur rendition of that famous Dorset figure, the Cerne Abbas Giant, complete with erect tadger and big grin. I'm thinking that the current owner, who must be happy to drive around in such a car, and with that particular giant emblazoned on the front of the car for all to see, must be quite a character. He or she must be winking at the rest of us. Certainly, this car makes Fiona, my ageing but still upmarket Volvo XC60, seem a little staid, and way too safe.

Although I do (or rather did, now that my TV plays only DVDs in another room) watch Bangers and Cash on the yesterday channel - which is all about finding, auctioning and restoring old cars and other vehicles - I am never likely to own a 'classic car'. I'd want a modern one, fit for modern conditions. That's what I'll get when it's time to retire Fiona. And not, say, a vintage Rover, Jaguar or Mercedes, however stylish. Or something like an Austin A40 - especially not one that has had a special paint job, as this has. I'm just not that wacky. 

I do wonder what was behind the choice of the Cerne Abbas Giant for a paint-on enhancement. In Dorset folklore, this giant is traditionally regarded as a fertility figure. You can go and see him. He is a very large chalk figure, cut into the hill above Cerne Abbas village. I last had a look in 2017. The best view, such as it is - you are so far away as to need binoculars - is from the official car park:

Zooming in you see this:

Leaving the car park, and walking closer, trees get in the way, although at one point you do get a much closer view, but incomplete and somewhat foreshortened:

You can climb the hill of course, but unless you want a lot of exercise to no great purpose I wouldn't bother. You do get a great view of the village and surrounding countryside, but can spy very little of the Giant, only tiny bits of him at a very oblique angle. I went up there in 2017, walked all the way around him, and could only get this as my best shot:

You are looking at the bottom end of the Giant's big club, with some of his chest beyond. The National Trust, who own the hillside, have long fenced him in, so you can't get close and personal. I have seen a telephoto shot showing a young lady sitting at the tip of his vast and rampant member. She may have been part of an archaeological team investigating the Giant in 1997. You can do no such thing now. 

Because he is naked and wields a club, the Giant is often identified as Hercules, the mythical superhero, and this is a reason to suppose this chalk figure on the hillside must have first been created in Roman times, and could now be at least 1,600 years old. Here's a classical version of Hercules, which I saw recently at the Royal Academy of Arts in London:

Yep. Nude over-muscled strongman, with signature lionskin cloak draped over a tree stump, and nonchalantly holding a knobbly club. Serious, powerful, very imposing, and very Roman.

But on the other hand, there is no written record mentioning the Giant before 1694, as this information board at Cerne Abbas takes pains to point out (click on the picture to get a larger view, and read the text):

Ancient or much more recent, the Giant is bound up with notions connected with sex, and I'm thinking that whoever painted him on the bonnet of that A40 at Sidmouth wanted the world to know that - like Hercules, or at least the Cerne Abbas Giant - he or she was up for it, and any takers? And subsequent owners must have been of the same mind, including the current one. And why not. 

I didn't hang around to observe who actually was the owner, as my two hours' parking were almost up, but I half-wish I had. Mind you, it could easily have been one of those those doddery old ladies you almost trip over in the streets of Sidmouth, still faithful to the car of her wilder days.