A Yorkshireman of a certain age who likes most genres of music and most makes of old car. Travel is a joy, not least to escape the British winter. Travel by bicycle is bliss and if I’m not lost in music then I’m lost in a daydream about a hot day, tens of miles to cover and the promise of a great campsite and a beer. I like to think I’m always learning and becoming wiser. However, on the latter point evidence is in short supply.
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Sunday was a perfect October day. Bright, still and not yet too cold. On this basis I managed to lure the present Mrs Ives into the Morgan and we set the controls for Salturn-by-the-Sea.
Located on the North Yorkshire coast this small resort of about 6,000 people is nestled into the former heavy industry conurbations of Teesside. The town has always existed as a resort, established in the 19th Century. Boasting a long attractive beach and restored Victorian pier there is a lot to like but the town on the cliff behind is quite a small affair and not overly prosperous. Frankly you’d be hard pressed to give it a definable status in the 21st century other than as housing community for commuters to Middlesbrough.
For me it is redolent with memories. In 1965 at the tender age of 10 years old I was despatched to Saltburn Manor School to board. Seventy miles from my home. Any visit for me is an examination of a distant memory with some diverse recollections.
The school was located on a hill detached from the town by valley gardens. The link into town was via a classic 19th century 200 metre long iron footbridge. Need less to say this bridge fell into physical decline and was demolished in 1974 but by this time the school had shut. I long remember the short walk into town across this bridge. The loss of the bridge and school is quite a significant ‘erase’ and a visitor wouldn’t know of their former existence without research.
Our visit started at the pier and in stark contrast to 1965 I found three Muslim girls on the pier attempt to take a selfie. I helped by taking a group photo. We then observed the fishermen at the end of the pier wondering what fish they might haul up before ascending the steep cliff back into the town centre.
The heart of the town is dominated by the railway station and a selection of shops that at best seem remnants of more prosperous times.
In one of these shops I remember buying my mother a record for a present. It was “Strangers In The Night” by Frank Sinatra. Another memory was the organ pipes at a local church. On Sunday mornings we were marched in a ‘crocodile’ into town for a church service. As a child I spent many Sundays sat on pews and gazing around these fairly austere and chilly surroundings, which were always leavened by some colour. Most church organ pipes are not painted but these were. Other memories include the manufacture of balsa wood models. This involved glue and dope for the paper clad wings. More brilliantly for a small boy it also included a fiercely sharp scalpel like knife to fashion the wood. I still have the scar where I managed to remove a flap of skin on my thigh!
I only spent one year here before I was sent to another boarding school in Harrogate.
On our stroll we found a local delicatessen cum grocery and enjoyed a coffee before finding the car and returning home. We found an epic winding route from Stokesley to Hemsley. Things were a little quiet on my left hand side during the journey. I later received the terse comment that I had enjoyed the Morgan on the demanding roads pushing it a little too fast though the corners. Nonsense.
In prospecting around for classic albums then you mustn’t be a snob about things and so I picked this. Anna recently returned home from her voluntary shopkeeper stint at the local Red Cross brandishing the vinyl. It was a crisp nearly unblemished copy that made the speakers jump and made me recall how much we all love the songs.
If you type ‘rumours’ into your Search field on the Internet then think of all the things it might return? In fact mine came back with “Rumours (album) – Wikipedia’. I think we’re talking gigantic here. In fact 40m copies sold. It probably was in some ways the peak of popular Rock music. I heard someone postulate that there is no new Rock music today. Frankly judging by the touring and popularity of 1970’s acts then this is credible.
I’m still surprised that Brits Mick Fleetwood (drums) and the John McVie (bass), who gave the band its name, had such a Blues past. McVie plucked the strings for John Mayall and Howlin’ Wolf. Fleetwood, the only famous musician born in Cornwall that I know, hit the skins for John Mayall before forming Fleetwood Mac and their various incarnations including guitarists Jeremy Spencer, Peter Green, Danny Kirwin and Bob Welch. The third, long time member, Christine McVie cut her teeth with Stan Webb of Chicken Shack fame as Miss Perfect. However, their fortunes went stellar after hiring Americans Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks to bring their respective vocal, guitar and song writing skills. The rest as they say is….
The folk lore goes that the album was recorded in a febrile and toxic climate of broken relationships, substance misuse and hate but heaven help me it certainly is a fine piece of music.
“Second Hand News”, a Buckingham composition. Recorded in LA gives the track that West Coast, bouncy, sunshine, feel good vibe driven at a pace. “Dreams” arrives with a thundering bass line and Nicks, who wrote this, shimmers a saccharine sweet vocal whilst Buckingham fills and Fleetwood keeps an immaculate yet insistent beat. It is the melody that haunts.
“Don’t Stop” surprisingly made its way onto Bill Clinton’s albeit successful 1992 Presidential campaign. You can vote how you like but it always remains a mystery to me why artists put their music irrevocably at a point in time with an association that they never intended and have no subsequent control of. However, Christine’s composition is a song of redemption and optimism:
“Don’t stop, thinking about tomorrow
Don’t stop, it’ll soon be here
It’ll be, better than before
Yesterday’s gone, yesterday’s gone”
If you had any doubts that McVie and Fleetwood were making up the numbers and fortuitously counting their enormous wad behind the tent then think again. With a remorseless muscular energy they drove this album into every 1978 disco and party’s front room.
Side Two starts with one of the Classic Rock tracks of all time: after Buckingham’s plucked steel guitar introduction we get the harmonies. “The Chain” then receives the turbo kick in the back with that bass and drum before Buckingham owns the space again. The song builds to fill the room and then we sweep away pretence at pretty melodies and McVie thumps a mean rhythm, Fleetwood makes his usual brutal statement and Buckingham lights up the song with his guitar.
“You Make Loving Fun’ was about Christine’s, now newly divorced from John, affair with the band’s lighting director. To keep the peace, although the ex’s didn’t talk socially, she told McVie it was about a dog. (If he’s this stupid then you can see why they split up).
The band finish with “Gold Dust Woman”, a Nicks composition and vocal. Classic Nicks mystic and illusionary words spin a web of layered atmosphere whilst Buckingham embellishes proceedings on acoustic and electric guitar. All this belies the fact that apparently this was eventually recorded at 4 am in the morning.
Eventually we got to see the band on their enormous 2014 world tour at Leeds Arena. It was the original line up and it was pitch and word perfect. Buckingham came across as a strange example of human life and Nicks as a bit of a bag lady with her attire and scarves but the legacy is undeniable and its place toward the top of the stack is well earned.
The week started with some hilarity. Hoovering out the car is not an obvious foundation for Comedy Gold. The present Mrs Ives had lost the plastic fitting that you can fit onto the end of the vacuum’s hose to poke into all the parts of the car that you need to reach. In order to resolve this shortage I rang the local shop and, probably poorly, described what I wanted.
“Ah, a crevice tool”.
Cue uncontrollable giggling in Acaster Malbis. Simple pleasures but hoovering the car will never be the same again.
In looking at Twitter I came across a superb image (and post) that immediately looked very amusing and likely to be popular. So despite approbation from the FED (Favourite Eldest Daughter) I lifted it straight onto Facebook (giving no credit to the originator). I think I might claim that it went viral. Over 1,704 Shares and 88 Likes.I also had strangers wanting to become my friend. I am big in Ohio now.
The end of the week brought a wedding – Catherine, my wife’s sister. As we were getting dressed up at my daughter and partner’s flat in West Didsbury I did ask the partners of my daughters why the fact Catherine was not getting married in a church held one main benefit? The received answers were to do with religion. No, I replied. The absence of a collection boys! What was also illuminating was their inability to tie a knot with their neckties properly. Seldom do they dress formally and so this was a challenge for them. Kids of today, eh? Mr Helpful was on hand however.
The ceremony took place in a theatre in Stockport and was a brilliant setting for the marriage, the wedding breakfast and a concert later by Jeff and his band, Catherine’s husband. Even little touches like providing a Laurel & Hardy and Bugs Bunny interlude for the guests in the theatre whilst the bride and groom were carted off by the photographer for endless snaps was delightful. By any standards then Catherine, above anyone I know, deserved a lovely day and a future happy life. One of her sons, Edward, stood up during the toasts and summarised this in such a magnificent way that we all had a tear in our eye by the time he had finished. A wonderful day.
Lastly, as a man who can appreciate a bit of furniture then I am blown away by what Luke Bussell has knocked up. He’s the son of some friends and this Imperial College Engineering under graduate made this kitchen unit for the children of a next door neighbour. Using softwood, not least so it isn’t terribly heavy to move, and then fashioning knobs and taps out of other types of hard wood he produced this in a workshop in his parent’s garage using wood working machinery. He had no drawings and just checked it out on Google and then proceeded accordingly. He’s likely to find a career in California working on electronics after graduation. A real talent.
The Hollering Pines second album, Mansion Of Heartbreak, is a traditional Country joy. Hailing from Utah, not the most obvious home for Country music, this five piece band, complemented by guest musicians, have written twelve beautiful songs dripping with melodies, hooks and Emmylou Harris style sweet and joyful harmonies. As they say ‘what’s not to like’.
Despite their profile, which belies their talent and potential, then they have been together for some years and have toured supporting major artists. Individually they have their own projects but collectively they deserve some wider recognition and this is a great place to start your catch up if they’re new to you.
“Memory Of A Wild Heart” recounts the story of a marriage on the rocks and the desire to rekindle a wild heart – a place where it all started. Sisters Marie Bradshaw (acoustic guitar) and Kiki Jane Sieger (bass) take the vocals with Marie leading throughout. This track has brass gently in the background giving it a real swing.
So a great start but “These Walls” is an album highlight with an exquisite tune, harmony vocals and pedal steel. Strings provide a lush bed on which the ladies advise of their doubts over a long-term love. In fact you’d be searching your pockets for loose change to play this again on the honky tonk’s jukebox. Sublime.
“Mansion Of Heartbreak” takes us again down the ‘tortured souls’ route of Classic Country. Against a folk acoustic backing the girls weave their magic whilst M Horton Smith steps up with some attractive mandolin. Yet ominously electric guitar invents dark patterns in the background to give this title track the anchoring emotion the girls sing of.
Dylan Shore strikes a bluesy pose with a dirty electric guitar sound on “Blacktop Dusty Blues” and the girls jettison some sweetness for a little sass. However this is no genre switch: this is simply the best of Country Blues.
Bradshaw and Sieger’s beautiful dovetailing voices start “Tell Me You’re Leaving” acapella. Eventually the band starts up and leads a Country hoedown of a tune with Billy Contreras’ fiddle joining the band’s rockabilly.
The PR trills that The Hollering Pines are ‘singing songs of long nights, short lives and spilled chances’. I think you will agree.
If you’ve invested in Amanda Anne Platt & The Honeycutters then this has a similar feel and direction. In my opinion there is no higher praise
In terms of record collecting then one of the few, if only, benefits of having little money are that you listen to what you buy and absorb any and every nuance. In 1971 my record buying activity was limited but no doubt buoyed by an epic album review in Melody Maker I bought this record. It was a wonderful experience and still is. A record where there are new discoveries and pleasures on every rendition.
The Who had migrated from being an important and creative singles band, as were all acts in the 1960’s, to become a phenomenal vehicle of Pete Townsend’s brilliant writing. The previous studio album Tommy itself was an ambitious Rock opera that spawned ‘Pinball Wizard’. The lyrical story led to translation onto the West End stage after a successful film/movie. However 1971’s Who’s Next was a harder Rock album that came from the opera workings of a project called Lifehouse.
Album opener ‘Baba O’Riley’ has an introduction that is incomparable as an exciting yet arresting repeated electric harpsichord sounding sequence. Eventually the piano arrives hitting loud chords and then Keith Moon arrives with large demanding blows. John Entwistle has by this stage started to anchor the rhythm with his bass whilst Townsend’s guitar plays chords. However as this delight is unfolding Roger Daltrey’s clear, but muscular, voice starts to deliver the vocal. Beyond compare, peerless. There is probably no superior 5 minutes worth of Rock music anywhere to improve on this.
The scene is set and the album crashes on. I say crash because the sound is so full and exciting. Many cite Moon as the ultimate Rock drummer. This album is a testament to his wondrous gift – but forget rhythm and ‘holding it all together’. Throughout he solos, fills and steps up to make bold and brash statements whilst guitar or keyboards just hover beneath his master class. ‘Bargain’ says it all and I can only hear the drums rather than any other instruments throughout.
‘My Wife’ sees Entwistle’s contribution, the only song not written by Townsend. Entwistle competently sings the lead and the horn arrangement adds some competition to Moon’s drums. ‘Song Is Over’ takes it down to start with and so the vocal comes up! Townsend picks around Daltrey’s vocal and Nicky Hopkins’ piano provides the rhythm. Eventually Entwistle and Moon join proceedings. Again listen to those drums! Daltrey tells us about a love being over and how as part of the process he has to ‘sing out’. It works for me Roger. Epic
‘Getting In Tune’ starts Side Two with piano and a bass line that provides an introduction for Daltrey to deliver the wistful melody about how he feels on his intuitive relationship with his lover. His voice is a unique instrument that is able to swoop, rage and caress with beautiful control. ‘Behind Blue Eyes’ is again Daltrey and a melody over an acoustic guitar with chorus harmonies. However it builds and gives way to a Townsend solo and the rumble of the bass and drums arrive.
For ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’ the synthesiser hits a hypnotic sequence before a guitar riff accompanies the beat and in good time the vocal arrives and a loping rhythm emerges:
We’ll be fighting in the streets
With our children at our feet
And the morals that they worship will be gone
And the men who spurred us on
Sit in judgement of all wrong
They decide and the shotgun sings the song
I think you can see that something anthemic, bold and revolutionary is on the cards. Of all the tracks then this is one where Townsend imposes his scything guitar and takes the opportunity for exquisite flourishes. By this stage of the album Moon is beyond control and is doing what he likes.
As the band jam the synthesiser then reappears and the band depart. We wait for this hypnotic set of chords to play out before a flurry of drums and then the most amazing vocal moment of my life… Daltry unleashes a blood curdling scream. Oh, my teenage heart.
If you haven’t got this then you should be ashamed of yourself.
Eilen Jewell is one of those hard working troubadours who regularly tours all over the world and, for me, comes under the category of ‘I think I vaguely know her’. In fact in my iTunes library I found a few tracks of hers (but as I have nearly 22,000 tracks in there then I have most people).
She defies a number of pigeon holes as regards genre and floats beautifully between several. You’ll always be guaranteed to enjoy her effortless, easy paced seductive vocals, superb arrangements and the stellar guitar playing of Jerry Miller.
Her latest release of 12 tracks recorded over two days is the realisation of a dream. Inspired by her father’s blues record collection she now dips back into the catalogue of roots music and selects classics from Memphis Minnie, Willie Dixon, Lonnie Johnson and Bessie Smith amongst others. It would be fair to say that she has been this way before but never with an album devoted just to the blues.
These interpretations seldom depart from the pace and feel of the originals but they all have a contemporary feel. One of the more recent covers is of Betty James’ “I’m A Little Mixed Up”. Not least we start to understand that there is something of a Country swing about the album and that if Jewell enjoyed compiling this homage then not half as much as Jimmy Miller. She really is lucky to have his services and he has full rein to pick, strum and bend strings in the most delightful way throughout.
“Down Hearted Blues” swaps Bessie Smith’s original’s piano accompaniment for acoustic guitar and upright bass (Shawn Supra). Somehow her lilting and more optimistic tones sit very differently from Bessie’s interpretation. If you have read any of my web site then you’ll know that I once cycled to the site of the hospital where Bessie died after a car crash in Mississippi. I’m touchy about anyone covering this legend’s work. That aside then the more that Bessie gets her legacy published then the happier I will be.
In fact Jewell has acknowledged the importance of American roots artists before, not least with her Loretta Lynn, 2011, tribute album, Butcher Holler. On Down Hearted Blues then half the tracks are originally by female artists and she invites you to hear how exceptional they were in a very male dominated industry.
Through out her husband and drummer, Jason Beek, sets a danceable swinging rhythm on many tracks and not least on Willie Dixon’s “You’ll Be Mine”. Another Willie Dixon composition, “Crazy Mixed Up World” has all that dance allure with the addition of Miller’s guitar picking.
“Poor Girl’s Story” includes violin and the band gently keep the rhythm behind the pair of them as this tale of rambling the USA comes as an album closer and welcome addition to the various styles before.
This is hugely enjoyable and I’m secretly returning to this album, as it is a real grower.
Martin Appleyard was this tour’s victim and frankly he should have known better.
As an old friend and colleague he’d been saturated and subjected to steep hills on a 2008 cycle adventure between York and Edinburgh and in a further deep loss of reason he’d signed up and had more of the same on a 2010 bike ride from Toulouse over the Pyrenees into Spain and back again by the coast. It appears that after a further seven years he’d forgotten the misery. On mature reflection he must have known that 2017 wouldn’t be a better experience. In fact this tour rolled all the biggest challenges of previous expeditions into one and even I was frightened at one point that I’d pushed my luck too far as regards safety.
Sometime after the ride finished; I’m still feeling sorry for doing this to him. Read on.
A long train ride brought me from York to Swansea and Martin from Abingdon. On one of those trains that stop everywhere I’d noted the development of light rain into something less pleasing as we penetrated into deepest South Wales. Meeting at the station exit we pedalled the short and wet distance to our first hotel, Ibis, to discuss the maps, wind and hills.
(Along the cycle path we came across a prostrate cyclist being attended to by an ambulance. He’d hit a lamppost at speed! Not a good omen for what lay ahead).
I’ve cycled in lots of places in the UK and spent time in South and North Wales but I’d never been to the west coast or seen the interior. Martin had mentioned about fancying a cycle tour in a random conversation a couple of months earlier and so I’d scoped a journey from south to north.
We were evenly matched as regards fitness and so after packing a selection of kit to cope with heat or cold then what could possibly go wrong?
Leaving Swansea was on Sustrans National Route 4. This is a cycle route which broadly follows the south coast, to start, and is signposted (most of the time). It is serviced by maps that miss out the distressing details such as distances or hill gradients: after all why would you want such detail to ruin your bike ride?
As a marker for how things would continue we pedalled out in heavy rain noting the choppy sea on our left and rush hour traffic on our right. Not all bad however as we proceeded down the cycle path broadly ‘sealed’ from the rain with our clothing whilst other commuters, on push bikes, came into view not wearing any waterproofs and with one student still brandishing their heavy, now sodden, headphones around their neck.
This ride out was nearly the flattest of the trip and when eventually the sun came out it was a sensational ride. Note the smiles and posing in the photos! On the route we came across joggers, dog walkers, hikers but no other cyclists. Maybe they knew something we didn’t? I love history and the plaque to Amelia Earhart was interesting. Can you imagine that long, cold, lonely and dangerous flight in an aircraft with the reliability of an Austin Allegro?
Llanelli was very wet and windy. We cycled past the impressive new rugby stadium. The Welsh love their Rugby Union and for a small nation then you have to acknowledge their talent. Our ride passed many pitches and clubs. On the Saturday you could hear the spectators bellowing as they huddled on the touchline.
The rest of the town looked old and a little past its best and sadly as heavy industry declined it took away much of the prosperity. It was telling in a chat with one waitress later in the day, that when we mentioned the local economy she identified the large supermarkets as major employers. And so it was with Llanelli, which boasted a large Asda in its centre.
If there was any reason to be glum about the increasing wind then, thinking on the bright side, we’d be entering Pembroke Dock long after the BBC’s forecast of thunder and lightning there!
Eventually as we got further west the road suddenly went skywards. It was my fault! I suspected Route 4 was taking us on a long detour and opted to take the B road from Kidwelly to Ferryside. Wow, what a hill! For half a mile we edge closer to the firmament and around each corner we discovered another additional climb and never the summit. It would be fair to say that I was the first to decide that what remained of my knees was best served by dismounting and pushing up this 12% incline. Yes, to coin a phrase, weak and increasingly wobbly.
From here we plummeted into Ferryside and after re-grouping I promised Martin to stop for lunch in Carmarthen. This was quite an easy ride but the sun was gone and rain was falling. No problem then with lunch in sight?
Martin got a puncture! This was made worse by elderly tires and one of which, when inspected by turning inside out, decided to refuse to return to its original shape. So Plan B was agreed to push the bikes the next 2 miles into Carmarthen where we’d find a bike shop and a new tyre.
Half a mile later, probably in response to Martin’s silent praying, a McDonalds came into view. This would be our second visit of the day! However, an apparition greater than any religious icon also appeared through some trees… Halfords. I disappeared to MaccieDee’s to dry out and devour deeply unhealthy fried and processed food (yum) and Martin went to the store to invest in new tyres and mudguards (who tours in the UK without mudguards?)
Well despite the pleasure at finding Halfords then the bike fixing took some time. From getting the puncture to getting back on the route took 3 hours to complete. Martin after having created a useful time gap to hold the Yellow Jersey was soundly disqualified and put on notice by the commissionaire (me) that any other delays would be reported in my subsequent blog. Always a man of my word (not) then I decided that this would appear in a blog in any case!
Well from here Martin led me along the horrifically busy A40 before we returned to Route 4 and a hoped for gentle amble to Saundersfoot. Sadly the road went up and up. There was no difficulty in the ascent but the cycling was slow and time was passing quickly. At this time of year the light starts to fall off after 7pm and it is no fun to ride in darkness even with lights.
Apparently the Welsh also have another use for sheep, but as my Favourite Eldest Daughter remarked – ‘how can you tell who’s won?’
Along this coast some delightful places came into view. Not least Amroth where along the sea wall a couple of ladies were perched looking out to sea on a warm sunny evening clutching some champagne flutes and polishing off a bottle of something delicious and fizzy. However, we had to push on and after a lovely run down a cliff path we got to Saundersfoot. This seemed a lively and attractive place with diners and drinkers perambulating along the front.
Despite time passing for us we rang the hotel and confirmed that we were coming but not until maybe well past 7pm. At least we now had a guaranteed room for the night.
Agreement was reached to abandon Route 4 and its evil and wickedly hilly ways for a quick dash down the A477 to Pembroke Dock. This we did and bowled into The Dolphin Hotel, just before another deluge. The hotel was a pub with rooms above. The staff seemed nice and the room basic but adequate. A considerable downside was the buoyant and noisy bar beneath our room. I can cope with loud music but for heaven’s sake, Coldplay?
Before retiring we scoured the streets for a restaurant and as we were pushing 9pm and the fact that our part of town was away from any shops etc. we settled for an Indian. It was the second worst Indian I have ever had in my life. Yet again my fault. I’d chosen the town and accommodation. I’d like to think that it was in some ways fitting retribution for the puncture delays and I was proud to even the score with Martin.
Our breakfast was a cooked one and the first in a succession of depleting the eggs and bacon reserves in Wales. The food was served in the pub where at 8am one of the locals was on a bar stool cradling a glass of cider. Sadly that was my lasting impression of Pembroke Dock. A town that probably had a thriving dock and workforce maybe 60 years ago but was now looking steadily abandoned and tatty.
The plan was a brisk ride to Haverfordwest. This was on the route and looked a large settlement that might produce carbohydrate options to go with the cholesterol special back in Pembroke Dock. Cycling does allow you to consume a ridiculous amount of food but you do need to eat food that is fuel and if you try and cycle for seven plus hours on an inadequate diet then your endurance and condition will fail you.
Haverfordwest was unsurprisingly built on a hill and at the top of the steep climb was the Tesco cafeteria. Martin was now starting to understand that fine dining would be a hallmark of his short adventure in the Principality. Porridge was consumed and a few extra gel bars bought.
So Broad Haven next, on the coast. Quite a nice small settlement on a cove. Up above it the rows of static caravans were stationed looking out onto a very rough sea. Middle aged couples, in garish anoraks, with wind swept hounds at the end of leads battled against the gale on the beach. We had little reason to stay and headed north. This led us along narrow roads with 3m high hedges and face offs with occasional pick up trucks driven by impatient farmers. The route would drop you down to beaches along the coast but that fearful dread on the descent would consume you, as eventually you knew that a bill had to be settled by a 15% gradient climb to escape the beach. The sun shone but the wind blew.
Newgale (a clue in the name) was the end of this northerly coastal ride before we headed west to St Davids. The wind at the resort and resulting climb up out of it were demanding. Not as much as the westerly wind that prevented our easy progress to St Davids. Solva looked idyllic and was a foretaste of how superb St Davids was with its cathedral. The building in the photograph is mainly a 19th century construction but this site has housed a cathedral and abbey from the 6th century.
Here Scandinavian and French tourist voices could be heard milling about in the sheltered sunshine. In fact such was the international ambience that we fell into conversation with two ladies from Vancouver in a cafe over a panini. I usually forget the detail of my travel but having only just been in western Canada two weeks ago I could compare their experiences and also got to berate them for pronouncing aluminium as ‘aloominum’. A simple pleasure I know.
With a tailwind we set off for Fishguard with a mere 40 miles (!) to go before our night’s stop. Fishguard was reached quite easily but there was a major hill climbing project to get in and then out of it. It was here that Martin suffered from ‘kind motorist syndrome’ as he ascended from the harbour.
‘KMS’ is where somebody doesn’t overtake you and therefore doesn’t leaves you in peace and solitude but hovers behind you for about a lifetime. They think they are kind, as you move up a hill at the pace of a glacier. The reality is that you feel under pressure and have to expend precious energy riding as quickly as you can steering a straight line up a horrid hill. Another unpleasant side effect is a long queue of less tolerant motorists behind who when liberated from this slow moving traffic jam nearly graze your hip to make up for the 3 minute delay they have suffered.
To add to this incident Martin then witnessed a motorbike surge past a car so closely that it clipped and destroyed its wing mirror. The unlucky car had been giving Martin space as he resolved a slipped chain at the side of the road. The motorcyclist was in a hurry. Further up the road I then saw the chase as both went past me at Mach 5. The motorist was no doubt anxious to discuss the damage and the motorcyclist less so. Oh these crazy Welsh folk, how we laughed.
The road to Cardigan was very up and down. If the road was not necessarily brutal then the rain was. Hell, it chucked it down. Proper cold and vertical stuff. We weren’t just damp but completely sodden. Cirgerran was eventually reached but our lodgings were hard to find. I only had a post code and the house we sought wasn’t visible.
So down a street as I’m walking around looking for a property called ‘Y Allt Rheini’ Martin befriended a dog owner to ask where we were and where our accommodation might be. She was not a lot of help until we dialled the establishment’s number, handed her the mobile and requested that she liaise with the proprietor to get directions. I shall always treasure the immortal words that she uttered to let the proprietor know where we were as she spoke “we’re on the street off the main road. You know, opposite Dog Food Dave’s”.
With some ropey directions we eventually went down a long slippy track to find the mansion and dripping wet we were shown to a lovely room that quickly became a steamy laundry as various layers were peeled off to dry either with or without washing. Then back onto the bikes and back into Cirgerran for a pub dinner.
DAY 2 – 71.6 miles, 7 hours and 4 minutes cycling & 1,758m climbed
Martin dry and rested seemed chipper at breakfast.
After yesterday’s arduous ride I suggested that today would be easier. This was a despicable lie because today was a similar amount of climbing and distance, as Martin pointed out (cough).
Nevertheless, we set forth and on a sleepy Sunday and wended our way to Lampeter. This was really back roads riding with lots of small farming settlements and sheep!
It was difficult to quickly cycle the 30 miles to lunch but there were a few interesting discoveries on the way. I love the 1960’s era of British cars and this was a complete treasure trove with other cars under tarpaulins here hidden in the forest at Pencader.
Lunch turned out to be epic and winner of ‘The Tony Ives Meal Of The Tour Award’. Sunday lunch at Granny’s Kitchen in Lampeter. The photo reveals the artist’s joy at the roast beef and Yorkshire Pudding etc. (The expression may suggest doping was involved).
Next three unhappy events came to pass. The first was biblical rain.
The second was a text from a very good friend, Robert, advising that his mother had passed away after a long illness. I had known the lady since I was a very small child and whilst she had been unwell for a considerable time it was a sad day and in the scheme of things then I would want to attend the funeral.
The last event was the failure of my iPhone to receive any consistent reception. Over the last couple of days the texts were delayed and telephone calls nigh on impossible as the signal was so weak that it read ‘No Service’ or calls were cut off. This issue had led to my not receiving the message of the death promptly.
With only 45 miles to go (!) we enjoyed an initially flat run before we got into the real hill farming countryside and ground away endlessly on granny gears that silenced the banter as the weariness kicked in. We were heading for Llanidloes in mid Wales.
So you haven’t mentioned the Welsh language yet Tony? True, I was about to come to that… Being a recidivist Englishmen then I am bemused at a language that can best be described as sounding like a heavy cold with a surplus of phlegm and spelling that would win any game of Scrabble. Also every person in the Principality speaks English.
However, there are two other revelations that I can share – one is that every other settlement starts ‘Llan’ What does this mean? I don’t know but then endless typing of destinations into my Sat Nav of new towns or villages to head for started with this. The second revelation is that people actually speak it!
This is taught in school and so maybe all the duplication of language on road and public building signage isn’t a waste of money. One thing they could teach the children of Wales is that after getting into a car it is not mandatory to buy a sweet fizzy drink in a plastic bottle, to consume it and then with scant concern to lob it from your car window into the beautiful countryside. Plastic waste is killing wildlife in the oceans and there is a focus on reducing it. I think the Welsh Government could well use some dosh to educate people to use a bin, preferably a recycling one. Seriously the countryside is being used as a waste tip. Shame on you Taffy, not ‘tidy’, as you are oft prone to say.
In our usually sopping state we reached a very nice hotel in the centre of the town, showered and found a pub for dinner and a pint.
DAY 3 – 79.9 miles, 7 hours and 33 minutes & 1,914 m climbed
Well of course rain fell as we watched the hotel proprietor’s partner use a blower to move the petals that were on the pavement in front of the hotel. These had fallen from the hotel’s hanging basket in the rain. He blew ‘his’ petals to be in front of next door’s pub! Neighbours eh?
Overnight I had spoken to Robert and established that the funeral was the day after next. This was a day when we were still touring. If matters were a little challenging given that we were in deepest Wales with poor transport links then abandoning Martin to the next day with its mountain climbing and weather was not kindly. What was I to do? Should I ride with him until the worst of the climbing was completed? I have no doubt Martin would have coped but read on.
We abandoned National Route 82 to stay on the main road to Machynlleth, oh what an error! The road was vertical in places and as we ascended to over 500m the weather became horrific. A steady fall of cold rain took the temperature down to just over 8° C and the wind picked up. In fact it nearly picked both of us ‘up’ as we crawled along at an average speed of 6mph. The descents were possible squeezing the brakes every inch of the way down to maintain control. The ascents, against buffeting wind and through a stream of water (coming down the road) were dangerous and pushing the steed became the order of the day. A few cars and trucks passed by to make our passage more difficult as they came around sharp turns quickly. I wondered what the drivers were thinking about these two fools battling the elements.
It has to be said that even the sheep and cattle took shelter by copses or walls as this hell rained down on them. I literally shuddered to imagine being up on these hills exposed at lower temperatures. At Staylittle Martin dived into a pannier to find extra clothing. I was so cold and wet through that standing there was numbing and I pedalled on slowly just to keep the blood flowing. Reunited we ascended to 600m and now the hillsides were exposed with no wind breaks. Occasionally slippery cattle grids had to be negotiated and then the descent began.
I was now shivering uncontrollably and hurtling downhill holding onto the brakes was not easy. The wheel rims were so wet that grip took some time to happen leading to entering some corners too fast. The bike juddered beneath me as I shivered, it shook.
Eventually the winds fell (and the rain continued to) but the temperature might have only just edged upwards when we entered Machynlleth. First I found a supermarket to dive into to warm up but then about 100m down the road we found a cafe for a hot drink. I peeled off the sopping layers and clutched the cup tight to warm up. The thaw began.
In the cafe was Ben, a third year student at Falmouth University studying Marine Biology. He was cycling to Cornwall via Llanidloes. The mountain run that we’d endured was his next two hours bike ride. He’d ridden up from Barmouth and wanted to know about the route ahead. “Stick to the Sustrans route and wear all available clothing” was my advice. I couldn’t think of a more hellish two hours to complete. Poor Ben.
We left puddles in the cafe and set off for Barmouth. It was a bit up and down and the selection of an A road meant a few trucks and the odd toot on the horn from an impatient and irrational motorist. However it was a lot easier and we rolled into Barmouth at around 3pm.
I planned to get a train back to York that night and was dashed in my ambition to check with the ticket office about connections etc. It was shut being refurbished and a note said buy a ticket on the ‘Arriva App’. To show how customer unfriendly that was then an old gentleman suddenly appeared over my shoulder as I’m looking at the timetable on the wall and asked me to confirm a train time. He said his eyesight wasn’t good enough to read the listing. Clearly the chance of him having a smart phone to use an App seemed very unlikely.
Anyway with no ticket but a plan we adjourned to have our third portion of fish and chips in four days and say our goodbyes. At this point I’d like to think that I had improved Martin’s life forever. Not by the bike ride but by teaching him how to transfer photos between iPhones using AirDrop.
Martin armed with the map was keeping to the plan to continue up the coast to Harlech. Here I’d booked a room. From here he would, the next day, cycle into Bangor and catch a train south. By all accounts this he did but not without the odd hill and another 60 miles riding.
I got the train at around 5pm to Machynlleth (yes back there). Changed platforms and proceeded to Shrewsbury. I had a bit of a wait before catching a train to Manchester before my last connection to York. Here I unloaded the bike, mounted it and rode onto my driveway at 11.30pm. Quite a day.
DAY 4 – 50.1 miles, 5 hours 21 minutes and 995m climbed.
So Wales is beautiful and hilly. Has an often spectacular coastline and is definitely tourist friendly. The weather was atrocious on balance with mixed days of some calm and sunshine but demoralising rain and wind usually on long very steep parts of the day. Martin may never forgive me but the next ride can’t be as awful can it? Can’t wait.
September 12th was our 30th wedding anniversary and a break was planned to another European city we’d not yet visited – Helsinki. We’d both ticked off most of the other Nordic capitals together or separately but never this far north. My knowledge of Finland was limited and knowledge of anyone famous really stopped at the former Bolton Wanderers’ goalkeeper. So this trip quietly excited your intrepid explorer.
I am not that devoted to loyalty schemes but I’ve had a BA American Express air miles card for some years and occasionally cash the miles for a journey. A return flight to Helsinki in Business Class was booked!
Part of the deal of cashing these ‘miles’ is that everything flies out of Heathrow. So we plummeted down the M1 for an overnight stay prior to a flight the next day on Finnair. An evening meal was hastily planned at Newport Pagnell and a Turkish restaurant called Capadocia was selected. Anna and myself like Turkish cuisine and she could select a vegetarian selection with ease. The restaurant was busy for a Wednesday night and our meal was fine. The Turkish proprietor who floated around the tables introduced himself and asked how we’d found out about the restaurant? ‘Trip Advisor’!
Oh dear, light blue touch paper and retire…
From here he recounted a brutal review of a day earlier from a diner that had given him one star. In fact he visited the table twice to show genuine hurt and pain and even brought up the review on his smart phone to show us. The diners had thought that the food bland. “Why didn’t they tell us when they were here? We would have changed the meal or given them some money off?”
His lament continued at the low score. “Maybe three stars would have been fair?” He’ had looked through their other reviews and establishments visited recently and even opined that they were saboteurs who preferred another local Turkish restaurant and was attempting to hurt his restaurant by posting this review!
As I say the place was busy with happy customers and getting so upset over one review was not worth it. However, it does highlight the damage and outrage some reviews on Trip Advisor can create. In fact you don’t have to stay at the hotel or eat at the restaurant to write a review. By the way, my main course had little flavour! I will not be noting this with a review on Trip Advisor.
Terminal 3 is not a venue that I have any affection for. We stayed 3 miles away from it but it still took 25 minutes to reach in the rush hour. It is a tangled web of entrances and various phases of construction and I pity an elderly or less mobile traveller using it.
We were chipper however as we had use of the Business Lounge and copious coffee, fruit and pastries were consumed along with our free newspapers before embarkation. Ordinarily then any turn left would cause me discomfort but on entering the aircraft a platinum blond goddess looked at our boarding pass and sent us toward Business Class. Oh deep joy!
I had often trouped past these little cubicles after an uncomfortable long haul flight envying the lucky so and so’s who luxuriated in these pens whilst I had got a crick in my neck and little or no sleep back in ‘cargo’. Now it was my turn but sadly for only 2 hours 50 minutes. It did cross my mind to suggest that they took the ‘long way round’ to Finland to enjoy this experience more. It was bliss and a wonderful way to travel.
Helsinki airport is modern but was hellish on our arrival. The trek to the train station is past endless Duty Free shops and not only was it a long walk but the place was rammed with travellers. Most I would volunteer were Chinese nationals who transit via Helsinki before flying onto China via the shorter northern route.
We eventually made the train and had a pleasant 30 minute ride to the city centre. From here we had another walk to the hotel. We could have used an Uber or some such but it’s not ourway, we’re addicted to the step counter on the iPhone! A taxi only seemed a good idea as the rain started to steadily fall.
The Four Star Boutique hotel was a 19th Century converted prison! Anna found this on Trip Advisor and it was a little strange to check into three converted cells via a heavily fortified wall but everything was quite classy and plush. In the basement they had kept one of the original cells and encouraged recent visitors to write on the walls. It was utilitarian, brutal and dimly lit – any lengthy stay here would have been hell.
We wandered the short distance into the centre near the front for dinner and dined at ‘Toca’. This was a gourmet dinner which didn’t run to à la carte menu but various choices were explained to you and then modest but adequate portions of modern cuisine appeared. It was surprising and delicious… especially as we had selected it at the hotel thinking it was a pizza restaurant! The bill before the tip came to €110. This brings us to Finnish prices. Certain things were expensive but overall the prices were fine. Food and drink was a high price but frankly eating in the centre of any major capital is never cheap is it? Everything we ate was usually delicious and beautifully presented.
The next morning we did a walking tour of the centre of Helsinki. We’re avid walking tour fans and I reckon I could write a guide for those leading them to maximise the entertainment. Our guide failed to mention that whilst the tour was free that she’d welcome tips. A lot of the folk abandoned her after two hours, literally receiving a free tour. The guides are usually students trying to raise extra funds. I think we tipped well.
Finland, like a number of the Nordic nations, is quite young. It only has a population of 5.5 millions and around 11% live in Helsinki. Over the centuries either the Swedes or the Russians have occupied it. It only gained its independence in 1917 when it took advantage of the Russian Bolshevik Revolution to break free. In the meanwhile they have a very long border with the Russian bear and know that if they want to come back then not a lot will stop them! The Soviet Union was very hostile and repeatedly tried to occupy the country during WW2 and eventually took some territory.
The Finns seemed very calm, organised and open. We were struck by how a large sand pit used by children in a park had toys left scattered around for the next day’s play. In the UK these would be locked away and the sandpit surrounded by a high fence to stop the local youth doing something horrid to it overnight. Around the city were embassies and Government offices that all looked very vulnerable to easy entry and terrorism should a malign party wish to cause harm. This Scandinavian innocence is quite a contrast to our UK world. (As we were in Helsinki then the Parsons Green Tube explosion was reported).
In the afternoon the sun came out, briefly, and I found a few vinyl record shops to look around and Anna looked at the shops in the centre. I was short of time on my tour and didn’t buy anything but found a great jazz record store where the owner seemed to be having a great time playing his personal favourites. Next door was a record store specialising in reggae. Love it.
That night it was a couple of drinks in a local bar and an omelette.
The next day we had a leisurely start and got the ferry to Estonia. It was a two and a half hour sail to Tallinn. There were cars but most of the passengers were going by foot. Near us in the queue was a party of primary school teachers going for an overnight stay and a night out. In fact many of the passengers seemed to be getting into a party mood on the ship and there was much imbibing. (The return sailing saw lads wheeling on cans and cans of beer and many others wielding carrier bags of booze. It seems a long time ago that the Brits visited mainland Europe on booze cruises, or do they still do it?)
Tallinn was beautiful. The old town was beautifully presented with its cobbled streets and old buildings. Again another walking tour filled our time and we learned quite a lot about this nation of 1.3m people. It was the usual story of occupation over the centuries by Swedes, Germans and Russians. Whilst they celebrate 100 years of independence shortly then they only got rid of the Russians in 1991. From here they achieved the Holy Grail for these small nations by joining the EU in 2004.
It is easy to see that the EU is an attractive option for these smaller nations. You get access to markets, you get subsidy, you get an internationally recognised currency and not least you get an umbrella of supposed security by being part if a larger group. Especially useful if your neighbour and 25% of your population is Russia or Russian. Add NATO membership and you may even start to dream about another 100 years of independence.
The guide for all his earnest explanation about the history and economy did excel at talking about the Estonian character. They don’t like people and seldom, if ever, socially greet each other. They are not tactile and the concept of dating is foreign to them! Meeting the opposite sex was described as either as a sort of stalking for several weeks and pretending it is a coincidence to run into the desired target repeatedly. Or the popularity of binge drinking and finding yourself, the next morning, beside a partner that you couldn’t remember meeting seemed common. I suspect this is rubbish but it did give an illuminating insight into this small nation.
Our visit to Estonia, and back, never involved the inspection or even presentation of passports. I am not sure if they are in Schengen but it seemed that terrorism could move easily between the countries. Back in Helsinki we had a pizza and checked the football results back in Blighty. Yet more rain as we walked around but never very cold.
The next morning we took a couple of bikes from the hotel and toured the peninsula where we were staying. The icebreaker ships were moored here along with other more traditional forms of sailing craft.
So from the hotel we got to a quiet Sunday airport and relaxed in the Business lounge before the flight home. Whilst Business then the cabin wasn’t the new layout, but everything else was pampering! We picked up the car and, listening to the football, drove to York.
I was enchanted by a story about my daughter at York Races during August. One of her friends was betting fairly blindly on various races and was taken with a pony called ‘Neigh Neigh’. In fairness we can be sure that having this name ticked one box and it was indeed a horse. Like all Millennials then making an appearance at a bookie is so “2005″ and so clicking their Apps a bet was placed on said nag to win.
The race was run and ‘Neigh Neigh’ didn’t make an appearance on the winners’ board. There was much disappointment but neither did he appear amongst any of the runners? In fact she’d bet on a race at Newmarket! ‘Neigh Neigh’ won!
Slightly younger then I felt for a poor teenager who was standing in a queue at Starbucks. He was brandishing a £50 note. Such is the rarity of sightings for such a note that I can remember when I last had one. It immediately seemed that this kid was unusual. As some of his friends drifted past him and out of the shop speaking German to him then it became clear he was a tourist. I can imagine his mother coming back from the Bureau de Change with his spending money thinking that a £50 note was fine. Needless to say he was bounced at the counter when the barista informed him that they didn’t accept such notes! Vorsprung Durch Tecnik.
In talking with my Favourite Eldest Daughter I enquired as to how she was spending the Saturday. She was doing ‘life admin’. Wtf? I was told that this again was Millennial speak for paying the window cleaner, buying a travel season ticket and no doubt speaking to your father.
On the weekend I was ‘down with the kids’ at the adidas sale at their warehouse in Stockport. The company clears out lots of stock periodically and employees can attend with two guests. I qualified as a father with the Favourite Youngest and discovered that I was at least 25 years older than all the other shoppers. You can see in the image below some of my booty. If I told you what this cost then you’d be suspecting theft! Tiger feet?
As you might expect then my vast disposable income will attract luxury brand manufacturers to approach me. To this end Porsche Cars Of Great Britain have invited me to an exclusive preview evening. I won’t go but if I was wavering about whether to attend then the letter made up my mind – ‘It is made for those who have the courage to forge their own path.’ Grant me strength.
Young Ted, son of my nephew, was over in York on Monday and due to Anna having to unavoidably be away, for a couple of hours, I got a shift. So we went to see the nice man to repair my iPhone 6 and then to the playground. Ted, 4, keeps a good chat going, only occasionally pausing for breath. I was soldiering on trying to deal with various observations and questions:
“Oh look there’s a JCB, they go on motorways”
“Well not really they are too big and slow”
“No, I’ve seen them on the motorway”
“Err.. well there might have been one on the back of a lorry”
“No, roadworks”
Lastly, sometimes people admit to ‘guilty pleasures’. These are things that are naff or out of character as to their regular tastes but somehow fit. ‘Cruising with Jane McDonald’ on Channel 5 is such an admission. Common as muck (and she doesn’t care), endlessly engaging and often hilarious. I usually want to sail on every ship she’s on or go to anywhere she visits.
Before I share some thoughts on Canada then it is only apposite to mention that we never nearly made it to Manchester Airport. The drive from York suffered delays due to traffic jams. After reaching the M60 via a tortuous route over Saddleworth Moor, we started to move nicely for the first time in over an hour. At a junction an old Audi came onto the motorway and in heavy traffic made a dash for the outside lane. The only problem was that he was steering directly into the side of our car at 70mph. I swerved toward the barrier in the centre, our car hit the grass and gravel and we slewed along as the Audi made the outside lane but kept accelerating. Thanks to presence of mind and a great car, with superb handling, we kept control, didn’t hit the barrier, go into a spin and take out the cars behind us or those beside us. This fool could have killed 5 or 6 people in a heartbeat.
Anyway more than a little shaken we made the flight to Toronto. I’d been here in 2015 and thought it fabulous. Arriving and exiting by bicycle was a very different experience to that of doing it by car. My time on the bike was spent by Lake Ontario and then when arriving at Niagara I only ever saw the Falls (not the town) before continuing south into the USA via Buffalo.
Toronto is organised and attractive but busy. Our hotel was massive and choked with international tourists passing through. Our city bus tour was remarkable for revealing that Toronto might be modern and important but it had no history that you could repeat or remember. In fact I remember more about the Toronto Blue Jays playing baseball at the Rogers stadium and the window cleaners at the large children’s hospital dressing as Super Heroes to entertain the young patients than anything else. The tour involved a trip across the harbour to some islands.
The main reason for this stop over in the east before heading to the Pacific was to show Anna Niagara Falls. The drive to Niagara Falls was on a rammed motorway and when we got to the waterfalls we saw the resort, just off the main drag past the Falls. This rather reduced the magic of the natural phenomena. It is literally ‘kiss me quick’ hats, burgers and amusement arcades. However, you cannot take away the majesty of these wonderful waterfalls and I can barely imagine the impact it had on the first Europeans who came across it.
From here we drove to Niagara-on-the-Lake and it was simply delightful. A small resort on Lake Ontario at the head of the Niagara River (that is part of the waterway between Ontario and Erie). This quaint and historic town is beyond manicured and full of tea shops, restaurants and most things that would carry the tag of ‘upmarket’. The flower beds and hanging baskets were a vision to behold.
Needless to say there were many other tourists there. The surrounding area is planted with vines and it appears a considerable wine producing area. We tasted some ‘icewine’. This is fermented from grapes that are frozen at the time of picking in winter. It was very sweet, like dessert wine. After this it was back into the traffic and back for a vegetarian meal in the centre of Toronto.
Our flight to Vancouver, to complete the journey west was another four hours. This is a very large country with the 4th biggest land mass as a country but only 36m inhabitants. You quickly learn that everyone lives broadly up against the US border and some Provinces (out of the 10) such as Yukon, only have a total population of 36,000! Clearly the terrain and climate offer no incentive to live there or many places north.
Vancouver is a fine city and Anna booked us into a more luxurious hotel this time near Downtown where we were to discover the first of a lot of German tourists. They flood across from Europe and love the west coast of the Americas. We did a Chinatown walking tour on our first morning, which was surprisingly engrossing. The Chinese came in the 19th century to build the railways. As part of British Columbia becoming part of Canada it needed a rail link. The Chinese, from the Pearl River Delta, can be viewed just as indigenous as many of the Europeans. However it was a long road for their equal rights, they even had to overcome racists laws in the 20th century. Our Canadian Chinese guide slightly gilded the story of local ethnic Chinese heroes bringing about change. I’m sure their efforts were vital but in fact the post war Universal Declaration of Human Rights adopted by the UN in 1948 meant things had to change for the Canadians. (The plonker with the Mohican is from Australia…)
Coming up to the present day then several conversations talked of ‘Asian’ immigration or property buying throughout the main cities. These properties were not always to live in but as a speculative investment. (A lot of nations in post communist countries buy property speculatively outside their homeland e.g. Russians in London). In addition there were hundreds of Mainland China tourists in the resorts. This even led to the recycling bins having script in Mandarin to ensure tins didn’t go in the wrong bin! Like York then they are bringing considerable revenue to these tourist destinations but the cultures of China, Europe or North America do appear uncomfortable together at times.
Even more energy sapping was being behind two people who’s first language was not English in a shop. Such was the accent that they either spent sometime repeating things to each other or, even worse, one poor lady at a fast food joint I went to only partially got what she came in to buy. Who’d be an immigrant? This partially explains the lack of integration I expect.
In Vancouver we tried to get over the jet lag, ate well, rode bikes around Stanley Park and soaked up the more laid back vibe of Canada. Eventually we picked up our second hire car and headed for Victoria Island. I paid scant attention to the holiday booking details and getting a ‘compact’ car seemed fine. It ended up being a little small and under powered. The power was undermined by the statutory North American automatic gearbox. To dust off an old politically incorrect comment then our little Nissan couldn’t pull a sailor off your sister. This meant that on some busy winding roads putting your foot down to overtake took courage and blind faith. I am a Leeds United fan: I coped.
To get to Victoria on Vancouver Island (on the south tip of the island) meant an hour and a half ferry and we absorbed the majestic views before we disembarked and made our way to the hotel.
Here one of the staff, a chap called Waddingham, told us of his family’s origins in Hull. All good although we did correct him on his name’s pronunciation of Waddingham and not ‘Wardingharm’! Victoria is the Province capital of British Columbia and has a legislature and fine older architecture. I find it quaint that they still have ‘British’ in their name and, frankly, any residual attachment to the UK. In 1931 Canada gained their independence and any involvement of the British Parliament went in 1982. The Royal Family is still affectionately regarded. Will and Kate visited Victoria fairly recently but frankly when the Queen passes I think the majority of the Commonwealth, let alone Canada, will call time on any remotely formal connnection.
We saw the city by bicycle and here Jessica steered us up and down hills and kept us away from traffic. Vancouver Island was the first settlement in British Colombia and hence it became the capital despite being detached.
Today Vancouver is several times larger but the Parliament resides here. I expected a distinct difference between the USA and Canada to be evident: it wasn’t. The Canadian’s accent, TV channels, road signage, chain stores, cars, types of food, ambience etc seemed just a continuation. Even detail like the yellow school buses were evident. To this end the shadow of the USA looms large and not larger than Trump. In fairness he has freaked out the world with his language, behaviour and perceived priorities. He has many people all caught like rabbits in the headlights and for better or worse then sensibilities and fears of many are heightened to the extent that he is a preoccupation. I sensed it in a few conversations and as always you could rely on the ubiquitous CNN to talk negatively 24/7 on all things Trump – I don’t doubt some of the negativity is well earned.
From Victoria we weaved on a motorway and then minor roads to Ucluelet on the west coast of the island. There are several names that originate from the Native Indians or First Nation people who were here long before the Europeans. In this small coastal town there was tourism and also facilities for fishing trawlers. The trawlers brought ashore hake (for McDonalds!), salmon and other white fish. We had a fabulous trip off the shore in a launch with other tourists. The expedition was to find Grey Whales but sadly there were none to see. However we saw many Sea Lions, Sea Otters and Bald Eagles. The tranquility of the sea near the shore and the clear fresh air were glorious and enervating. Back at our apartment we dipped in the jacuzzi and ate our store bought provisions. The following morning we sadly had to depart but not before a quick hike around a trail directly on the shore. Wonderful and I think we’ll be back.
So another ferry and then a straightforward drive up to Whistler. Whistler is a skiing resort but in the summer there are some scenery seekers, like ourselves, but also hundreds of mountain bikers. When we got there we discovered competitions which brought in many young chaps on expensive bikes. However many others with the right head and body apparatus took the lifts to the top of the mountains and came down on the trails. During the winter then these would be the various ski slopes. It looked great fun for all ages as the gradients, like ski slopes, were graded. We were in a hotel with some catering facilities and on arrival popped out to the supermarket. Licensing laws meant that the store didn’t sell alcohol and as it was 9 pm nowhere else was open. To rectify this crisis I went to the hotel bar and returned to the lift with 2 pints to ascend to the room. A crowded lift turned toward me to note my 2 pints. I felt clarification was necessary and I did blurt out”they’re not both for me!”
It was here that it struck home how expensive Canada was. Two people eating out with a drink and basic fare would bash £50. I wouldn’t pretend that we didn’t budget for this but you do get to a point where it isn’t as if you are doing more than refuelling at a high cost.
Whistler hosted part of Vancouver’s 2010 Olympic set up and it is a well laid out town with great facilities, links and transport for skiers. However, frankly it wasn’t suitable for folk like us passing through with just scenery and relaxing in mind. I think it’s reputation blinded us and so we went. Don’t go unless you’re on a mountain bike or skis.
One notable thing to mention about Canada is pedestrians, of which Whistler had many, and the car. The pedestrian has priority and courtesy is shown by the motorist at all times. Not only do the cars wait for walkers to complete their progress to the kerb but hold back some distance. This courtesy is extended to cyclists. It’s just in the culture. There is endless debate in the UK about making the roads safe for cyclists. Solutions include car exclusion, cycle lanes on roads, specially built cycle paths, execution for offending drivers by beheading etc. Frankly a good start would be the elevation of the pedestrian and cyclist, when sharing the same space, to be respected and protected. Costs nowt an’ all.
The drive to Kamloops, the biggest town in this part of the Rockies, was tough. It was single lane and slow traffic made the going miserable. On the odd occasion that an overtaking opportunity arose I gunned the poor little Nissan within an inch of its life past a bus or dawdling SUV. I’d never heard Anna pray out loud before…
Our first stop for some lunch was Lillooet where our sandwiches were prepared by a lady from Glasgow. Her escape to this absorbing scenery and clear mountain air made a lot of sense. This small settlement has had many incarnations, not least as a rail stop and mining town. The heritage of the town is preserved by a number of graphics that mainly hark back to the 19th Century. However, one piece of recent history was the incarceration of the Canadian Japanese population in WW2 after the bombing of Pearl Harbour. Many were shifted from the coast, where they traded and were fishermen, to the interior. In retrospect then this seems very harsh and wrong. If, given the issues, you can understand that then maybe not the confiscation of Japanese property and assets which they received scant compensation for, if any. They weren’t allowed freedom of movement until 1949 or an apology until 1988.
A brief stop at Blue Water was to again break the journey and buy an ice cream. This settlement had experienced forest fires and the road had been closed recently. It was pleasing to see that a sign in the Welcome Center offered fire fighters free drinks. Attached to the Center was the Gift Shop. The Canadians are no slouches in every part of British Columbia or Alberta at flogging swag. As I sauntered back to the car my bride bought four very nice coasters made of slate and etched with the images of elk or moose. Pleased with her purchase as we drove off I volunteered that a First Nation Indian had not spent a winter’s day sat on the unheated clay floor of his wigwam holding the slate between his feet whilst he chipped away with tools made from flint and animal bones. More like that a man called Mr Lee based in a large factory on the outskirts of Shanghai had been the machine operative who was producing about 500 coasters per hour. Naturally this ‘negative’ comment was dismissed until she established the country of origin on the box. She was partially correct in that his name probably wasn’t Mr Lee but Mr Wang.
Kamloops is a large town and due to the lack of other big towns miles around it seems to be the centre for every car dealer, motel, lawyer, appliance showroom in the area. We were located just outside of town at a hotel that might be described as more of a ‘country club’. It had a gym, bikes to ride, swimming pool and a wedding! We partook of the first three and then drove back into town for dinner. The weather was getting warmer and despite being in the Rockies, and our experiencing some rain, then we were regularly above 20° C.
Rain greeted our residual drive to Jasper. The first thing you feel is the deep local welcome when you get there: from Australia. There appears to be an acute shortage of bar staff and shop assistants throughout the Rockies. Australia (and New Zealand) has stepped into the breach. Many of these millennials have been here for some time. We talked with a few, usually the opening line was, ‘you’re a long way from home?’ Many had come and stayed. Given the flight time and cost to the Antipodes I can see how they had ended up residents. By way of variation the present Mrs Ives had booked us into a log cabin on the banks of Lake Patricia.
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Everyone likes a picture of a train, be honest.
Jasper is small, mainly summer driven, resort overwhelmed by Brits, Germans and Chinese. It is on the famous Canadian Railway line and hosts the tourist train that pulls through every day. It is also ideally located for local lakes – Maligne, Pyramid and Patricia. It’s on the latter that we stayed in a log cabin. (Just to return to an earlier theme, then on Lake Pyramid you could hire canoes by the hour – $40). We tripped out to see the lakes and absorb the beauty. It was chilly and overcast for some of the days and the beauty is cast into monochrome only to fully hit you when the sun comes out and glorious Technicolour abounds.
Anna had so wanted to see bears and as you drive along then there are many road signs warning of wildlife. Needless to say our sightings were limited but we did see one bear on a bank near the road. That was it. Elks were not so hard to find and this moose was caught early evening grazing.
The Icefields Parkway is the 180 mile stretch of road that takes you south in a long valley. Either side are lakes, glaciers and creeks can be found often with bus loads of other tourists.
Our pleasure was taken in a steep hike to the top of a very tall hill/mountain to look down on Lake Peyto. The colour of the water is made by a fine silt that is found in the lakes.
Our last stop was Canmore, a mere stone’s throw from the famous Banff. This is an upmarket little town full of expensive second homes and a main street selling specialist bagels, artisan coffee, gifts and craft beers. Our B&B was exceptional and a very Continental breakfast afforded talking to the other guests who were mainly Canadians. Topics from Bonnie Raitt, Alberta oil sands, speaking French and that bloke Trump (again) were discussed. There were a selection of great eating options and one owned by a brewery that did small samples for $10.
We drove back to Banff to see what the fuss was about and it was just a little bigger with more tourists and shops selling stuffed elks, key fobs, cushions with Mounties on them and similar tat. I believe it is more important in winter when the skiing season will fill all the hotels on the outskirts.
Back in Canmore we rode bikes along the river, drank coffee, drank beer and headed back up the road past Banff to see Lake Louise. It was so named after Queen Victoria’s fourth daughter. The graphic telling this described Victoria as the ‘Queen of England’ – slightly disappointing to read given Canada’s place in the Commonwealth.
To celebrate our disappointment we ascended 1,000 feet for over 2 miles for a cup of hot chocolate and a large piece of banana bread – a fair exchange in my book. The step count on the iPhone said we had ascended 79 floors!
A return to Canmore for a bagel was bewildering. I was asked by the young man, resplendent with tattoos, hat and piercings, what I wanted? Such was the enormous choice that I took some time to answer. Like all attentive youngsters dealing with older people he patiently smiled and then repeated the question. I did gently ( a major concession on my part) say that I understood the ‘kin question but was considering my choice. His mother loves him.
It would be remiss not to talk about what the Canadians have done to our language. Despite some British spelling then they mangle ‘aluminium’ like the Yanks. Their metal is pronounced aloominum and Hyundai is bastardised to Hundi. By way of forgiveness we did enjoy some of the language such as a dog accessories shop was called ‘Mutt Hut’ and the children’s section of the menu at one restaurant called ‘Cub Grub’. I would add the establishment was called The Grizzly Paw.
Our last day was spent in pursuit of retail joy. We found two malls that sold CD’s and vinyl LP’s and Anna found Gap and Coach. The Canadian economy benefited.
Whilst waiting for Anna to pay for the unbelievable ‘bargain’ purchase I chatted with the young lady handing out ‘50% off’ vouchers at the entrance. She is a student and this is a Summer job. She hopes to become an optician. She suggested that the 27° C weather outside would soon fall apart and that Calgary would be cast into a freezing winter and only emerge in May. No thanks. The Mall attracts a lot of tourists and many from Mainland China bulk buying – Anna followed a lady at the till buying 9 identical bags no doubt for redistribution back home.
We wended our way to the Airport and dropped off the hire car. A diligent chap looked around the car for damage, checked the fuel and what not. I did advise that the engine was missing. Now usually my profound hilarity is met with ‘tumbleweed rolling across an empty street’. However, being a bright bunny he did reflect and surmise that such an underpowered car in the mountains was sluggish and disappeared to provide a $5 free coffee card and a free car upgrade the next time we rented with Alamo. Being a prat does on occasion pay off!
The flight home, via Heathrow to Manchester, was routine.
So Canada? Kind, beautiful, genuinely interested in the environment, organised, quite expensive compared to the USA but similar in taking a lead from, culture, food, language, appearance and system. A bit ‘vanilla’, somehow too gentle and giving the impression of a new country that’s still finding its identity.
It seems quaint to recall but for my 18th birthday I received a number of record tokens. I was just starting to devote my life to vinyl and predictably had a long list of potential acquisitions to spend it on. On the list was the current Yes album, Close To The Edge, released the preceding year in September 1972.
So armed with said ‘Voucher of Joy’ I found my way to The Sound Of Music in Harrogate and did a swap. I have to say that my attachment to this album has now been complete for a very long time. In fact it wasn’t until 2015 before I saw them live – at Newcastle City Hall. An iconic 1970’s rock venue if there every was one. The line up wasn’t as per the album but they did play the whole album. However Steve Howe was on guitar and Chris Squire was on bass and it was these guys who drove the album for me. (Sadly, Chris Squire has since passed).
There are only three tracks – welcome to Prog rock – and the words were generally Jon Anderson compiled gibberish. In any case the vocals were like a musical instrument and made a sound to complement the instruments. On this basis Anderson could have worked his way through the local Chinese takeaway menu for me rather than the recollections of a dream he later claimed drove the title track.
The album and its complexity seems bewildering for an age that luxuriated in 12 bar blues and songs about girls in red dresses. We start with a building yet intense cacophony of birdsong giving way to a complimentary guitar echoing the high pitched frenetic sound. All the time the fabulous jazz loping and compelling drums of Bill Bruford provide the foundation before Jon Anderson unleashes his harmonics. You start to notice the bass lines underpinning the rhythm with a fat spelshing thump of a sound.
We wait for over 11 minutes before Rick Wakeman makes a grand appearance on organ by now we have several distinctly different tunes welded together separately in the studio by Eddie Offord. (He was originally their live sound engineer but went onto become a producer of choice for many rock bands).
Over 14 minutes of captivating rock, an imposing track.
“Down at the end, round by the corner
Close to the edge, just by the river
Seasons will pass you by
I get up, I get down…”
And You And I begins with acoustic guitar and an echoing organ chord way back in the mix. It is altogether lighter in tone and instrumentation. The melody weaves it’s magic throughout with the chorister clarity delivery of Anderson. Wakeman can dominate anything with his ability to create a symphony with a handful of keyboards in front of him this he does as the song and rises into a wall of sound before the folk song resumes.
Siberian Khatru ends side two with Squire’s bass thumping away whilst harmony vocals recall some nonsense. Of course Howe carries the melody with Wakeman ever present, not least, on an occasional harpsichord. (Anderson had no idea what Khatru meant at the time of composition…)
An endlessly satisfying 38 minutes with its selection of melodies, remarkable musicianship, jazz like complexity, mind boggling creativity and simply a bench mark for any Prog rock act to try and emulate for the following 45 years.
Courtney Marie Andrews came into my life thanks to Vinyl Eddie’s in York. I was swapping notes with a bloke about Americana. He was there thumbing through the new releases. He was acquiring the latest Steve Earle LP, something I had first hand experience of thanks to reviewing it for the Americana Music Show. He recommended this album and I dutifully invested. What a beautiful 36 minutes and 39 seconds Honest Life is.
Recommendations are the finest way to discover music and this is a gift. Ten tracks that might fall into a number of genres including ‘Singer Songwriter’, ‘Folk’ and ‘Americana’. Her distinctive voice and delivery is reminiscent of Joni Mitchell and Joan Baez. However that comparison is a a heavy load to bear and she is her own voice. You are drawn in to the delivery and expression as well as the words. A comment on Joni was that if you were her lover then you would end up sometime later in a raw and emotional lyric, I can’t help but wonder how many beaus are nervously playing this album.
The instrumentation is always simple and delivered by a gentle rock band – drums, piano/ organ, bass, guitar and harmony vocals but they seldom intrude on a vocal performance that commands the centre stage. Equipped with a mellifluous tone and killer tunes each track is captivating. She wrote all the songs and has the talent to find a wonderful tune and lyrics that are life stories mainly about her tribulations in love. Clearly at the tender age of 26 she is serving her apprenticeship in matters of the heart.
“Only In My Mind” starts with Joni’s Blue era piano and the vocal recounts a failed love story as luscious strings accompany her through her delusions. “Not The End” introduces pedal steel, clearly this is one of the greatest pieces of machinery known to mankind, and again our heroine reflects on the lover she adores and seeks reassurance that she is not about to pass into his past. “Table For One” brings the lonely life of a touring musician into sharp relief. Homesick, eating and drinking alone, straddling the immense distances of the US and missing her lover: we enjoy the lilting acoustic track underpinned by pedal steel bringing sweetness to the bitterest of stories.
Irene has a soaring vocal and concerns itself with advice to a friend who lacks confidence in the direction her life is taking her. She doubts she has control over the choices available. Organ and guitar have their tasteful moments as the rhythm finds your hips.
If this doesn’t grab your attention then you don’t have any handles and this will be on my ‘end of year’ list.
I was taken by surprise of what a trip down memory lane the destination would be. I seldom go anywhere in the city of my birth, Leeds, nowadays. The venue for the concert – Seven Arts in Chapel Allerton is nearly next door to the first Primary School I attended over 55 years ago – Chapel Allerton Primary School. Memories flooded back such as making a clockwork bear walk through puddles in the playground: not the best thing for a primitive mechanical device to do. Also I spent a couple of undergraduate summers working at a stores depot for Leeds City Council just around the corner from here. However nostalgia apart I made my way to the venue quietly thrilled that one of the best Americana acts of 2016/17 were playing on my proverbial patch.
This was Amanda Anne Platt & The Honeycutters first ever UK tour and Seven Arts, in Leeds, was privileged to be their second stop. With a four piece band to back her Platt took to the stage in this small but packed venue and launched into “Birthday Song”. This was the first of several songs off her latest critically claimed eponymous titled album. The album has gained traction in Americana circles in the US but it is clear, as she ran through songs off this and the preceding two albums, that she’s been producing exquisite Country Americana for some years now.
The UK seems to be an adventure and Facebook posts recording the delights of discovering steel rather than plastic teaspoons in her hotel room and the possible pleasure of eating fish and chips and finding a real British pub suggests that this adventure may spawn a song or two but it is certain that Platt will garner some new fans in the Old World.
Whilst her vocals and observational lyrics are the focus throughout then she is blessed by a band that sympathetically and expertly fit around her. As Platt strutted her stuff up front then the band shared ‘off camera’ grins and nods as they took their solos. This is a bunch of pals on tour with an easy dynamic.
Matt Smith switched regularly between electric guitar and pedal steel. To the delight of the audience this came to the fore during “Texas ‘81” where its tones were as much a siren as her beautiful voice. Evan Martin underpins the sound with keys/organ throughout especially on “Diamond In The Rough”. Platt played 22 songs over two sets and highlights were frequent and many but “What We’ve Got’ reached a certain intensity that lit up the crowd and “Me Oh My” was truly rousing.
The audience enjoyed the vistas of Texas, Carolina, Indiana and places a long way west of Yorkshire but they also enjoyed the banter about her anxiety of eyebrows on a video shoot or the preponderance of deformed villains in Warren Beatty’s Dick Tracey movie!
For a couple of numbers the band left the stage whilst she sang a couple of songs alone with an acoustic guitar – “Learning How To Love Him” and “Angeline”. This stripped down sound was a joy along with the acoustic final number “The Road” with Rick Cooper (bass) and Josh Milligan (drums) providing harmonies on the chorus. She has a way of expressing the emotions and troubles of every day folk and to have her close her eyes and tell you with her head tilted to one side and the lights dimmed was like receiving a private audience with a sage.
Firstly, ‘Wife Report’ – it may not come as a surprise to learn that I have been promoting the idea of the present Mrs Ives getting a job to more usefully occupy her time. I was pulled to one side last week to have critical advice imparted to me by my bride. I was overfilling the kettle and as a consequence boiling water that I didn’t immediately need. This apparently has implications for our monthly electricity bill. I feel that such wisdom must be sorely needed elsewhere as I certainly have had my fill (geddit?)
Other pearls of wisdom from the opposite sex were given at Tesco. At the self check out I had in some way caused the till to seize and advice was given by the bloody machine to ‘call for assistance’. At this point I did express, loudly, some displeasure. A matronly figure sashayed toward me with a bright “Good morning’ resplendent in her Tesco uniform. Sensing my irritation at the inanimate object causing me distress she opined ‘its because of the biscuits in your bag’. I was grateful for her diagnosis and replied “I bet you say that to all the boys’.
The Favourite Youngest parted company with her first car (Twiga) this week although it put up a fight to stay! Sophie has been promoted and is now slumming it in a company BMW. I was detailed to sell the Peugeot 107 and we had an interesting week. AutoTrader chucked up two traders who pretended to be buying it for their family. Despite an asking price of £2,250 one said £1,700 was their offer.
As the week passed and no one contacted us I took it to a small independent dealer in York. He hummed and harr-ed and then returned to tell me all the things wrong with the car and, through sucked teeth, generously offered £1,500. Sex and travel came to mind as I exited the showroom.
We reduced the price to £2,100 and continued to pray for calls. One of the earlier dealers rang again to offer £1,750 but there was hope in sight when a young lad rang saying he’d bring his dad for a spin and he only lived 15 miles away.
They duly turned up and had a drive in biblical rain and offered £1,800. They seemed quite firm but before we could start haggling Sophie, home for the weekend, took a firm stance on £1,950 and ‘hope’ turned on it heels saying they had another car to look at and they’d let us know.
Next day a text arrived saying that they had found another car. Glum with this news I contacted Evans Halshaw and asked if they were interested. We got an email saying they would at a price of £1,886 subject to inspection and a drive. The car was presented and we expected the usual catalogue of reasons to reduce the price but hopefully something interesting would ensue. To her undisguised delight (she should never play poker for money as her face was a picture of joy) they offered £1,890. She accepted and Twiga was gone.
Lastly the photo below is magic and truly is the wisdom of… some women.
I read somewhere that Rock was dead. As useless as that sounds then when you note that U2 are touring an album they made 20 years ago, The Who have a residency in Vegas and your inability to name the last great Rock album released since 2010 then it might be true.
With this rattling around my head then I checked to see what was one of the last Rock albums that I bought and that I still revere today and came up with one by Dawes. Never heard of them? Read on…
This troupe come from Los Angeles and have five releases to their name and in 2013 released Stories Don’t End. What a great album in the mould of Steely Dan meets Jackson Browne and Paul Simon. I’m always drawn to a tune and this band never fail to find a melody that is often delivered with a harmony vocal. The arrangements rely on guitar, bass, keyboards and drums but always delivered tastefully as if the practitioners are so accomplished that the sound serves the album rather than needing any grandstanding.
Guitarist and lead vocalist Taylor Goldsmith writes all but one of the tracks and his observational lyrics are perceptive about the ordinary lives we live. He has the gift for creating a situation that is common but unusual; from here you slip seamlessly into his world. “From A Window Seat (Rivers and Freeways)” tells the story of having that window seat on a flight and wondering about the lives and reasons for travel of his fellow passengers and the dream he has whilst he dozes. This stream of consciousness is paired with a superb upbeat rock track redolent with lead electric guitar flourishes.
“Someone Wil”l is an unrequited love song about a man who falls for a girl he imagines telling of his affections but has to concede that if he doesn’t tell her of her desirability then someone will. Again Goldsmith’s mellifluous tones come to the fore against a Graceland era Paul Simonesque tune with a prominent bass line from Wylie Gelber.
The riff/guitar signature of 2013 is unleashed on your ears on “Most People”. Again more lyrics about someone having views that she alone thinks she holds but frankly… most people do. The pace and sparsity of the sound of the band behind allows Goldsmith to deliver his heartfelt analysis whilst the bass anchors the song, and then comes the killer riff.
From The Right Angle has the opening stanza:
“You have found me on the other side
Of a loser’s winning streak
Where my thoughts all wander further than they should”
You know you’re onto a winning track especially when we put it with a great tune.
Throughout we have a very perceptive observer who’s never quite sure of his worth but certainly able to assess the worth of others telling you about the things that seem plain in front of him. You will listen.
I’m not sure how these guys have not made greater strides towards world domination but at least now you know what you’re missing.
Tony Ives’ Blog 