Lido de Jesolo is a big place. It stretches, I am told for 18 km along the coast of Italy, but I only saw perhpas three or four miles of it. For a country that is in a recession I would have to say it is fairing well, at least along this part of the coast. The resort has three parallel streets, running the length, the foremost being the beach front, running parallel to that is the main street with all the shops, hotels, bars and businesses, and behind that the working part of the street with housing and a bus route, and where the bin men come and go. The shopping street is apparently thriving, and in contrast to the stark and boarded up shops here in the UK every single shop seemed to be let and doing good business. The street works like this - it is one way for cars etc, but the other side of the street operates as a two way cycle track, on which you can ride a bike, golf cart, electric scooter, motor scooter skateboard, four wheel bike - anything it would seem that is not a car. At 9 p.m cars are forbidden and the whole street becomes a free for all for pedestrians and anything other than a car. This state of organised anarchy remains allegedly until 0600 when cars are allowed back again. Police tow away cars parked illegally after 8 pm. But ignore noisy delivery trucks which breach the no cars bar from 0200 onwards.
All this however is fine. What is much more of an affront to the British holidaymaker is the dress code. I appreciate it is hot. I appreciate it is foreign, so the usual rules don't apply. But it is somewhat of a shock to the system to see people walking about in the Italian equivalent of Woolworths wearing just a bikini or a pair of speedos. The Germans were most guilty of this. The sheer impracticality of this amazes me. With nothing more than a pair of speedos, exactly where do you keep your money for an Ice cream? Okay the can check in their room key at the hotel, but personally I don't feel that comfortable without a few quid or Euros, a wallet, keys, mobile phone etc on me, and to be honest it's just not the British way to be out in public without a T shirt at the very least, and if you are in company, well it's a proper shirt with a collar really. I'm prepared to relax and fore go a tie, but there are limits of decency, dontcha know. Not that I'm a prude. I was quite happy for the young ladies to parade their lithe young bodies in skimpy bikinis and one pieces, not quite so happy to see the athletic young German men in their speedos and to be honest I was quite upset to see some of the British women following suit. I'd have to say I was downright offended by the middle aged women parading their cellulite and their pudgy white fat legs and the fat German men somehow squeezed into tiny speedos. I felt quite overdressed in my knee length swim shorts. But my distaste turned to horror when I saw "Fat German Woman" and "Oversize Italian Mamma" in their swimsuits. Just how many Lycra had to be killed to make those outfits? I swear the tide would have had to ask permission to come in when they were on the beach. These must be women with no friends - anyone with an ounce of compassion would have told them - "Don't, just don't wear that! Wear the big baggy bin liner dress. it suits you better." Yet these women walked around without a care, whilst I walked around feeling self conscious in my T shirt and baggy shorts, holding my stomach in.
The fashion accessory to be had appeared to be a small dog. you may only be wearing a bikini, but you had to also have a dog and a handbag to carry it in. This applied equally in Verona and Venice. The smaller the dog, the better it seemed; if it fit in a handbag you'd got it right. In 10 days I didn't see a single proper dog, they were all pedigree handbag dogs. And not a single one was capable of unassisted walking - they were all carried, and despite the heat, many were clothed. yet there was no dog shit anywhere.
This would be on account of the highly efficient beach cleansing team. During the night, a team of guys would arrive with machines that sifted the sand, removing any litter, stones, debris, dog shit, used condoms etc and left a smooth and clean layer of white sand bereft of footprints or sign of human contamination, ready to be sullied again the next day. At the same time the street cleaners would be out emptying bins and sweeping the shopping street, leaving that spotless for the new dawn. I didn't observe a single piece of litter whilst I was there, it was amazing to see every one using the bins provided. Had this been Scarborough you couldn't have moved for greasy chip papers after nine o'clock. In Lido de Jesolo you could probably have eaten you're dinner off the street. Well to be fair, in Scarborough you could probably eat your dinner off the streets, but the context is different. I can only assume that the local taxes are so high because they are paying for all this, and that is why you are paying 2 euros for a coke.
Either that or there is a tax on sunshine. The sun shone incessantly for the entire holiday, only the Friday spoiling it with the appearance of a small white cloud. My son, Thomas pointed this out as we got off the coach after a day trip out, and the sighting caused much consternation amongst the locals. I almost expected the National Guard would be called out. In the end it did not rain, it did not get cold and it was not at all like Britain.
I'd have to conclude by saying the resort was rather nice - it was just too full of fat Italians and Germans.
Tuesday, 6 September 2011
Saturday, 3 September 2011
The Big Getaway - Part 3 - The Hotel
Having arrived in Italy at the confusingly named Venice Airport, which is not in Venice, and is not so far as I could tell even on the same Island, we were bused by a coach to the hotel. The coach, despite appearing relatively new, had no seat belts. This, I discovered was typically Italian. They are part of the EU and are therefore subject to EU laws. It's just that they ignore them, and the Police don't enforce them as I found later, where it was commonplace in the resort to sit two ladies on the back deck of your two seater sports car so that you and your friend could sit up front. Health and Safety has yet to arrive in Italy it seems. Or maybe it did, but was having a siesta.
The coach brought us to our hotel, a modern looking and rather nice place called the Hotel D' something or other. I know it had A's D's and a Z in it, but god knows what it said or meant. More important was the sign in English which Identified it as the Friends Bar. Friends - where everybody knows your name. This might not be quite so sinister if it were not immediately described by the holiday rep as a homely family run hotel. In no other country in the world would this cause consternation. Did she mean family run, or "Family" run? If I upset the waitress, would I wake up with a horses head?
Fortunately the situation became clear when the owner, his wife and the waitress who was obviously their daughter had a full on "Fawlty Towers" style row whilst they served dinner on the first night. Sadly there was no waiter from Barcelona to complete the ensemble. Yes, this was definitely family run, and the homely aspect also became clear. Homely, meaning "like home." Hence none of the crockery matched, the cutlery was dirty and you got served vegetables whether you wanted them or not. Just like at home.
The next problem to arise was that of the air conditioned room we had booked. The room itself was exactly as described, with a bathroom (with a shower, not a bath) two toilets, although my more travelled wife explained that one of these was a bidet, and a sink. There were beds for four, a TV and a spacious balcony cum terrace. I mention this because my in laws who travelled with us had a balcony which wasn't so much a balcony as a French window with a wide ledge. Ours was as big as our room, and gave a great view of the street outside, wonderful for people watching. And the room as promised was air conditioned. Sadly there was a previously undisclosed charge of 60 euros to turn this on. This is the problem with booking a package holiday 10 months in advance. We had no idea that the Italian economy would go into free fall, and that in order to recoup some losses they would be a little economical with the truth about certain additional charges. With a wide patio door onto the balcony I decline the extortionate air con levy and figured it would be much cooler at night, and if the worse came to the worse I would sleep with the patio open. We did, and the worse did come tot he worse, the temperature kept on soaring, with a daytime high of 44 and overnight temperatures in the 30's. Even the locals were complaining about the heat. The Hotel did however have one great bonus - an outdoor pool! In the UK this would have been pointless - it would have been too cold even on the sunniest of days. Out there it was a god send. Actually it had another great bonus- ice creams at 1 Euro a pop in a choice of probably 20 flavours - I don't think I got through them all, but I certainly had a damn good try. A small beer (400 cl - too big to be a half and not big enough to be a pint) cost 3 Euros, which ensured not too much was drunk. You could of course opt for the house special of the week, which was Guinness at 5 euros for a "large beer" which I think was a litre. Or you could pop over the road to a mini market where red wine could be bought at 1 and a half Euros a litre, which made it cheaper than petrol - mind you, it tasted like petrol too, so that might explain why. Better wines were of course available at a higher price, this region of Italy being famous for it's wines, grapes, lemons and although it was news to me kiwi fruit. Apparently they grow more Kiwis than the Kiwis.
Anyway, I digress from the main point, probably because I've forgotten what t was and descended into a ramble. Ah, yes the pool. The pool was a welcome oasis from the relentless mid-day sun, which of course only the English and an occasional mad dog were out in, the locals all being in Siesta land by then. Actually, the Germans were out too, but only to place their towels on the best sun beds. The record of the week was for the Germans to have "reserved" their sunbeds two and a half hours before they actually used them. They might have beaten that record if some plucky Brits (identity protected) hadn't gotten fed up and thrown the German towels in the pool towards the end of the week having consumed possibly one too many overpriced beers. Sunbed £100, towel £12, the look on Jerry's face - priceless. One of them actually put his fists up in the "Duke of Queensbury" stance and demanded retribution - we tactfully reminded him that the last couple of times Jerry picked a fight with the Brits we gave him a bloody nose. And then the American had to come in to try and smooth things over ......... and of course claimed a victory when everyone shook hands and forgot the whole thing. The Yank bought a round of drinks, and before long we were all ganging up on the French - which was nice.
The pool was a bit of a surprise in itself, having no shallow end as such, starting at 1.5 metres descending gradually to 1.8, metres before suddenly dropping off to 2.5 metres and levelling out at 2.8. Hardly child friendly, but fortunately both my children can swim well. Other families with none swimming children taught them to swim rather quickly, or bought floatation devices, air beds or snorkels. I didn't see anyone actually drown, but couldn't help but notice there were several empty seats on the flight home. Draw you own conclusion.
The coach brought us to our hotel, a modern looking and rather nice place called the Hotel D' something or other. I know it had A's D's and a Z in it, but god knows what it said or meant. More important was the sign in English which Identified it as the Friends Bar. Friends - where everybody knows your name. This might not be quite so sinister if it were not immediately described by the holiday rep as a homely family run hotel. In no other country in the world would this cause consternation. Did she mean family run, or "Family" run? If I upset the waitress, would I wake up with a horses head?
Fortunately the situation became clear when the owner, his wife and the waitress who was obviously their daughter had a full on "Fawlty Towers" style row whilst they served dinner on the first night. Sadly there was no waiter from Barcelona to complete the ensemble. Yes, this was definitely family run, and the homely aspect also became clear. Homely, meaning "like home." Hence none of the crockery matched, the cutlery was dirty and you got served vegetables whether you wanted them or not. Just like at home.
The next problem to arise was that of the air conditioned room we had booked. The room itself was exactly as described, with a bathroom (with a shower, not a bath) two toilets, although my more travelled wife explained that one of these was a bidet, and a sink. There were beds for four, a TV and a spacious balcony cum terrace. I mention this because my in laws who travelled with us had a balcony which wasn't so much a balcony as a French window with a wide ledge. Ours was as big as our room, and gave a great view of the street outside, wonderful for people watching. And the room as promised was air conditioned. Sadly there was a previously undisclosed charge of 60 euros to turn this on. This is the problem with booking a package holiday 10 months in advance. We had no idea that the Italian economy would go into free fall, and that in order to recoup some losses they would be a little economical with the truth about certain additional charges. With a wide patio door onto the balcony I decline the extortionate air con levy and figured it would be much cooler at night, and if the worse came to the worse I would sleep with the patio open. We did, and the worse did come tot he worse, the temperature kept on soaring, with a daytime high of 44 and overnight temperatures in the 30's. Even the locals were complaining about the heat. The Hotel did however have one great bonus - an outdoor pool! In the UK this would have been pointless - it would have been too cold even on the sunniest of days. Out there it was a god send. Actually it had another great bonus- ice creams at 1 Euro a pop in a choice of probably 20 flavours - I don't think I got through them all, but I certainly had a damn good try. A small beer (400 cl - too big to be a half and not big enough to be a pint) cost 3 Euros, which ensured not too much was drunk. You could of course opt for the house special of the week, which was Guinness at 5 euros for a "large beer" which I think was a litre. Or you could pop over the road to a mini market where red wine could be bought at 1 and a half Euros a litre, which made it cheaper than petrol - mind you, it tasted like petrol too, so that might explain why. Better wines were of course available at a higher price, this region of Italy being famous for it's wines, grapes, lemons and although it was news to me kiwi fruit. Apparently they grow more Kiwis than the Kiwis.
Anyway, I digress from the main point, probably because I've forgotten what t was and descended into a ramble. Ah, yes the pool. The pool was a welcome oasis from the relentless mid-day sun, which of course only the English and an occasional mad dog were out in, the locals all being in Siesta land by then. Actually, the Germans were out too, but only to place their towels on the best sun beds. The record of the week was for the Germans to have "reserved" their sunbeds two and a half hours before they actually used them. They might have beaten that record if some plucky Brits (identity protected) hadn't gotten fed up and thrown the German towels in the pool towards the end of the week having consumed possibly one too many overpriced beers. Sunbed £100, towel £12, the look on Jerry's face - priceless. One of them actually put his fists up in the "Duke of Queensbury" stance and demanded retribution - we tactfully reminded him that the last couple of times Jerry picked a fight with the Brits we gave him a bloody nose. And then the American had to come in to try and smooth things over ......... and of course claimed a victory when everyone shook hands and forgot the whole thing. The Yank bought a round of drinks, and before long we were all ganging up on the French - which was nice.
The pool was a bit of a surprise in itself, having no shallow end as such, starting at 1.5 metres descending gradually to 1.8, metres before suddenly dropping off to 2.5 metres and levelling out at 2.8. Hardly child friendly, but fortunately both my children can swim well. Other families with none swimming children taught them to swim rather quickly, or bought floatation devices, air beds or snorkels. I didn't see anyone actually drown, but couldn't help but notice there were several empty seats on the flight home. Draw you own conclusion.
Thursday, 1 September 2011
The big getaway - Part 2 - Airports.
It strikes me that the airline industry has cashed in on the 9/11 thing to make more money.
For reasons I can't figure you have to check in three hours before you fly. Now I appreciate there are security checks to do and they have to Xray luggage in case you packed your case with Semtex instead of RayBan's, speedos and sun tan lotion, but how long does that take?
It seems they are playing on our own paranoia. We accept the Xrays, body searches and stupid questions because we don't want to be blown up over the channel. But would we accept the same security checks to travel on the number 10 from hull city centre onto Longhill estate? I doubt it, and the only difference is you would be blown up at ground level and killed immediately, instead of being blown up at 12,000 feet and killed immediately. What is the issue? I mean, if every black cab driver insisted that you checked in 3 hours before he drove you anywhere and then screened you for security checks, we would all be going nowhere very slowly indeed.
My personal experience of going through the airport security checks is as follows:
I arrived at the check in desk where the weight of my luggage was of far more importance than the actual contents. As long as my suitcase bomb weighed less than 15kg it was fine. My bag then went off on it's own way to be placed in the cargo hold of the plane, hopefully the same one I was flying on. My hand luggage was then checked at the next security check, which involved X raying it. I assumed hand luggage must be a small bag, but strangely enough it can weigh up to 15 kg, the same as proper luggage, as long as it fits into the little cage they have at the security check point. It cannot however contain any food, drink, or medicines, liquids of any sort in fact. On the way out of the UK we explained that my daughter Emma needs an EpiPen readily available due to various food allergies. No problem, we were allowed to take that. It contained only adrenalin anyway, so what harm could be done with it? Well, ask the Italians, because on the way back they made a real big deal of it, which you can read more of later. The reason hand luggage cannot contain food or drink becomes apparent once you reach the departure area, where you can then buy as much food and drink as your hand luggage will allow, albeit at prices which really make your eyes water. £2 for a small bottle of coke, and £4 for a sandwich. And you can take these on the plane, because you've already passed security. Now call me Mr Silly, but what is the difference between a bottle of coke purchased for less than a quid the other side of the barrier, and the one they have just ripped me off £2 for on this side?
Going through the security checks themselves was a totally haphazard exercise. I placed all metal items in the tray as requested and was about to remove my watch when the security guy said no, that was okay. Walking through the metal detector I set the alarms off and was then treat like Osama Bin Laden, with a full body search - quite why I'm not sure, as If they had let me take my watch off I'm sure I wouldn't have set the alarm off.
I then had to take off my shoes to be X Rayed?????? I'm sure they had no broken bones.
Having passed all security checks I was then allowed to enter the departure lounge where I could sit for two hours to wait to board the plane.
Eventually we boarded and took off.
I would have to say as a first time flier that the flight was quite uneventful and no more exciting than taking a bus trip really. There was a moment of excitement as the plane accelerated and took off at a steep climb, but it wasn't so very thrilling really. Even the turbulence we experienced in flight was no worse than a funfair ride. And the landing was so smooth that I thought we must have missed the runway altogether.
After a short taxi we were put on a very hot, very wide bus that took us to the terminal, which for some unfathomable reason the pilot had landed a couple of miles distant from. And there we were, in Italy, a very hot place made of concrete so far as I could make out.
more of this adventure tomorrow.
For reasons I can't figure you have to check in three hours before you fly. Now I appreciate there are security checks to do and they have to Xray luggage in case you packed your case with Semtex instead of RayBan's, speedos and sun tan lotion, but how long does that take?
It seems they are playing on our own paranoia. We accept the Xrays, body searches and stupid questions because we don't want to be blown up over the channel. But would we accept the same security checks to travel on the number 10 from hull city centre onto Longhill estate? I doubt it, and the only difference is you would be blown up at ground level and killed immediately, instead of being blown up at 12,000 feet and killed immediately. What is the issue? I mean, if every black cab driver insisted that you checked in 3 hours before he drove you anywhere and then screened you for security checks, we would all be going nowhere very slowly indeed.
My personal experience of going through the airport security checks is as follows:
I arrived at the check in desk where the weight of my luggage was of far more importance than the actual contents. As long as my suitcase bomb weighed less than 15kg it was fine. My bag then went off on it's own way to be placed in the cargo hold of the plane, hopefully the same one I was flying on. My hand luggage was then checked at the next security check, which involved X raying it. I assumed hand luggage must be a small bag, but strangely enough it can weigh up to 15 kg, the same as proper luggage, as long as it fits into the little cage they have at the security check point. It cannot however contain any food, drink, or medicines, liquids of any sort in fact. On the way out of the UK we explained that my daughter Emma needs an EpiPen readily available due to various food allergies. No problem, we were allowed to take that. It contained only adrenalin anyway, so what harm could be done with it? Well, ask the Italians, because on the way back they made a real big deal of it, which you can read more of later. The reason hand luggage cannot contain food or drink becomes apparent once you reach the departure area, where you can then buy as much food and drink as your hand luggage will allow, albeit at prices which really make your eyes water. £2 for a small bottle of coke, and £4 for a sandwich. And you can take these on the plane, because you've already passed security. Now call me Mr Silly, but what is the difference between a bottle of coke purchased for less than a quid the other side of the barrier, and the one they have just ripped me off £2 for on this side?
Going through the security checks themselves was a totally haphazard exercise. I placed all metal items in the tray as requested and was about to remove my watch when the security guy said no, that was okay. Walking through the metal detector I set the alarms off and was then treat like Osama Bin Laden, with a full body search - quite why I'm not sure, as If they had let me take my watch off I'm sure I wouldn't have set the alarm off.
I then had to take off my shoes to be X Rayed?????? I'm sure they had no broken bones.
Having passed all security checks I was then allowed to enter the departure lounge where I could sit for two hours to wait to board the plane.
Eventually we boarded and took off.
I would have to say as a first time flier that the flight was quite uneventful and no more exciting than taking a bus trip really. There was a moment of excitement as the plane accelerated and took off at a steep climb, but it wasn't so very thrilling really. Even the turbulence we experienced in flight was no worse than a funfair ride. And the landing was so smooth that I thought we must have missed the runway altogether.
After a short taxi we were put on a very hot, very wide bus that took us to the terminal, which for some unfathomable reason the pilot had landed a couple of miles distant from. And there we were, in Italy, a very hot place made of concrete so far as I could make out.
more of this adventure tomorrow.
Wednesday, 31 August 2011
The Big Getaway
Well, here I am fresh back from the family holiday and with a whole new saga to relate. Instead of the annual voyage in a cattle truck (or coach, as the operators like to call them) this year was my first time flying in a big metal bird. More of this experience later. But first we will relate the experience of the overnight airport hotel stop.
Manchester Airport is roughly 110 miles from my home across the other side of the Pennines and linked by a motorway from South Cave. the motorway leg of the journey at a comfortable cruising speed of 60mph takes about an hour and a half to two hours at most depending on traffic conditions. The first 30 miles from my home to South Cave involves travelling across the South Holderness district, where the council have put a carpet 30 mph limit, and across Hull, then onto the A63, which is renown for being closed whenever I want to use it. This is because although it is the main route in and out of Hull, and should have been a motorway link, it is in fact a dual carriageway with no hard shoulder, so everytime a piece of grit falls off a lorry the Traffic Wombles (as beloved of Jeremy Clarkson and otherwise known as the Highways Agency Traffic Officers) close the road to recover it, usually at rush hour.
This, coupled with the airline industries insistence that you must check in for a flight three hours before the plane is built meant that with a boarding time of 0930 there was just too much risk in being delayed. Asides from this my father in law, who has more airmiles than Richard Branson, had made the arrangements which meant that we got free car parking for the duration of the holiday if we stayed for one night in a Manchester Hotel. Hence it was a no brainer really, and we duly set off the day before we were due to fly, stopping off at Legoland Discovery Centre to spend the day there before checking in to the hotel.
As an aside, LDC (Legoland Discovery Centre) was a big disappointment as we had already been to proper Legoland at Windsor, which was fantastic, at least to the 4 and 7 year old kids we had then. Unfortunately they have grown up a little and at 8 and 11 are not so easily impressed. Legoland proper had far more rides and attractions, with full sets of Lego to play with. LDC was a bit like when I was a kid and visited my Grans, where my elder cousins had left their "spare" lego, and the Duplo blocks they had grown out of. In theory it was possible to build the movie set from Star Trek, but it didn't look as good as it ought to without the wheels, sloped bits, windows, little men and trees and stuff. LDC left me with the same deflated feeling. It was Lego, Jim, but not as we know it.
Following the disappointment of LDC we followed the well signposted route to Manchester Airport terminal 3 and straight to our Hotel. This was far better than the signposted route to Gatwick I followed a few years back when i was directed via a Taxis only lane then straight into a Car Park I didn't want to stop in, but had to pay £3 to get out of.
Our overnight stop was at Bewleys hotel, which is walking distance from the terminal, but which provides a courtesy bus for fat and lazy people. Although not all that fat, I figured as I was on Holiday I would join the lazy people, so I used the courtesy bus too. I had been warned that my car would be driven by a spotty 17 year old who would trash it across Manchester to park it on some rough industrial estate somewhere for a fortnight, but in the event it was secured in the hotel car park for the night and remained there - I know this because I kept the keys, marked the tyres and set the on board security video. If any dodgy hotel employee tried to use it as a minicab whilst I was away I'd known about it. I'd point out that Bewleys Hotel has a fine reputation and doesn't allegedly do that sort of thing, but I've heard stories and wasn't taking any chances.
With the Hotel being so close to the terminal I thought I'd be kept awake by aircraft coming and going. Not so. I could barely hear them for the trains running past. Bewleys Hotel comes highly recommended for insomniac trainspotters. Particularly those who suffer from the cold. It was hot. Very hot. At one point I swear I saw steam coming from the radiator, and the wallpaper stripping off. The room was allegedly air conditioned, but a mouse farting would have created more of a breeze than the flow of air coming from the air-con.
No matter, at least I didn't oversleep and miss the flight. Awake at 0545 we were too early for a hotel breakfast, so had coffee and a supermarket croissant before being bussed across to the terminal. Read about my thoughts on airports tomorrow.
Manchester Airport is roughly 110 miles from my home across the other side of the Pennines and linked by a motorway from South Cave. the motorway leg of the journey at a comfortable cruising speed of 60mph takes about an hour and a half to two hours at most depending on traffic conditions. The first 30 miles from my home to South Cave involves travelling across the South Holderness district, where the council have put a carpet 30 mph limit, and across Hull, then onto the A63, which is renown for being closed whenever I want to use it. This is because although it is the main route in and out of Hull, and should have been a motorway link, it is in fact a dual carriageway with no hard shoulder, so everytime a piece of grit falls off a lorry the Traffic Wombles (as beloved of Jeremy Clarkson and otherwise known as the Highways Agency Traffic Officers) close the road to recover it, usually at rush hour.
This, coupled with the airline industries insistence that you must check in for a flight three hours before the plane is built meant that with a boarding time of 0930 there was just too much risk in being delayed. Asides from this my father in law, who has more airmiles than Richard Branson, had made the arrangements which meant that we got free car parking for the duration of the holiday if we stayed for one night in a Manchester Hotel. Hence it was a no brainer really, and we duly set off the day before we were due to fly, stopping off at Legoland Discovery Centre to spend the day there before checking in to the hotel.
As an aside, LDC (Legoland Discovery Centre) was a big disappointment as we had already been to proper Legoland at Windsor, which was fantastic, at least to the 4 and 7 year old kids we had then. Unfortunately they have grown up a little and at 8 and 11 are not so easily impressed. Legoland proper had far more rides and attractions, with full sets of Lego to play with. LDC was a bit like when I was a kid and visited my Grans, where my elder cousins had left their "spare" lego, and the Duplo blocks they had grown out of. In theory it was possible to build the movie set from Star Trek, but it didn't look as good as it ought to without the wheels, sloped bits, windows, little men and trees and stuff. LDC left me with the same deflated feeling. It was Lego, Jim, but not as we know it.
Following the disappointment of LDC we followed the well signposted route to Manchester Airport terminal 3 and straight to our Hotel. This was far better than the signposted route to Gatwick I followed a few years back when i was directed via a Taxis only lane then straight into a Car Park I didn't want to stop in, but had to pay £3 to get out of.
Our overnight stop was at Bewleys hotel, which is walking distance from the terminal, but which provides a courtesy bus for fat and lazy people. Although not all that fat, I figured as I was on Holiday I would join the lazy people, so I used the courtesy bus too. I had been warned that my car would be driven by a spotty 17 year old who would trash it across Manchester to park it on some rough industrial estate somewhere for a fortnight, but in the event it was secured in the hotel car park for the night and remained there - I know this because I kept the keys, marked the tyres and set the on board security video. If any dodgy hotel employee tried to use it as a minicab whilst I was away I'd known about it. I'd point out that Bewleys Hotel has a fine reputation and doesn't allegedly do that sort of thing, but I've heard stories and wasn't taking any chances.
With the Hotel being so close to the terminal I thought I'd be kept awake by aircraft coming and going. Not so. I could barely hear them for the trains running past. Bewleys Hotel comes highly recommended for insomniac trainspotters. Particularly those who suffer from the cold. It was hot. Very hot. At one point I swear I saw steam coming from the radiator, and the wallpaper stripping off. The room was allegedly air conditioned, but a mouse farting would have created more of a breeze than the flow of air coming from the air-con.
No matter, at least I didn't oversleep and miss the flight. Awake at 0545 we were too early for a hotel breakfast, so had coffee and a supermarket croissant before being bussed across to the terminal. Read about my thoughts on airports tomorrow.
Wednesday, 17 August 2011
OAP (Old Age Phone)
I’m feeling my age now.
I took Thomas to Cinema yesterday to see CARS2 and being the good citizen that I am, I switched off my mobile phone as I entered the Cinema Auditorium. Well, switched off is too strong a word, as I have never known quite how to do that. I read a little bit of the manual once, but as it is bigger than the phone I got bored. Apparently you should press and hold the red button, but after several seconds of nothing happening what I usually do, and what I did yesterday is remove the back, remove the battery and the replace it, the result being the phone is now off. Switching it back on is easy enough using the red button, and at least you can see and hear something happening, as the screen lights up and the annoying Nokia tune plays.
However, at some point between entering the cinema, probably in the dark corridor, and arriving at the North Yorkshire moors today I have lost the back off the phone.
This in itself is an annoyance, rather than a major problem. The phone is old, and parts are therefore cheaply available on Ebay. Some might ask why I don’t get a new phone with a camera, GPS SatNav, Ipod etc built in, but the answer is that I already have a very good camera, GPS SatNav and Ipod as separates, all of which work better independently than when you try and bundle them into a phone. And in any case, I bought this phone because it fits my car. Strange I know, but true – my car had a hands free kit fitted when I bought it, so I bought the phone to fit it. Simples!
What I discovered however when I tried to buy parts on ebay is that my phone is now described as “the Classic Nokia 2610” with references to “iconic simplicity.” This means I have inadvertently achieved cool status by my tightwad attitude to technology. My phone now sits in the same camp as Red telephone boxes, VW Beetles, the Sears Building, old school radiators, James Dean, the Kenwood Chef, Big Ben, Tower Bridge and Roast Beef with Yorkshire Pudding. And that’s a good thing.
But owning a classic phone does make me feel old. Should I now cherish it and only use it on Sundays? Do I get cheaper insurance on it? Do I have to limit the calls I make, like limiting the miles on a Classic Car?
Another thing I discovered whilst searching for old phone parts is that you can now buy proper old fashioned telephones, with bells and big Bakelite handsets and a dial on the front which have been reconfigured to plug straight into the modern BT fibre optic sockets and they will work! I want one for my office, and I want it now. In fact, I want two, a grey one for ordinary calls, and a red one for the urgent calls.
Wednesday, 10 August 2011
Apology
I feel I should apolgise to my regular readers. that last post ws not even remotley funny.
I'm afraid I became all grown up for a moment whilst talking about gardening.
It won't happen again.
I'm afraid I became all grown up for a moment whilst talking about gardening.
It won't happen again.
Harvest time
Something I've probably not covered too well in my blog is my new found interest in gardening. I suppose it's an age thing, but now that I've hit the big 40 I'm getting all green fingered.
I've had a fair sized garden for the last 13 years or so, but whilst I've mown the lawns and kept the trees pruned back, I've been strictly hard landscaping, building walls, sheds, concreting paths etc, whilst 'er indoors does the pink and fluffy flowers and a few tomatoe plants.
This year however, I set aside the southern plot as an alllotment garden area, and expanded into the bank where I removed the troublesome trees a couple of years or so back.
In the greenhouse, a simple 8 x 4 affair I have grown tomatoes, peppers and cucumbers, to a fair degree of success, and also started out the seedlings hat were later transplanted elsewhere on the plot. I've had a succesful crop of broad beans, runner beans and potatoes, plus onions and carrots, with leeks coming along nicely for the winter months. Radishes have been a mixed success, with some bolting straight to seed, whilst others gave fair sized results - not sure what I'm doing wrong there but it's beginners luck everywhere else. I have marrows the size of WW2 bombs, with Pumpkins also showing good early promise.
Frankly I am astounded I have done so well with almost everyting I planted, and a good number of things I didn't - a good half dozen self seeded tomato plants are growing outdoors and bearing more fruit and of a better size than the cossetted indoor plants. I also have a self seeded sunflower coming along rather well.
This has meant that I've had to do something with all natures bounty, and having never eaten or grown marrow before I was at a loss as to what to do with it. How does one cook it? As ever the interweb came up with the answer, and I now have some very tasty Marrow and Ginger Marmalade to spread on my toast in the morning (although it will mature over the next few months to taste even better later) and some tangy Marrow, apple, tomatoe and onion chutney which will go well on salads and spread on my burgers as a relish later in the year.
I must say the experience has left me thinking - I'm not quite ready to do the full "Good Life" thing quite yet, but home grown organic fruit and vegetables has to be the way forward. It is great to be able to nip outside and pull up a few carrots, fresh as and when you need them , instead of walking 1/2 a mile each way to the Coop for some very orange, but tasteless mass produced carrots from their shelves. Mine might not be so orange, but my god they don't half taste of carrot! Plus you get the greenery off the top, which can be eaten too, and makes a great garnish on top of soup instead of, or as well as parsley.
Yesterday I had the chance to visit a Victorian Kitchen Garden which provided much food for thought. The old timers knew a lot more about working the land than I could ever hope to learn, but I'll certainly try. Apart from the better quality food I'm growing I'm also saving money on buying vegetables, and on trips to the supermarket using fuel and being suckered into buying extra stuff I don't need. Okay I still have to go for essentials, but not so often, as the garden larder is fully stocked right now.
If you have a garden and a few hours a week to spare, it has to make sense. Dig for Victory!
I've had a fair sized garden for the last 13 years or so, but whilst I've mown the lawns and kept the trees pruned back, I've been strictly hard landscaping, building walls, sheds, concreting paths etc, whilst 'er indoors does the pink and fluffy flowers and a few tomatoe plants.
This year however, I set aside the southern plot as an alllotment garden area, and expanded into the bank where I removed the troublesome trees a couple of years or so back.
In the greenhouse, a simple 8 x 4 affair I have grown tomatoes, peppers and cucumbers, to a fair degree of success, and also started out the seedlings hat were later transplanted elsewhere on the plot. I've had a succesful crop of broad beans, runner beans and potatoes, plus onions and carrots, with leeks coming along nicely for the winter months. Radishes have been a mixed success, with some bolting straight to seed, whilst others gave fair sized results - not sure what I'm doing wrong there but it's beginners luck everywhere else. I have marrows the size of WW2 bombs, with Pumpkins also showing good early promise.
Frankly I am astounded I have done so well with almost everyting I planted, and a good number of things I didn't - a good half dozen self seeded tomato plants are growing outdoors and bearing more fruit and of a better size than the cossetted indoor plants. I also have a self seeded sunflower coming along rather well.
This has meant that I've had to do something with all natures bounty, and having never eaten or grown marrow before I was at a loss as to what to do with it. How does one cook it? As ever the interweb came up with the answer, and I now have some very tasty Marrow and Ginger Marmalade to spread on my toast in the morning (although it will mature over the next few months to taste even better later) and some tangy Marrow, apple, tomatoe and onion chutney which will go well on salads and spread on my burgers as a relish later in the year.
I must say the experience has left me thinking - I'm not quite ready to do the full "Good Life" thing quite yet, but home grown organic fruit and vegetables has to be the way forward. It is great to be able to nip outside and pull up a few carrots, fresh as and when you need them , instead of walking 1/2 a mile each way to the Coop for some very orange, but tasteless mass produced carrots from their shelves. Mine might not be so orange, but my god they don't half taste of carrot! Plus you get the greenery off the top, which can be eaten too, and makes a great garnish on top of soup instead of, or as well as parsley.
Yesterday I had the chance to visit a Victorian Kitchen Garden which provided much food for thought. The old timers knew a lot more about working the land than I could ever hope to learn, but I'll certainly try. Apart from the better quality food I'm growing I'm also saving money on buying vegetables, and on trips to the supermarket using fuel and being suckered into buying extra stuff I don't need. Okay I still have to go for essentials, but not so often, as the garden larder is fully stocked right now.
If you have a garden and a few hours a week to spare, it has to make sense. Dig for Victory!
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