I'm at Huntly, in the north-west part of Aberdeenshire, and within an easy drive of both the Moray Firth coastal towns and the Grampian Mountains. In fact today I embarked on what seemed to be a monumental nine-hour drive that included Lossiemouth (lunch stop), Duffus Castle, Burghead, Findhorn, Forres (afternoon tea), Tomintoul and Corgarff Castle, the last two high up in the mountains. In fact it wasn't that long a drive: about 140 miles only. But I had plenty of stops for photos. Anything that caught my attention. For instance, the 'air show' at RAF Lossiemouth - I was visiting Duffus Castle nearby (pretty well in line with the runway) and at five-minute intervals fighter jets roared into view, flew round the castle, and returned to their base. Practice flights, I suppose. I haven't got the right camera for shooting fast-moving aircraft, but I did my best.
Another instance. Not far from Duffus I spotted two male figures in check shirts and jeans stiffly pointing across the field they were standing in. And as I drove up, they kept pointing rigidly, as if frozen in that one position. Aha, I thought. These must be scarecrows - very life-like to be sure, but nobody holds their arms motionless like that for so long. They would make an interesting picture close up. I screeched to a halt, and was getting out, when both 'scarecrows' came to life, dropped their arms and looked at me. Oh dear! They were real men all along! I got moving, not wanting the embarrassment of having to explain.
I went to Forres for two reasons. First, someone had mentioned to me quite recently that a couple they knew had just moved there. So I was keen to check it out for pleasantness. Second, a secondhand book I'd bought in Huntly had a write-up on a very tall, carved Pictish standing stone called Sueno's Stone, which was on the edge of Forres, and I wanted to see it.
The actual highlight of my visit to Forres was however the conversations I had in Maclean's Bakery with two women in their early thirties. Their names were Karen and Sally. Karen was serving behind the counter when I came in looking for a refreshing pot if tea and something savoury to go with it - it was approaching 4.00pm and I was getting really peckish, and with a long detour through the high hills yet to come. Well, we must have been kindred spirits. A ten-minute chat ensued, curtailed only by a spate of customers coming in. Then her friend Sally arrived, a care assistant temporarily off work because of an injured foot. Finishing my snack, I came over, wanting to say to Karen how much I'd enjoyed the tea and steak pie, and then found myself discussing boyfriends for half an hour with Sally. It turned out that both girls had ended up in North-East Scotland because of a past attraction to a local man. Neither were native to the area. Sally herself was from Nottingham. Both had burned their boats by moving, but hadn't regretted it, Forres and the north of Scotland generally being so much away from the rat race of big cities. And both had found true love.
I said they weren't by any means the only persons I'd met who had moved north from far away down south. For example, the girl who had served me at Fat Face in Aberdeen two days before - Sarah - had moved up there from Knaresborough in Yorkshire. And she too had done so because of a man - in this case her husband, who had a shore job in the oil industry - and she too hadn't regretted the move.
It made me ponder how readily people will embrace an entirely different and unfamiliar location and lifestyle, when love draws them. And how it seems true that the average woman will follow her man to the ends of the earth if she believes that he loves her. Well, I'd met three women in the space of two days who really had uprooted themselves for the man they loved. This proved something about what a woman might do.
Was I capable of doing the same? I thought no, surely I was too old and independent to heed the call of love. But who is immune? Who is so very unusual that love cannot move them to do very strange things?
Friday, 5 June 2015
Monday, 1 June 2015
Miss or Mrs?
I'm beginning to wonder whether I chose the wrong title! I'm officially a 'Miss', meaning that this title is the one I invariably use for myself. I regard it as a reasonable default title for a single lady, if she doesn't want to be regarded as locked into a marriage, or in some way still in thrall to a past marriage. I am in fact perfectly entitled to style myself 'Mrs', having been married from 1983 until my eventual divorce in 1996. But I don't want to signal that I was once married and - fairly obviously - made a mess of it. I don't want to carry that baggage around. I want to make it clear and unambiguous that I am as free as any never-been-wed woman, and that (at least in theory) I am 'available' and legally competent to consider fresh offers of matrimony. The fact that I would refuse such offers point blank is not the issue. I just don't want the 'married' label, and the things it might imply.
And yet more often than not I am addressed as 'Mrs Melford'. Nobody ever calls me 'Miss Melford' unless I've managed to introduce myself as that before any conversation begins.
Now why is that, I wonder? Is 'Mrs' the socially appropriate title to employ when addressing a stranger who happens to be an older woman? It's certainly likely to be the correct title in many instances. And if not, it is surely still a respectful title to use, implying that at least one man, once upon a time, loved and cherished the lady in question above all others, and bestowed upon her his best worldly goods, yea, even unto half his kingdom. It might also imply the high-value status of motherhood. Whereas addressing an older woman as 'Miss' suggests that circumstances - or lack of attractiveness, or a quirky nature - prevented even one man from fancying her sufficiently to pop the question - and so, as a title, it's a potential put-down. I know there are very many excellent real-world reasons to stay single and be independent of men - I have my own, after all - but I'm talking here about what a man should do when he meets a woman of whom he knows nothing, and whose background and motivations are unguessable. What does he safely call her? If aiming for inoffensive politeness, 'Mrs' is definitely the best option.
I can see that a woman with experience of married life might be considered 'a more rounded person' or 'someone who has learned a few home truths' and 'knows what it's really all about'. At any rate, the man who called me 'Mrs Melford' this afternoon was clearly very comfortable with the lady before him, recognised her as a Married Adult, and was most helpful about recommending to her good restaurants and great things to see in the Stonehaven area (I've now reached Aberdeenshire). But would he have been so affable with 'Miss Melford'? I suspect that he would have worked from a different set of assumptions, and might possibly have written her off as a feisty but eccentric old spinster. Being a 'Miss' is exciting and sexy when young, but sad (and even alienating) when older.
Despite what I've just said, I do prefer 'Miss' and will assert that title if I need to, because it signifies that I am mistress of my own affairs, and not merely the compliant female half of a conventional twosome. 'Miss' says there is no husband in the offing who can speak for me; who may indeed be easier to deal with. They must all deal with me, and me alone, and not 'the man of the house'. I can insist on being listened to. Being a 'Miss' therefore gives me more personal power and control than being a 'Mrs' would, even though I might also be thought prickly and exacting, and best handled with some wariness.
And yet more often than not I am addressed as 'Mrs Melford'. Nobody ever calls me 'Miss Melford' unless I've managed to introduce myself as that before any conversation begins.
Now why is that, I wonder? Is 'Mrs' the socially appropriate title to employ when addressing a stranger who happens to be an older woman? It's certainly likely to be the correct title in many instances. And if not, it is surely still a respectful title to use, implying that at least one man, once upon a time, loved and cherished the lady in question above all others, and bestowed upon her his best worldly goods, yea, even unto half his kingdom. It might also imply the high-value status of motherhood. Whereas addressing an older woman as 'Miss' suggests that circumstances - or lack of attractiveness, or a quirky nature - prevented even one man from fancying her sufficiently to pop the question - and so, as a title, it's a potential put-down. I know there are very many excellent real-world reasons to stay single and be independent of men - I have my own, after all - but I'm talking here about what a man should do when he meets a woman of whom he knows nothing, and whose background and motivations are unguessable. What does he safely call her? If aiming for inoffensive politeness, 'Mrs' is definitely the best option.
I can see that a woman with experience of married life might be considered 'a more rounded person' or 'someone who has learned a few home truths' and 'knows what it's really all about'. At any rate, the man who called me 'Mrs Melford' this afternoon was clearly very comfortable with the lady before him, recognised her as a Married Adult, and was most helpful about recommending to her good restaurants and great things to see in the Stonehaven area (I've now reached Aberdeenshire). But would he have been so affable with 'Miss Melford'? I suspect that he would have worked from a different set of assumptions, and might possibly have written her off as a feisty but eccentric old spinster. Being a 'Miss' is exciting and sexy when young, but sad (and even alienating) when older.
Despite what I've just said, I do prefer 'Miss' and will assert that title if I need to, because it signifies that I am mistress of my own affairs, and not merely the compliant female half of a conventional twosome. 'Miss' says there is no husband in the offing who can speak for me; who may indeed be easier to deal with. They must all deal with me, and me alone, and not 'the man of the house'. I can insist on being listened to. Being a 'Miss' therefore gives me more personal power and control than being a 'Mrs' would, even though I might also be thought prickly and exacting, and best handled with some wariness.
Saturday, 30 May 2015
Not a couple
I really am the odd one out on holiday. It seems to be assumed that I'm probably the female half of a couple - the Missus - and that Mister is doing Something Important elsewhere, but will appear any moment to take charge. When I say I'm actually on my own, and that I've come all the way from Sussex (Sussex? Oh, in that south-east corner of the country. Never been there!) everyone is amazed, even if it's only halfway up towards Scotland.
Here in Scotland people pop their eyes at my daring to travel so far alone, and I find myself trotting out a sanitised version of how M--- and I started caravanning together, and how I learned to love it, and developed the skills to manage on my own - despite the handicap of being a woman on her own, with no Man around to help. This still elicits wonder, so I then put myself down still more, as if possessing even a minimum amount of sensible planning ability is quite unbecoming, and requires an apology.
How odd that is! Privately, of course, I'm pretty confident about what I attempt. But it doesn't do to say so.
And I will accept many of the physical and social limitations associated with women, false though they may be. This tends to make life easier, most men wanting to be considerate towards a woman, especially by employing a bit of technique or strength or whatever it is that will let them shine as a man, bless them. Mind you, if they make the effort, a pantomime of thanks is always part of the social deal and mustn't be neglected.
It's easy to overdo it though! By, for example, giving them back more friendly chat than they were expecting. As far as I can see, British Men (British Caravanning Men, I particularly mean) are Persons Of Few Words. I'm not saying that they are unfriendly, poker-faced mutes. But, possibly because they are clearly the careful, thinking sort, they are far from being chatterboxes, generally leaving conversations to 'the wife'. She is the Spokesperson and Press Office, even if not the One In Charge. So if I catch both together, she and I do 90% of the chat. I am convinced that most men, unless they like the sound of their own voice, are very happy to let their wives speak for both of them.
I have to be husband and wife rolled into one. An occasionally awkward combination on a caravan site, because it's unusual and unexpected and Not The Norm. Some people must wonder what possible enjoyment there can be in travelling on my own, and having to deal with all the chores (and occasional hassle) unassisted. I don't think it's possible to convince someone who is so welded to a partner, so embedded in a conventional family situation, that I am very happy as I am, that I can deal with it all, and that my life (without even a dog for company) suits me beautifully.
When it comes to it, most people do hanker after a companion, and think it's no fun to be free. They're wrong, but my minority view isn't going to prevail.
Here in Scotland people pop their eyes at my daring to travel so far alone, and I find myself trotting out a sanitised version of how M--- and I started caravanning together, and how I learned to love it, and developed the skills to manage on my own - despite the handicap of being a woman on her own, with no Man around to help. This still elicits wonder, so I then put myself down still more, as if possessing even a minimum amount of sensible planning ability is quite unbecoming, and requires an apology.
How odd that is! Privately, of course, I'm pretty confident about what I attempt. But it doesn't do to say so.
And I will accept many of the physical and social limitations associated with women, false though they may be. This tends to make life easier, most men wanting to be considerate towards a woman, especially by employing a bit of technique or strength or whatever it is that will let them shine as a man, bless them. Mind you, if they make the effort, a pantomime of thanks is always part of the social deal and mustn't be neglected.
It's easy to overdo it though! By, for example, giving them back more friendly chat than they were expecting. As far as I can see, British Men (British Caravanning Men, I particularly mean) are Persons Of Few Words. I'm not saying that they are unfriendly, poker-faced mutes. But, possibly because they are clearly the careful, thinking sort, they are far from being chatterboxes, generally leaving conversations to 'the wife'. She is the Spokesperson and Press Office, even if not the One In Charge. So if I catch both together, she and I do 90% of the chat. I am convinced that most men, unless they like the sound of their own voice, are very happy to let their wives speak for both of them.
I have to be husband and wife rolled into one. An occasionally awkward combination on a caravan site, because it's unusual and unexpected and Not The Norm. Some people must wonder what possible enjoyment there can be in travelling on my own, and having to deal with all the chores (and occasional hassle) unassisted. I don't think it's possible to convince someone who is so welded to a partner, so embedded in a conventional family situation, that I am very happy as I am, that I can deal with it all, and that my life (without even a dog for company) suits me beautifully.
When it comes to it, most people do hanker after a companion, and think it's no fun to be free. They're wrong, but my minority view isn't going to prevail.
At least two faux pas
I'm still alive: the silence of the last few days is entirely due to staying in places where there is non-existent (or very iffy) Mobile Internet. No Internet, no posts. I have a growing list of things that could be written about, but it's no good if I have no Internet.
However, I'm now at Yellowcraig Caravan Club Site, which is not too far from North Berwick in East Lothian - a proper town - and I can get online now and then. So there is some hope that this will go out.
It's taken me just two days to haul the caravan from Sussex to here, which is not bad going, although I didn't like staying only one night at Stamford and the Lake District on the way up to Scotland. It made the journeying seem relentless, and restricted the time for local sightseeing far too much. I'm at Yellowcraig for three nights, and although I intend to be out and around - Edinburgh tomorrow, and a day out with a friend the next day - it will feel far more relaxing. The rest of my stops on this mammoth tour are all for two, three, or even four nights, allowing plenty of time to unwind and enjoy the local area before hitching up and setting off again.
Midnight approaches! I will confine myself to describing how I committed two caravanning faux pas on arrival at Yellowcraig.
Faux pas number one: I jumped the queue to get in. Yellowcraig is an incredibly popular Club site. It's never a surprise to find someone already in the 'arrivals' parking spot, so that you have to keep back and wait for them to check in. Well, two big caravans were ahead of me on arrival, but neither was actually parked in the 'arrivals' spot. I'd been on the road for four hours, and was eager to check in and get pitched. It wasn't obvious why these two caravans were hanging back. There was however a prominent notice that the site was full. Perhaps they hadn't pre-booked, and, with their plan to stay at Yellowcraig thwarted, were deciding where else to try. I had pre-booked - way back in January, in fact. I drove past them and into the 'arrivals' space.
Of course, I was wrong. I was instantly admonished for jumping the queue. Oh, I'm very sorry! It wasn't explained why the two other caravans had hung back, but I'd got off on the wrong foot and no mistake!
The thing was, with the site so full, and all the best pitches already occupied, the few still vacant were likely to be the ones that were difficult to get onto. I would still have the pick of these. But the two caravans I'd jumped ahead of were going to have Hobson's Choice. There was no actual ill-feeling, but I earnestly hoped they would both end up with nice pitches, despite having a poorer selection.
There really weren't many places left. I found one that would be suitable for a little caravan like mine. It was a pig to reverse onto though. I found myself steering the wrong way all the time. I suppose I was tired. Eventually I managed it. I went through the usual setting-up routine. This included getting out the long electrical cable, connecting one end to a socket on the side of the caravan, and plugging the other into a socket on a post.
And that was faux pas number two. I chose the wrong post. I went off to reception for a card to work the entrance barrier, and when I returned a man with a lugubrious expression on his face was standing next to my caravan. Oops. What had I done now? Well, I'd pinched his electrical socket. Mine was off in the other direction. Really? But where? He showed me. The other post, which actually had an empty socket with my pitch number on it, was the other side of a bush. I hadn't noticed it.
How embarrassing! I gave him profuse apologies, and moved my cable. He seemed fine about it, but I wondered what he might be thinking. 'Daft old biddy' perhaps. I fervently hoped he wasn't one of the two people I'd queue-jumped. Surely not, otherwise he'd have much more to say...
I was relieved to find that the people next to me - a younger, friendly couple from Darlington - were nice to talk to. And the wife was firmly on my side when a Club warden passed by and informed me that the positioning of my caravan was verging on the unacceptable. For heaven's sake! I pointed out the tree I'd had to avoid while I reversed. My protest scarcely dented his zeal. But we sent him on his way. It's not a spacious site, and I suppose they have to be particular, and can't allow sloppy pitching. But, my goodness, I never have such trouble on my favourite laid-back farm sites in the West Country!
Apart from these embarrassments, my first afternoon in Scotland was very pleasant indeed. I went into North Berwick for a stroll. It was dazzlingly sunny one moment, then cold and very wet the next. I witnessed the fiercest hail I'd seen for a very long time. And it was almost June! Hmm. I would have to expect some dire weather once in Aberdeenshire, so much further north.
Tomorrow I plan to visit Edinburgh on the train. Just £4.50 return on the train from North Berwick, using my Senior Railcard. It's meant to be sunny all day. A summer dress then. But my padded winter coat and gloves as well!
However, I'm now at Yellowcraig Caravan Club Site, which is not too far from North Berwick in East Lothian - a proper town - and I can get online now and then. So there is some hope that this will go out.
It's taken me just two days to haul the caravan from Sussex to here, which is not bad going, although I didn't like staying only one night at Stamford and the Lake District on the way up to Scotland. It made the journeying seem relentless, and restricted the time for local sightseeing far too much. I'm at Yellowcraig for three nights, and although I intend to be out and around - Edinburgh tomorrow, and a day out with a friend the next day - it will feel far more relaxing. The rest of my stops on this mammoth tour are all for two, three, or even four nights, allowing plenty of time to unwind and enjoy the local area before hitching up and setting off again.
Midnight approaches! I will confine myself to describing how I committed two caravanning faux pas on arrival at Yellowcraig.
Faux pas number one: I jumped the queue to get in. Yellowcraig is an incredibly popular Club site. It's never a surprise to find someone already in the 'arrivals' parking spot, so that you have to keep back and wait for them to check in. Well, two big caravans were ahead of me on arrival, but neither was actually parked in the 'arrivals' spot. I'd been on the road for four hours, and was eager to check in and get pitched. It wasn't obvious why these two caravans were hanging back. There was however a prominent notice that the site was full. Perhaps they hadn't pre-booked, and, with their plan to stay at Yellowcraig thwarted, were deciding where else to try. I had pre-booked - way back in January, in fact. I drove past them and into the 'arrivals' space.
Of course, I was wrong. I was instantly admonished for jumping the queue. Oh, I'm very sorry! It wasn't explained why the two other caravans had hung back, but I'd got off on the wrong foot and no mistake!
The thing was, with the site so full, and all the best pitches already occupied, the few still vacant were likely to be the ones that were difficult to get onto. I would still have the pick of these. But the two caravans I'd jumped ahead of were going to have Hobson's Choice. There was no actual ill-feeling, but I earnestly hoped they would both end up with nice pitches, despite having a poorer selection.
There really weren't many places left. I found one that would be suitable for a little caravan like mine. It was a pig to reverse onto though. I found myself steering the wrong way all the time. I suppose I was tired. Eventually I managed it. I went through the usual setting-up routine. This included getting out the long electrical cable, connecting one end to a socket on the side of the caravan, and plugging the other into a socket on a post.
And that was faux pas number two. I chose the wrong post. I went off to reception for a card to work the entrance barrier, and when I returned a man with a lugubrious expression on his face was standing next to my caravan. Oops. What had I done now? Well, I'd pinched his electrical socket. Mine was off in the other direction. Really? But where? He showed me. The other post, which actually had an empty socket with my pitch number on it, was the other side of a bush. I hadn't noticed it.
How embarrassing! I gave him profuse apologies, and moved my cable. He seemed fine about it, but I wondered what he might be thinking. 'Daft old biddy' perhaps. I fervently hoped he wasn't one of the two people I'd queue-jumped. Surely not, otherwise he'd have much more to say...
I was relieved to find that the people next to me - a younger, friendly couple from Darlington - were nice to talk to. And the wife was firmly on my side when a Club warden passed by and informed me that the positioning of my caravan was verging on the unacceptable. For heaven's sake! I pointed out the tree I'd had to avoid while I reversed. My protest scarcely dented his zeal. But we sent him on his way. It's not a spacious site, and I suppose they have to be particular, and can't allow sloppy pitching. But, my goodness, I never have such trouble on my favourite laid-back farm sites in the West Country!
Apart from these embarrassments, my first afternoon in Scotland was very pleasant indeed. I went into North Berwick for a stroll. It was dazzlingly sunny one moment, then cold and very wet the next. I witnessed the fiercest hail I'd seen for a very long time. And it was almost June! Hmm. I would have to expect some dire weather once in Aberdeenshire, so much further north.
Tomorrow I plan to visit Edinburgh on the train. Just £4.50 return on the train from North Berwick, using my Senior Railcard. It's meant to be sunny all day. A summer dress then. But my padded winter coat and gloves as well!
Sunday, 24 May 2015
The open road beckons!
Three days hence I shall be well on my way up north.
It's a packed schedule, and the most ambitious caravan tour I've yet devised for myself.
# Sussex to North-east Scotland and back again, with stops at several places in between.
# 26 nights away.
# 10 Caravan Club sites visited. All of them carefully chosen and already booked.
# 1,430 towing miles, with the caravan hitched up behind Fiona.
# A minimum of 1,300 miles covered on days out, just me and Fiona, the caravan left on-site.
# £340 spent on site fees. So that's an average of £13 per night.
# A minimum of £450 spent on fuel over and above what I'd spend anyway at home.
My records indicate that my typical sight-seeing mileage is 50 miles per night at site. But in Scotland, that will be very hard to keep to, considering the big distances one might cover on a worthwhile day out. On the other hand, the roads are so empty of traffic - compared to Sussex - that my fuel consumption ought to be much better than usual, and so the fuel bill shouldn't get out of hand. In any case, in order to pay for extra fuel, I'm willing to sacrifice the odd meal out. And I won't be hitting the shops for tartan souvenirs.
Originally all but one of the ten sites were booked online some time back, on the Caravan Club's website. What a great convenience that was! The exception was the site at Huntly in Aberdeenshire, which was a commercial site affiliated to the Caravan Club, and matching or exceeding its standards. I had to email them specially.
I've just however rejigged my bookings for the final few days. I was going to have three nights in the Peak District, then three nights on the Cotswolds. Now it's four nights on the Welsh border at Chirk, then two nights on the Cotswolds (worry not, Angie: the Sunday pub-lunch-and-ramble remains sacrosanct!) before embarking on the final journey back to Sussex.
It was dead easy to cancel the Peak District booking, and shorten the Cotswolds booking, by visiting the Club website. But the new booking at Chirk had to be arranged over the phone. The website was showing 'fully booked' at Chirk for the fourth night that I wanted to be there. Now people rearrange their bookings all the time, and the website doesn't necessarily tell the up-to-the-minute truth. So on a hunch that I could still get in, I phoned them up. I was right. They did have a spare pitch for that fourth night. What good luck! So I nailed the booking.
I'm rather glad that I've switched from the Peak District to the Welsh borderland. Now I'll be able to revisit Welshpool, and see Lake Bala, and have a look at Denbigh and Flint. The Peak District is very worthy, of course, but I will go there another time.
As you can imagine, I am working through a long checklist of things to see to. Better get on with it.
It's a packed schedule, and the most ambitious caravan tour I've yet devised for myself.
# Sussex to North-east Scotland and back again, with stops at several places in between.
# 26 nights away.
# 10 Caravan Club sites visited. All of them carefully chosen and already booked.
# 1,430 towing miles, with the caravan hitched up behind Fiona.
# A minimum of 1,300 miles covered on days out, just me and Fiona, the caravan left on-site.
# £340 spent on site fees. So that's an average of £13 per night.
# A minimum of £450 spent on fuel over and above what I'd spend anyway at home.
My records indicate that my typical sight-seeing mileage is 50 miles per night at site. But in Scotland, that will be very hard to keep to, considering the big distances one might cover on a worthwhile day out. On the other hand, the roads are so empty of traffic - compared to Sussex - that my fuel consumption ought to be much better than usual, and so the fuel bill shouldn't get out of hand. In any case, in order to pay for extra fuel, I'm willing to sacrifice the odd meal out. And I won't be hitting the shops for tartan souvenirs.
Originally all but one of the ten sites were booked online some time back, on the Caravan Club's website. What a great convenience that was! The exception was the site at Huntly in Aberdeenshire, which was a commercial site affiliated to the Caravan Club, and matching or exceeding its standards. I had to email them specially.
I've just however rejigged my bookings for the final few days. I was going to have three nights in the Peak District, then three nights on the Cotswolds. Now it's four nights on the Welsh border at Chirk, then two nights on the Cotswolds (worry not, Angie: the Sunday pub-lunch-and-ramble remains sacrosanct!) before embarking on the final journey back to Sussex.
It was dead easy to cancel the Peak District booking, and shorten the Cotswolds booking, by visiting the Club website. But the new booking at Chirk had to be arranged over the phone. The website was showing 'fully booked' at Chirk for the fourth night that I wanted to be there. Now people rearrange their bookings all the time, and the website doesn't necessarily tell the up-to-the-minute truth. So on a hunch that I could still get in, I phoned them up. I was right. They did have a spare pitch for that fourth night. What good luck! So I nailed the booking.
I'm rather glad that I've switched from the Peak District to the Welsh borderland. Now I'll be able to revisit Welshpool, and see Lake Bala, and have a look at Denbigh and Flint. The Peak District is very worthy, of course, but I will go there another time.
As you can imagine, I am working through a long checklist of things to see to. Better get on with it.
Saturday, 23 May 2015
Brighton Council still determined to fleece the motorist
Grrr. The City of Brighton & Hove has for some reason never liked people driving into the city and parking. Nowadays it has a Green Party MP, and Green policies have descended with a very heavy hand, reinforcing what was always an anti-motorist bias.
Thus much of the city is plagued by 20mph zones. I will admit that these make it safer for pedestrians, because cars and other vehicles can stop quicker if the said pedestrian wanders carelessly or recklessly out into the road, as the more spaced-out ones will; or if a cyclist jumps a red light, as the arrogant ones are prone to do. I will also admit that the 20mph limit keeps traffic flowing more evenly, avoiding that 'racetrack surge' as traffic lights turn green. It is however impossible to adhere to 20mph when going up a hill, unless you let your engine labour, churning out polluting gases - and Brighton is very hilly place in parts. A slow speed like this is also very aggravating when you just want to make some rapid progress from A to B, for an appointment perhaps.
If this were not bad enough, the city's policy on parking is truly abysmal. Really, it seems as if they don't want you to park at all. Spaces are hard to find, it's very expensive, and the parking wardens are draconian. Expect no mercy. Whenever I park in Brighton, I always spend time checking that I have complied in all respects with what the signs say, and whatever else it may require one to do on the ticket from the machine. Thus I pay great attention to ensuring that not a millimetre of Fiona ever goes over the parking space markings on the road. Well, maybe this is what I should do anyway; but the wardens are implacable if anything is not as it should be, and they are clearly instructed to look for fault. Fear of a swingeing fine makes you very, very careful.
I'm surprised that the local Chamber of Commerce doesn't violently object. Crawling speeds and difficult and expensive parking must put many a shopper off.
And lately another sneaky method of getting extra cash out of wicked car drivers has been introduced. It used to be possible - if you knew where - to park for four hours for a mere £3. The tariff had been this:
Up to 1 hour £1
Up to 2 hours £2
Up to four hours £3
I'd found a route into central Brighton that took me past a series of these £3-for-four-hours spots, and it usually enabled me to find a convenient space to park at reasonable cost (reasonable for Brighton, that is). I became accustomed to feeding three £1 coins into the machine, and getting the four-hour ticket I wanted in return. After a time, this became an automatic, unthinking process.
I did it as usual last Tuesday evening.
But then, as I displayed the ticket on Fiona's windscreen, something about it caught my attention. That's right...my £3 hadn't bought me the expected amount of time. Only two hours, not four.
Returning to the machine, I discovered that they'd added 20p - an insignificant but vital amount - to the old price. Which meant that I'd just wasted £3, because the two hours it now bought me wasn't enough.
So Disgruntled of Mid-Sussex delved into her purse, disinterred another three £1 coins and a 20p piece, and bought another ticket. Grumbling, she replaced the first ticket with the second, and brooded savagely on that wasted £3.
How many other motorists were being caught out like this, at least once? And I had been lucky enough to spot my error and put it right before leaving my car. If I hadn't done that, and a warden had come along after the two hours were up - and they sadistically lie in wait - then I'd return to find a Parking Offence Notice wrapped around a windscreen wiper. And an invitation to pay whatever the penalty was - £80 now, I think. And I'd be very upset at the unfairness and underhandedness of it all.
Well, by pure chance I'd had a narrow escape, and was poorer by only £3 instead of £80. But I still felt very annoyed.
I don't think many other cities behave so badly towards people wanting to drive in, park, and then (potentially anyway) spend lots of money on their evening entertainment.
Thus much of the city is plagued by 20mph zones. I will admit that these make it safer for pedestrians, because cars and other vehicles can stop quicker if the said pedestrian wanders carelessly or recklessly out into the road, as the more spaced-out ones will; or if a cyclist jumps a red light, as the arrogant ones are prone to do. I will also admit that the 20mph limit keeps traffic flowing more evenly, avoiding that 'racetrack surge' as traffic lights turn green. It is however impossible to adhere to 20mph when going up a hill, unless you let your engine labour, churning out polluting gases - and Brighton is very hilly place in parts. A slow speed like this is also very aggravating when you just want to make some rapid progress from A to B, for an appointment perhaps.
If this were not bad enough, the city's policy on parking is truly abysmal. Really, it seems as if they don't want you to park at all. Spaces are hard to find, it's very expensive, and the parking wardens are draconian. Expect no mercy. Whenever I park in Brighton, I always spend time checking that I have complied in all respects with what the signs say, and whatever else it may require one to do on the ticket from the machine. Thus I pay great attention to ensuring that not a millimetre of Fiona ever goes over the parking space markings on the road. Well, maybe this is what I should do anyway; but the wardens are implacable if anything is not as it should be, and they are clearly instructed to look for fault. Fear of a swingeing fine makes you very, very careful.
I'm surprised that the local Chamber of Commerce doesn't violently object. Crawling speeds and difficult and expensive parking must put many a shopper off.
And lately another sneaky method of getting extra cash out of wicked car drivers has been introduced. It used to be possible - if you knew where - to park for four hours for a mere £3. The tariff had been this:
Up to 1 hour £1
Up to 2 hours £2
Up to four hours £3
I'd found a route into central Brighton that took me past a series of these £3-for-four-hours spots, and it usually enabled me to find a convenient space to park at reasonable cost (reasonable for Brighton, that is). I became accustomed to feeding three £1 coins into the machine, and getting the four-hour ticket I wanted in return. After a time, this became an automatic, unthinking process.
I did it as usual last Tuesday evening.
But then, as I displayed the ticket on Fiona's windscreen, something about it caught my attention. That's right...my £3 hadn't bought me the expected amount of time. Only two hours, not four.
Returning to the machine, I discovered that they'd added 20p - an insignificant but vital amount - to the old price. Which meant that I'd just wasted £3, because the two hours it now bought me wasn't enough.
So Disgruntled of Mid-Sussex delved into her purse, disinterred another three £1 coins and a 20p piece, and bought another ticket. Grumbling, she replaced the first ticket with the second, and brooded savagely on that wasted £3.
How many other motorists were being caught out like this, at least once? And I had been lucky enough to spot my error and put it right before leaving my car. If I hadn't done that, and a warden had come along after the two hours were up - and they sadistically lie in wait - then I'd return to find a Parking Offence Notice wrapped around a windscreen wiper. And an invitation to pay whatever the penalty was - £80 now, I think. And I'd be very upset at the unfairness and underhandedness of it all.
Well, by pure chance I'd had a narrow escape, and was poorer by only £3 instead of £80. But I still felt very annoyed.
I don't think many other cities behave so badly towards people wanting to drive in, park, and then (potentially anyway) spend lots of money on their evening entertainment.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
