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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Ruth LaMaster, resident of St Louis, had three previous albums but wanted to move up a level with the next. To do this she persuaded drummer, Blues Rock producer and Grammy winner, Tom Hambridge, to lead the team. Magic ensued. Tom Hambridge has sat in with many luminaries and recent production credits include Buddy Guy and Mike Zito’s last barnstormer, Make Blues Not War. She knew what she was doing with this recruitment.
The calibre of musicians is weapon grade with ex sidemen for Stevie Ray Vaughan, Eric Clapton and Joe Bonamassa. Hambridge places her up front; with that lungpower and charisma the results are fabulous. McMaster spends a lot of time on the road and it is no surprise the first track is “Barrelhouse Joe’s”. An easy swing rhythm tells you about ‘rolling till the break of dawn…’ and gives you a clue as to the type of night you might experience! Guitars and piano interplay.
“Far From The Cradle” (but we ain’t ready for the grave) allows the band to take it down for a 12 bar Blues. A wondrous guitar passage between Pat Buchanan and Rob McNelley leads off before Reese Wynams, on piano, takes his solo. The song was inspired by her father and her start at his bar where she used to sing. In the meanwhile we hear McMaster sing the hell out of the song. “My Heart Aches For You” is more slow Blues, an organ grumbles in the background before a beautiful picked guitar solo allows her to step away from the microphone to catch her breath. Think of a female Bobby ‘Blues’ Bland.
McMaster can sing at any volume and shows mellifluous tones when the lights are dimmed or delivering a stadium raunchy bellow if the song demands it. Pace changes demonstrate the flexibility and ability of McMaster to own the whole spectrum of the Blues.
“Estilene” is lively heartfelt advice to a ‘preacher’s daughter’ to leave married men alone (as it won’t lead to a long happy love). Hey, Ruth this is the Blues, so what did you expect? Out of the 12 tracks then nine are originals co written between McMaster and Hambridge but there is no doubt about the origins of “Whole Lotta Rosie”. Vintage AC/DC gets an authentic rerun. McMaster’s vocal is terrific with the rap introduction before the band hits the Australian groove. With a true Bon Scott plaintive howl she kills it.
A Willie Dixon compliment about her voice led to the name. He compared her vocals to a hurricane. He called it right. She’s not particularly famous and says she’s ‘humble and hard working’. Maybe this heat inducing 53 minutes can propel her to greater things.
The present Mrs Ives leapt out of bed this morning and threw back the curtains hoping to see snow. In fact I think it is another BBC pre-occupation. Lord, how they love floods, torrential rain, drought etc. It seems a way of keeping the BBC regions busy in posting footage of weedy little presenters stood in the middle of nowhere against a backdrop of falling snow whilst a Land Rover manfully drags a Vauxhall Corsa out of a ditch. So I’m not impressed. Well I wasn’t until I saw a Deliveroo bike rider spinning down a slushy road as large wet flakes descended on him as he wearily pedalled toward to some residential location to deliver a cold pizza. I like riding a bike… but respect.
I keep seeing references to one of my favourite boxsets – House Of Cards. The story being that Kevin Spacey has been sacked and it will now battle on without him. Frankly, it was out on its legs as regards the storyline before he was ‘outed’ as a sexual predator. However money talks and Robin Wright will soldier on with dwindling viewing figures.
The point I wanted to raise was that Hollywood seems to have many empowered females and men who Tweet or end up on platforms denouncing Trump, most things Right of Centre and sometimes worthy causes like land mines, African poverty and the like. They most certainly have now come out against Weinstein, Spacey and a whole raft of US TV personalities. Quite right too. But we need to cut to the chase as to the credibility of all these keyboard warriors on their own lives and the abuse around them in the industry.
Spacey and Weinstein must have been known, to men and women alike, as horrid and intimidating people who have abused, at will, for decades. Did it suit all and sundry to turn a blind eye to this appalling state of affairs? Of course it did! It all damages how interested I will be when their next Tweet tells me about some unbelievable political outrage.
As regards giving the old boy an outing I was instructed to point the Merc toward Chatsworth House near Chesterfield during the week. This splendid stately home was holding a Christmas market in the grounds as well as presenting part of the house with a Dickens Christmas theme. As expected there were plenty of opportunities to buy stuff. However, I have to report that after Anna’s skirmish with Chinese made products in Canada she is now very skeptical about all these ‘local crafts’. After leaving the House we found a farm shop on the Chatsworth estate and bought some delicious fresh produce. In fact the shop is nearly worth the drive alone.
Talking about celebrities then I went for a bike fit recently. Andy Fraser was the man who took all my measurements and then sat me on a bike jig and with lasers tried to get me set up right. So apart from learning that I am shrinking (don’t tell my youngest daughter who’s convinced I am a dwarf in any case), that I have one foot shorter than the other and have the hip flexibility of an oak tree it was all good. For the perspicacious amongst you then will note that he shares his name with a legendary bass player (of Free). So we got to discussing music and he plays in a band. They had their moments in the spotlight including playing a festival in Sandbach. At the said event they went on stage after Ray LaMontagne. I have to say that I have all the albums by this American Singer Songwriter; he’s wonderful. A quick look at Wikipedia revealed:
“In 2009 LaMontagne paid $1.05 million for a 103-acre farm in Ashfield, Massachusetts, the former residence of U.S. Ambassador William C. Bullitt, where he lives with his wife, Sarah Sousa, and their two children in the farmhouse built in 1830”.
Andy, it could have been so different.
So how many of you have been to a World Cup Final? The recent appearance of the England Rugby League team in the Final against Australia brought to mind my attendance in 1970. The Final was played at the Leeds RL Club ground. The game is noted for England’s defeat and it being an almighty punch up.
I was exhorted by the present Mrs Ives to try and empty the garage. It is undoubtedly full to the rafters including bikes and a car. Under scrutiny was a large oak box (and lid) that I had kept with a plan to transform it from a crate to furniture. Despite her observation of woodworm then I was still wavering about its retention until she hit a nerve – “doesn’t the Morgan have wood in it?” At this point a quick decision was made to take the box to the tip.
As I continue to live with a less than perfect knee then I volunteered to go for an MRI scan. This was done at a unit attached to the University of York. So I spent 20 minutes lying absolutely still whilst I was slid into a tunnel. For my £310 the images now get despatched electronically to somewhere in the world where a musculoskeletal expert looks at it and then sends it back to my physiotherapist. The results were not all that bad and hopefully I can delay ordering a wooden leg for some time to come.
Friday saw me in London meeting up with four old friends. The first, of the party, Neil I met in 1974 when we shared digs as we attended Manchester Polytechnic. The others were added in 1978 (Paul, Tim and Peter) when I worked for Ford Tractor Operations in Basildon. We dined at The Hawksmoor at Seven Dials and ran up a bill of £314 and one of the party had only one course and left early! Needless to say we met in a pub beforehand and some of us adjoined to one afterwards!
(Four friends Tony? The picture shows three? I’d love to report that Crockford was under the table paralytic but less excitingly he was hauled out early to help his wife with her West End coat shopping).
There is frankly nothing but joy about a Royal Wedding. In the scheme of things then they don’t ordinarily work out well but in the first instance you have to be pleased for the happy couple. What Meghan is marrying into seems beyond comprehension. For an independent and wealthy woman her life will now be a tabloid hell until her first child. She must love him. After motherhood then a woman in her forties with a young family will not be of great interest. Hopefully, in the interim, she can keep a naked Harry out of Las Vegas hotel rooms with other nubile women carrying mobile phones.
Like the rest of the nation then I wish them health and happiness… and a day off work for my daughters would be nice whilst we watch the wedding.
So through a cock up we visited Nürnberg a few days before the famous Christmas market. Anna had originally thought that it was being held on the dates we were visiting.
We discovered that it didn’t matter because if you can live without an acre of stalls selling small wooden figurines, glühwein and sausages then you’re not missing much. However, that being said then all I knew about the city was its awful Nazi history and the fact that my Favourite Youngest Daughter seemed to fly in here every month on adidas business. Their HQ is located nearby.Ryanair continue to delight. The flights were ludicrously cheap – £10 each way (which might have been a clue as to the fact the market hadn’t started) but the random seat allocator on the web site put Anna and I 12 rows apart. Of course this could be corrected for £4! The next joy was that Ryanair had the passengers embark through one door, at Manchester, leaving you to queue on the runway and steps whilst it rained. Passengers who had not been seat prioritised (you also pay extra for that) jostled for overhead locker space delaying others getting to their seat or getting out of the rain. Lovely.
Nürnberg greeted us with the famous ivory coloured taxis (not an Uber in sight) and we were whisked into the town centre accompanied by the Everly Bros, The Doobie Brothers and Cliff Richard on the radio. And they ask why we want to leave the EU?
We were staying in the old part of the city and close to all the sights. After checking into the excellent Hotel Five in the centre we encountered the other significant challenge of the trip – vegetarian restaurants. The legal statutes of Franconia (the Northern part of Bavaria) require a German to consume at least a kilogram of pork meat every 24 hours. All very well for me but unfortunately Anna forswore the ‘fleisch’ several decades ago. A lap of the restaurants offering schweinhaxe and quite a quantity of schnitzel but few nut cutlets. However the diner at the hotel came up trumps with a veggie burger. As always the quality of the English spoken by virtually anyone is shaming to the average Brit. Our waiter, of Vietnamese extract, spoke perfect English and this was learned at school.
The German climate, whilst cold is dry in winter (apart from when it is raining, cough) and many burghers can be found at outside tables drinking and, more worryingly, often smoking. This is quite a sight as even in the harder parts of the UK then being outside after dark in the winter isn’t a popular pursuit even for those fortified with alcohol.
Day 2 – The weather was cold but quite sunny and quite pleasant if wrapped up. Generating body heat was not a problem as the next morning I was led up a steep cobbled hill to the Castle (Kaiserburg). Quite a delightful building that very occasionally housed kings and emperors. These chaps rotated around their Bavarian cities collecting money from the well healed to fight their next war. It wasn’t very grand inside and I wouldn’t recommend shelling out to look around. There is continuing refurbishment on the building. It has to said that there is quite a lot of construction in Nürnberg generally and it was worth noting that this included the obligatory blokes in hard hats and hi viz loitering as one or two were actually doing something.
The old city (Altstadt) is very authentic and looks centuries old. Nevertheless this is a reconstruction since the 1940’s. In fact British and American bombing levelled 92% of it. By 1945 it was rubble. After the war the Germans painstakingly rebuilt it all. In fact Nürnberg was the second most bombed and destroyed German city of the war. The Allies targeted it because of its war effort supporting industry and it’s iconic status for the Nazis.
After our mountaineering then we did it again with, Regina, our tour guide. She led the 11 O’clock tour up the hill. She was a Finn but had been a resident for many years. Her talk didn’t skirt the ‘dark times’ but frankly we knew enough about WW2 that it held no real interest apart from some of the practicalities that befell the residents. Nürnberg, following the War, lost its industry, or it never came back, and today it is mainly service led. Tourism is popular and the Rhine-Main-Danube Canal brings cruises all the year round through the town. They disembark for, wait for it, glühwein, sausages and small wooden figurines. They also probably partake of the magnificent cake that you can find at many cafes. We felt it necessary to sample and in fact over the next couple of days did ample research. Delicious.
The town centre with its outdoor Germans was also a hive of joinery as all the stalls were being built for the market. The influx of tourists, mainly German is immense and the market runs all the way up until Christmas. Which brings us onto another interesting fact. The Germans appear to be quite interested in Christianity. In the UK it is in dramatic decline but here the churches appear quite well supported and references to religiosity seem more prolific. Regina advised that if you belonged to a church then tithes were collected at source – 8% of the amount you paid in tax went to the church you nominated. I can imagine active marketing campaigns for new membership!
The population of Nürnberg is 501,000 and whilst most live away from the old town then many do visit the large centre and it’s shops just across the small Pegnitz River, which splits the city centre. This was vibrant and at the weekend it came alive. On the pedestrianised streets were a lot of street vendors selling delicacies, vegetables, cheeses, flowers, sandwiches and the like. It was always buzzing.
Evening dining was later solved at a Vietnamese restaurant, which was delicious, and joy knew bounds when Sky News was found on Channels 1035 on the hotel TV. Only I would trawl through so many Channels! The hope was to learn more about the Ashes, which were not in complete disrepair at this stage of the series.
Day 3 – Anna led yours truly toward the railway station. As she pointed out you could tell we were getting closer to the terminal as we passed a large old hotel, Tourist Information, McDonalds and beggars. We were bound for Bamberg. Forty miles north of Nürnberg. Or were we?Negotiating the ticket machine resulted in obtaining two tickets costing over €38. Further review of the ticket revealed that one would have been sufficient and that we now needed two other adults and four children under the age of sixteen to get the full value of our investment. If that was a disappointment so was getting on the wrong train.
Let’s call her ‘Heidi’. She was quite gentle as Anna presented our tickets and enquired if we were on the correct train? We were not and although the train was going in the correct direction it was a sort of inter city train rather than the smaller affair that ran locally. So we were ejected at Erlangen. Now slightly uncertain about the tickets we decided to visit the ticket office. Yours truly was despairing at German efficiency as two little old ladies took an age at the counter to be served. I imagined judging by the engagement and activity of the assistant that they were exploring the cost and connections involved in travelling with a small farmyard animal from Erlangen to Motherwell via Athens on a long Bank Holiday weekend in 2019 paying with Bitcoins. Eventually a counter became free and in immaculate English the lady confirmed our new travel arrangements… and without prompting reimbursed me for the extra ticket we bought erroneously. “All good in the ‘hood” we both thought.
Bamburg has importance as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. For a short time it was the centre of the Holy Roman Empire and had religious importance and still today has a number of important churches and a monastery. My eye was drawn on Wikipedia to the golden years of the 17th century when about one thousand victims were claimed in the witch trials. Those crazy Bavarians.
So we wandered around had more coffee and cake and then ambled down an alley ostensibly heading back toward the barnhof. German architecture is solid and attractive but the level of graffiti is awful. For all their discipline then it appears that many youths take delight in spraying bollocks on beautiful emulsioned walls in a variety of colours. If I were a resident then I could be attracted to joining a vigilante group to coral these morons for some 21st century ‘witch trials’.
However, grumpiness was lifted by finding a second hand record store. The Germans do have some superb shops and other masochists who read my blogs know that I have driven to Stuttgart twice in the last couple of years to visit a brilliant shop there. Here I bought a German compilation album of a British band called East of Eden. It was pure nostalgia because I saw them supporting the Jack Bruce Band at The Queens Hall, Leeds on October 8th 1971.
On the train back to Nürnberg it was rammed with school kids. Anna deduced that they were weekly boarders who were let off early in the afternoon. I remember that I used to read books and listen to music on these journeys but now like the rest of the human race I scroll through rubbish on my mobile phone. If on leaving the EU we lose our free data roaming rights then I may get my life back when on holiday.
As compensation for being accommodating on Anna’s dining limitations I was allowed to select Bratwurst Röslein for dinner. This was a large hall with wenches in bustling red dresses over their white blouses who seated you at long wooden benches and proffered menus with dishes that were probably popular a couple of centuries ago. I had the pork schnitzel that covered the full plate and Anna had a potato goulash that didn’t seem to hit the sides, on the few occasions I looked up from my emptying plate and large wheat beer.
Day 3 – Rain! We had a morning to fill and the heavens truly opened. Anna thought the best way to avoid this was by going on a tour of caves under the city! There is quite a complex under the city that had two main purposes. The first was a place to ferment lager up until the mid 19th Century. The brewing process requires a cool temperature and as the average German drank 500 litres of beer/year back in the day there was a large industry to keep Fritz and Helga blotto. However after brewing didn’t necessitate being stored underground the mainly empty labyrinths were vital as an air raid shelter. Such is the network and its depths that it limited the death count to 6,800 in the war. This is still terrible but in the most bombed city, Dresden, it was nearer 25,000.
In line with our new protocol we proceeded from the sandstone depths to a café for another piece of cake before catching the metro to the airport. All went according to plan and we got back to Manchester on time.
Splendid. Get your tickets booked. We barely scratched the surface of all its delights.
Peach is an album that Blues aficionados will approach with caution. Reworking Robert Johnson and Blind Willie McTell songs is a dangerous business. However, the Lovell sisters do a great job, in fact I’m contrite for even doubting them. The renditions are hard-hitting and memorable.
The album includes five Blues covers and showcases Larkin Poe’s understanding of the genre with their energetic, sympathetic and passionate interpretations. If you add five fire-breathing Indie-flecked originals, you have a fine collection.
Larkin Poe comprises multi-instrumentalists Rebecca and Megan Lovell, Kevin McGowan (drums) and Tarka Layman (bass). Despite performing for some time then Larkin Poe is a relatively recent incarnation (2014). The story goes that after putting a few Blues videos online to a vociferous crowd they responded by recording an album of original compositions and Blues covers. What is clear is that they love the songs and have the authenticity and raw emotion to be convincing in producing Mississippi Delta and Southern standards.
Rebecca’s vocals have depth and presence; Megan sings harmony whilst coaxing mesmerising sounds out of her Rickenbacker Lap Steel. It is the masterful arrangements and high production values, which take this record to the next level. This is demonstrated on their own composition “Freedom”. A simple Rock riff starts proceedings and then the fuzzed-up drum and bass beat joins whilst a vocal chant completes the rhythm. The production separates every sound perfectly with the most important sounds are up front in the mix. “Black Betty” arrives with a North Mississippi Allstars type of arrangement. Instead of Luther we hear Megan tear up a storm. It was always an unstoppable song and certainly no brakes are applied here.
Son House’s “Preachin’ Blues” is played out against a thunderous back beat. The words never fail to have an impact – “I’m going to be a preacher, so that I don’t have to work”. If “re-imagining” is the right description then the original’s message remains intact whilst sounding very 21st Century.
“John The Revelator” would stop traffic it is so good. Rebecca’s slow vocals over an eerie backing nails the standard. It’s here that the quality of her voice shows its interpretative skills as she sits above a multi-handclap rhythm whilst an excoriating guitar clears a path.
The album finishes with an Alan Lomax-sourced 1959 cover of a prisoner gang song – “Tom Devil”. Very much a call and response refrain. There’s no cherry picking the hits by these two.
I’ve felt constrained of late about writing a journal. This was until the future ownership of Moores Furniture Group was sorted. I am a trustee of the pension scheme. The constraint was that I often get asked ‘what’s going on?’ at Moores and with the pension scheme. It felt very disingenuous to even discuss the subject let alone say ‘everything is fine’ whilst the company’s ownership was being changed.
My former employer has changed from being owned by Masco Corporation to Hilco, a Private Equity company. Not a very exciting development but the employees’ pension scheme has got, in effect, a new sponsor. As a trustee this change was subject to some discussions and in five weeks I ended up in London twice, Manchester once and Leeds three times. It involved too many emails to be bothered to count and a few conference calls. To give you a comparison then being a trustee usually involves going to Leeds twice a year and a lot of reading in between. The outcome was acceptable to all the parties involved and we move on. However, it was interesting to engage the grey matter on the types of thing I used to do.
In other serious news then my in-laws relocated to a residential home in Pocklington. This has entailed the selling of their home. Anna has been very busy with all that entails. I am on first name terms with the folk at the tip with the carloads of surplus pieces of timber from the garage and old tins of paint that a lifetime accumulates. (There is a good argument for my family to maintain my health to avoid the house emptying that will be needed when they cart me off.
On Facebook I am back to producing a few more ‘York In 30 Second’ videos, please take a look. I’ve added one on cats and the Solar System so far! Yes, I know – not much of a sales pitch.
Music continues to be a pre-occupation with a trip to London to see Nile Rodgers (he, of Chic) at the present Mrs Ives’ behest. Quite something to get 20,000 people to stand up for two hours dancing to classic 1980’s disco. I was even throwing a few shapes (in the dark you’ll be relieved to hear). This concert was after seeing Brandy Clark in Manchester with the Favourite Youngest Daughter. Brandy is working her way up to large venues as she tours with three albums now under her belt. However it has been a long road for a lady now into her forties to get to this level of celebrity.
This progress brought to mind one of the albums that I recently reviewed for The Americana Music Show. Randomly from a list I picked a group of talented bluegrass musicians from Boulder, Colorado called The Railsplitters. It is a great album (Jump In) with beautiful songs sang by a vocalist with a voice not dissimilar to Lily Allen’s. As they try and grow their audience they have ended up at Selby Town Hall on February 9th. It seems quite unreal that this is on their path to stardom but good luck and I can’t wait.
I have written about the podcasts that I listen to and have been a devotee of Nothing But The Blues for over six years. It was a pleasure to pop across to Market Weighton to meet up with the presenter, Steve Jessney, and to see two studios – his home den where he pre-records the show and then go to the radio station (Vixen 101) to see another show going out live (where they played me a Soul classic on request).
Prince Charles when pressed on who was his favourite ‘pop stars’ volunteered The Three Degrees. They performed at his 30th Birthday Party in 1978. So with this connection I was irresistibly drawn to follow, lead singer, 70 year old Sheila Ferguson on Twitter (cough) She is one of many artists who spend a disproportionate amount of the day seeking and re-Tweeting abuse for Donald Trump on the ‘echo chamber’ of Twitter. For all I know, it may a useful deployment of her time as all that lies ahead, at her age, are jigsaws, Strictly Come Dancing and Werther’s Originals. However, after her umpteenth re-Tweet of something derogatory she then Tweeted that there was such negativity in the world at the moment. I pointed out that she was generating it! Being a wise old bird she noted my advice. As you can see, I am now her mentor.
Kendell Marvel emerges from the shadows with the release of his first album, Lowdown & Lonesome. For a couple of decades he’s been writing hit records for the cream of Country music. Marvel says “I decided to make that record (Lowdown & Lonesome) once credible music started coming out again”. With Sturgill Simpson, Jason Isbell and Chris Stapleton being promoted by the mainstream then you can see why.
Marvel has writing credits for Gary Allan, Blake Shelton, Lee Ann Womack, Travis Tritt and George Strait (as well as Stapleton). However, the good news is that he’s kept back some gems for his own album.
The selection is pure early millennium Country, which includes sentimental classic tearjerkers and some full-bloodied rockers adorned with pedal steel and fiddle.
“Lowdown & Lonesome” kicks things off with a raw electric guitar riff that quickly finds a groove with Marvel sharing his lover’s lament. There is a strong infusion of Southern Rock and Blues. “Gypsy Woman” takes things down and a Hammond organ, sounding absolutely magnificent, underpins this slow rolling melody. On this and several other songs he sounds somewhat like Chris Stapleton but he is very much his own man. “Watch Your Heart” continues to show his gift for a slow song. Eventually this ramps up into an Allman Brothers style rock out with snatches of twin guitars and harmonica.
“Closer To Hell” betrays his day job for others. A classic Country song about being driven to drinking whilst guitars pick, twang or slide. This is always at a gentle lick with signature sounds bordering on comedy – despite this journey to purgatory.
Honky tonk piano on “Untangle My Mind” embellishes a standard upbeat song. Which was co written with Stapleton. “Hurtin’ Gets Hard” just about clambers over the other tracks to be my stand out. For a man who never chose to sing his own songs he has a rich and deep baritone that is often commanding yet yearning.
Lastly “That Seat’s Saved”: the title tells you alone that this is a barroom tale about a girl ‘that is all that and more’ who he’s hoping arrives to take her place beside him. The voice with pedal steel when combined is exquisite.
This is an exceptional record and for those of you who’ve become fans of Chris Stapleton and also regularly check the Internet for the next Jamey Johnson album then you’ll be thrilled to own this. Thank heavens he eventually concluded it was time to say his piece.
This is a complete tonic for jaded Country music ears. And who knows with his friends in high places and the Country pop sensibilities then this may get some decent radio exposure. Wonderful.
Travis Meadows’ life is frankly overwhelming. He’s suffered parental abandonment, childhood cancer, addictions/rehabs, many years of preaching and, not least, composing and playing some exceptional music. Somehow he seems to have lived every lyric that I have in my record collection.
First Cigarette is his third release and boasts some impressive collaborations starting with Jay Joyce, who literally has a ‘who’s who’ of Nashville talent using his production services – Keith Urban, Little Big Town, Brandy Clark & Eric Church, the list is much longer but you get the picture. After you’ve written hit records for Dierks Bentley and Jake Owens then you have a lot of Country song writing luminaries on speed dial and several appear in the credits.
So this is all bright and shiny Country pop? Well not at all although it does have some of that sensibility as regards a melody, a layered sound and some compelling words. We start gently with “Sideways” as Meadows sings with an acoustic guitar before the backing creeps in. The words set the scene for a trip through a life that has had its battles, defeats and victories – “If I could buy myself a conscience that wasn’t broken, Mend every fence I drove my hard head through, Re-lock all the doors I wish I never opened, Unlearn the things I wish I never knew, And it came through the bottle, It came out through my fists, It came out way to early, I wish it never did.”
Fasten your seat belt we may experience turbulence.
“Pray For Jungleland” obviously references The Boss but the whole album lyrically reminded me of the storytelling skills of the New Jersey deity. It is here that Meadows’ slightly straining but insistent and attractive voice brings a conviction and gravity to the rendition.
The title track “First Cigarette” has a stunning vocal as Meadows against a sparse arrangement tells of his reaching a point where he’s learned a lot of lessons and is able to cope with life and take simple pleasures. In fact he’s said that after kicking various addictions then he’s staying with cigarettes as his last remaining legal indulgence!
“Underdogs” sees the stadium raise their hands above their heads to clap in time with the hypnotic drum beat and roar out the chorus – “We are – we are, we are the underdogs”. After a little while I can envisage a skinny man wearing a denim shirt with long hair stepping forward for a few incendiary guitar licks before the spotlight fades on him and all the band find a microphone to sing out the song in unison. A simple lyric, a simple tune but a major impact.
“Pontiac” is back with Bruce and I reckon I would be trying your patience by quoting another lyric but this is a terrific Rock paean to someone who is finding their way through their emotional and material millennial adventures.
All the compositions really deserve a name check but suffice to say that the voice leads with a great tune, lyrics that make you want to catch every word and arrangements that showcase rather than swamp to compensate for any shortage of creativity or talent.
Much of the record could sit comfortably on a Rock station playlist. It isn’t Country, but there again who cares? The point is that you’re going to like this a lot.
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.
Tony Ives’ Blog 