Canally retentive

I've been away on a canal boating holiday! A very short one. Alright, a weekend. Well, a day and a night and a half a day.  It was very nice too, and despite the freezing wind which whipped around us intermittently, the weather was glorious.

Our lovely mates Bill and Jayne have bought a narrowboat, and invited us to come and admire it, so early on Saturday morning we set off for Oxfordshire.  The sun shone, the roads weren't too snarled-up with traffic, and we arrived almost exactly on time, to be greeted by our mates, offering cups of tea.  Marvellous.

As well as the four adult humans on board, there was a charming dog. We'd sent ours off to have a holiday with her family, and thus avoid the possibility of two excited dogs falling onto the canals.  Anyway, this is the lovely dog who lives on the boat with his owners:

He's a Bavarian Mountain Hound, and a more relaxed dog you'd be hard-pushed to find.

This is the boat, complete with gorgeous hand-painted bargeware bits and bobs:

We went from the boatyard, down the canal to Cropredy, where we went to the pub.  The Red Lion, as well as serving beer, selling excellent cheesy chips and housing a beautiful golden retriever called Shandy, has a guitar shop.  I had a chat with the guitar man, who also runs the pub, and he told me Rickenbackers are buggers to play. Yeah, I knew that.

Oh, they also had a funky clock on the wall:

A stroll around Cropredy, then back to the boat for drinks, pre-supper snacks, and then a mighty fine supper cooked by Jayne.

An evening of chatting, laughing, catching up on 30 years of friendship, then wrestling with the spare bed to allow us to get to sleep, followed by an early morning tea and Jaffa Cake-fest.  A leisurely stroll to the local shop, a look around the Cropredy battle-site memorial, and back up the canal to the mooring.

This little sign took my fancy.  You walk through the Hell Hole to get away from the church.

 The view up to the pub from the canal bridge.

Making way back towards a lock.  The pointy bit you see there is the front.  Sorry if I'm getting too technical.

I liked being in the locks, and I particularly liked this one; the gates look like the entrance to Mordor. In my head.

We passed this sad wreck, seemingly a victim of the storms, where I was intrigued by the musical instruments and amps left on board.  Just across the canal from it was a fallen willow tree, blocking the thoroughfare (is that the right term? I'm not sure) which had fallen across the canal and meant everyone had to risk bumping into the sunken boat to get past it.

As a favour to the canal-dwelling community, it was decided that on the way back down the canal Mr WithaY should wait in the front of the boat with a long trident/rake thingy, and a bill-hook, and when we got close enough to the fallen willow, he would hack away enough of the branches to clear the channel for other boaters.

What a great idea.  You can see the tree there on the left, making it difficult to pass the sunken boat safely.

We got close to the fallen tree, our stalwart captain held the boat in position, and Mr WithaY leant out of the boat with the bill-hook, lopping off the longer branches.  Most of them were so dry and brittle that they snapped at a touch, making his task easier.

Most of them.

Almost as soon as our captain cheerfully shouted "Don't drop the bill-hook in the water, mate!" Mr WithaY hacked at a branch that was NOT dry and brittle. No.  It was green and lush, full of bounce and vim.  So much bounce and vim, in fact, that on contact the bill-hook bounced off with some violence, causing Mr WithaY's hand to release his grip on the handle, and it dropped into the canal with a gentle "sploosh."

Dear readers, there was some bad language.

Fortunately, our sensible (and experienced) boat-owners had a large magnet on a length of cord, and after a little bit of fishing, the bill-hook was recovered, none the worse for wear.

The remainder of the journey to the boat yard was completed with the bill-hook and trident securely stowed away, in no danger of falling in the water.

This is the boat yard, where they had HUGE chickens roaming around outside.  I look forward to seeing it again on a less chilly afternoon.

In other news:  I am pretty much fully recovered now, and am able to drive, carry stuff, lift things (carefully) and walk the dog again, so I am much happier.

I've rediscovered my desire to sew, and have been cutting out all the bits to make a shirt.  Today I went down to the excellent Hansons Fabrics in Sturminster Newton and had a good old poke about.  Tomorrow I shall start actually sewing all the bits together, and by the weekend I plan to have a funky new shirt finished.

It's all go here.

WaterWorld

Well yesterday was exciting.  Mr WithaY was off out working, and after we'd walked the dog, he headed off by about 9am.  So far so good.

I pottered around in the kitchen for an hour, doing the usual domestic drudgery stuff, but that came to a grinding halt when I realised that we had no water coming out of the taps.  To be specific, there was no hot water coming out of the kitchen tap, and the barest trickle of cold water.  There was no water at all upstairs.

I went over to the petrol station and asked if they still had water.  Yes they did.   I asked our immediate neighbours if they had water.  Yes they did.

Oh good. Just us without, then.

In the course of the conversation with the neighbour, he told me that there was a "huge leak" in the village somewhere, which the people at Wessex Water had been looking for for months.  My heart sank. I telephoned Wessex Water and told them that I had no running water, but the neighbours did. They were very helpful and said that they'd send someone out "soon."  

Sure enough, a short (ish) time later, a large smiley man knocked on the door.  I took him round to the back garden and showed him what I had discovered - namely that the hole in the patio where the main water stop-cock* is sited was completely full of water, and a small spring could be seen in one corner, making a pretty cascade across the garden.

He stripped off his high-vis coat and plunged an arm into the water to turn off the water at the mains.  A few moments later, his hand emerged, clutching the broken stop cock.

"Ah,"  he said.  "That's not supposed to happen."

We agreed that it was unfortunate, standing out in the rain as he tried to massage life back into his arm.  Apparently our cold water is really, really cold.

He sucked his teeth.  I hopped from foot to foot anxiously. Water continued to cascade across the patio into the lawn, making an impromptu bog garden feature.

"Well, the guys are on their way," he told me.  "I'll wait in the van till they arrive."  Off he went.

Some time later, two chaps arrived with a lot of digging equipment, and a small pump.  Things got noisy.  A large hole was dug.  More water was pumped out of the hole and across the garden.  The dog was beside herself with excitement, so I only took her out into the garden when she had her lead on, as I didn't want her to run into the way of the workmen, or, more worryingly, run out of the garden if the gate had been left open.

After a couple of hours, the workmen showed me the water pipe they had extricated.  It looked like a long cylindrical colander, peppered with small holes, one huge hole at the end.   Apparently it must have been leaking for years, which explains why the patio is in such a terrible state at that end of the house.  The good news was that the pipe can be replaced. The bad news is that there's more pipe, probably in a similar terrible state, running up into the house, and anything inside the house is our responsibility, not that of the Wessex Water people.

Arse.

Another prolonged period of drilling, pumping and stop-cock jiggery-pokery** followed, and the workmen told me that the water "ought to be working ok" now.

Nope.  They then tried to rejig the water softener that lives under the kitchen sink in case that was the problem.  Nope.  They sucked their teeth and hummed and hawed.  One of them said "This looks like a pretty new kitchen.  I don't suppose you'll want to have all these cabinets cut out, do you?"

No I fucking won't.

The long afternoon wore on, the rain continued to piss down relentlessly, and I was still without running water.  The workmen rigged up a sort of interim system involving long plastic tubes which at least allowed me to use all the taps in the house, and left, having called the Wessex Water plumber to come and "sort it out for you."

I took the dog for a walk, despite the monsoon that West Wiltshire was currently enjoying.

On our return, the plumber rang and said he'd be there in 15 minutes.  Sure enough, he arrived as promised, and I explained the situation to him.  He looked at the water softener, then at me.  


"I'm really not sure why they called me in, to be honest," he said.  "I don't think the water softener is the problem here."  I agreed, but for the look of the thing we went through a complex rigmarole of turning taps on and off as he fiddled with various stop-cocks under the sink.  After a few minutes of this, we agreed that the water softener was indeed functioning fine, and the real issue was the perforated water pipes under the house.


So, that's how things have been left.  The workmen promised that they'd be back today to finish up, but so far there's no sign of them.  My back garden is still a tangled mess of bright blue pipework, bags of cement, heaps of spoil, and of course all the crap we took out of the garage and stacked on the patio till we could find a home for it.


And of course, it's still pissing down.


In other news, the dog is brilliant.














*Sorry. It's hard to talk about this without using many, many double entendres.
**Told you.

Nothing ever happens

Notable events of today:

1) Completed all of the ironing whilst watching a dreadful sci-fantasy film about dragons and that. Shame on you, Jeremy Irons, what were you thinking?

2) Did an impressively competent job of mending a right-angle rip in one of Mr WithaY's shirts. I quite like mending, it's like dressmaking without all the tiresome cutting out and machining of seams.

3) Ran around the house unplugging electrical appliances when there was a thunderstorm this afternoon. I look forward to discovering what I forgot to turn back on over the next day or two.

4) Bit a huge - seriously huge - lump out of the inside of my cheek whilst eating an apricot. I was spitting blood into the sink for half an hour afterwards. Nice.

Mr WithaY is away for the week. I'm lonely. Does it show?

Careful now

Another week without a post. Oh dear.  I was lying in bed this morning, wide awake at 0700, listening to the alternating rumble of huge lorries heading for the coast and the deep, penetrating barking of next door's dogs, pondering why this happened.

I mean I was pondering.  I don't think the dogs do much pondering.  Is it lack of material?  That's never stopped me before, admittedly. 

Lack of time?  Yes, possibly.  I am spending far longer than I used to at work, I don't post on here while I am in the office (which I did sometimes times when I worked locally, and had "proper" lunch breaks) and I find the hit-and-miss posting from an iPhone on the train too annoying.  I have, on a few occasions, drafted a post which I thought was mildly amusing, tried to upload it and lost it completely.  It's probably got more to do with my technical ineptitude and an intermittent 3G connection than with my iPhone deliberately trying to sabotage me, but even so, it pissed me right off. 

Lack of inspiration?  Yes, at times.  Sometimes I have a brilliant, yes, I said it, brilliant idea for a blog post, but by the time I get home and onto my PC, the initial excitement has faded and I end up with yet another "What I did on my holidays" style post.  Not satisfactory.

Lack of enthusiasm?  Hmm, yes.  When I do sit down to write a post, I enjoy doing it.  I tend to bash it out in one go, check for obvious spelling mistakes and then press the "fire and forget" button.  I don't make heavy weather of it, once I get on with it.  It's the getting round to doing it that makes me go "hurrr" and wave my arms about like Kevin the Teenager.  Procrastination and all that.  I have been thinking about what to do about it, and other than taking a break from blogging to recharge my creative batteries, I can't really come up with any suggestions.  And, when all's said and done, a week without a post is a little break, I suppose. 

I don't fancy making a slightly drama-queeny "I'm stopping blogging for a while" announcement, because that seems to be asking for people to comment and tell you how much they love your work, or how much they'd miss you, or that reading your blog is the only thing that drags them back from the abyss of despair on a regular basis, much like a child threatening to run away from home just so that someone will stop them.   

Anyway, I love the fact that people I don't even know read this, and sometimes they bother to comment.  It really does make my day when I get a comment or two, and I like knowing that other people are enjoying the stuff that comes out of my head.  And, when I started blogging it was just for me, so it oughtn't to matter how often I post, really.

Was there a point to this?  I can't remember. 

Other news:  My cold is better, my ankle is mending nicely, and work is still interesting.

The physiotherapist told me this week that my ankle WAS fractured after all.  She can tell that because when she put the ultrasound thingy on it, I went "Gaaahhhhhhhhh!"  This week she had turned it up on high power, so it hurt.  Last week it was on low power, and didn't.  So, it turns out that when I fell over, I broke my ankle, damaged most of the ligaments in my foot AND made a fool of myself.  Now that's what I call falling over.  I make sure I get my money's worth, me.

Oh, and I didn't see the Pope.  I saw all the crash barriers, and the stage they put up outside Westminster Cathedral, but no pontiff.  Plus I had to get the Tube to Waterloo on Friday as my bus was cancelled in honour of his visit, or something.  This is why religion causes wars.

Is it just me, or did anyone else keep having Father Ted flashbacks every time the Pope was on TV?






 

Recovering

I have discovered the bus, of late.  It's much easier than the Tube and MUCH cheaper than a taxi.  And, also, I can hop off and walk the remainder of the way to the office down Victoria Street, which is helping to keep my ankle on the road to recovery.

So, yeah, the ankle.  I went to see the doctor about it a week ago, as it was still swollen and tender, much like an unpleasant fleshy grapefruit.  Also, when I went downstairs first thing in the morning, stabbing pains assailed me, making me stop in my tracks and shout "Ow! Fuck it!"

Not a great start to the day.

So.  back to the doctor I waddled.  He was very nice, poked my foot, commented on how swollen it was compared to my non-mutant foot, and told me to get some physiotherapy.  I had the choice of waiting for a referral to an NHS physio (free but probably several weeks wait) or paying for a private session that I could have very soon (ooo-er matron).  I went private. 

The phyiso told me that I have severely damaged two of the three main ankle ligaments, although not the one she was expecting to be damaged, also the ligaments that go across the front of my foot, out to the toes.  That explains all the bruising and swelling of that bit of my foot, then.  She's shown me some exercise to do that will help to break up the scar tissue on my ligaments (ugh), build up the "wasted" muscles on one bit of my calf (ewww) and improve bloodflow to the "inflamed joint"  (ack). 

Oh, and she rubbed gel on my foot and did ultrasound.  That's like normal sound, but for SUPERHEROES.  She has strapped me up with gaffer tape (or the medical equivalent) to encourage me to walk around more.  I might post photos if I can work out how to take some at a non-terrifying angle.

Anyway, it's all mending and I am not limping any more.  The physio showed me how not to, and I have told everyone at work that if they see me doing it, they are to tell me off.

So far, so good.

Other news:  I've had a FANTASTIC idea for a film.  It's about a group of people in transit in a confined space, unable to get out or away, with a terrifying, venomous creature (or creatures) in there with them.  The working title is "Wasps on a Bus!", and I think Samuel L Jackson ought to be involved.

Spam spam spam

Quick note for those of you who comment.  And for anyone else who might feel like leaving a comment at some point in the future, I suppose. 

Due to the sudden proliferation of shite comments being submitted on very old posts, ranging from links to other "blogs" which in fact are no such thing, to adverts for all manner of dodgy crappy stuff, I have now made some changes to the comments regime on this blog.

If you want to comment on a post that is more than 14 days old, it will get moderated, as it does now.  If you leave a comment on a post that I have made within the last 14 days, you'll get the word verification thingy to fill in, rather than the moderation that I used to do.

Ha.  Take that, robot spammers.  Like an old-style Dalek confronted with a steep flight of stairs, your reign of terror* is over.  OVER.

And on the plus side, people can publish their comments whenever they like, no longer having to wait for me to get round to it.  Life is good. 

Other news:  First week back at work in London was ok.  I still can't walk very far, but I am trying to walk further each day, and to limp less.  Worryingly, my ankle now hurts quite a lot on the other side of my foot - the bone on the inner side, rather than on the outer side.  If it hurts as much by the middle of the week I am going back to the doctor.  It's still swollen as well, and looks like more bruising is coming to the surface.  Ugh.

Also, had my first guitar lesson last night, after a 3 month hiatus.  It was great.  GREAT.  My gorgeous guitar teacher is also recovering from an ankle injury, although his was much more scary and dramatic.  He told me all about it last night.  Apparently the snap of his ankle breaking could be heard all the way across the cricket pitch.  Gah.  I tried to listen but it was so awful that my ears closed up at certain points, so what I actuall heard was:

"Blah blah lucky there was a paramedic in the cricket crowd blah blah blah intravenous morphine blah blah dislocated AND broken blah blah sedated while they put it back in place blah blah delayed the surgery blah blah a week in hospital blah blah blah."

Brrrrrrrrrrr.




*Well, ok.  Your increasingly-irritating spam emails.

Eating out

You'd think that going out for lunch would be a straightforward exercise, wouldn't you?  Leave the house at about lunchtime, travel somewhere that serves food, have some food, come home?  Easy. 

Even when you factor in the relative immobility of one of the people involved, how hard is it to go out and eat?  Not very, would be the answer.

Well, that answer would be WRONG, my friend, wrong.  West Wiltshire on a Tuesday lunchtime is a desert.  A food desert.

Admittedly, Bestest Mate and I have previous form in this area.  It has been known for us to go out for dinner, drive miles, sit and wait for hours fruitlessly*, and then end up eating a home-delivered pizza at 11pm because things went terribly, bizarrely, wrong in an entirely unpredictable manner.

So.  We hopped (in my case literally) into the car and drove out to a local farm shop where they serve nice lunches.  But wait!  What's this?  It's closed on Monday and Tuesday?  Arse!  Not to be daunted by such a minor setback, we continued on our way.

Every so often there would be a conversation as follows:

Me:  Ooh, I've never been down this road before...I think it might lead to FUCK SLOW DOWN a nice pub HORSE! HORSE! yes, there it is...shall we stop there?

Bestest mate:  Looks shut.  Let's take a closer look.

Me:  Mind that bloke...THAT BLOKE THERE...yeah it's shut.  Arse.  Keep going on this road...there'll be another pub in a HORSE! minute.

And so the long day wore on.  He's not a really terrible unsafe driver or anything, I was just a bit jumpy, what with not being able to drive at the moment, and my ankle hurting like hell every time we went over a bump or round a corner. 

We drove the entire length of the Wylye Valley, only finding pubs which were shut, occasionally glimpsing a pretty church or row of thatched cottages which we ignored in our feeding frenzy.  Eventually we turned onto the main road back towards the village, and decided to stop at the rather splendid Indian for lunch.  It was just closing. 

Nothing for it but to head back to the house, and go over to the local pub for a sandwich then.  But no...they'd stopped serving food.  Admittedly by the time we got there it was after half past two, but we still felt disgruntled. 

We ended up having a sandwich back at the house, and watching a DVD** while I sat with my foot up and whined how much my ankle hurt.

On that subject, I went and had an X-ray earlier this week, and got the result over the phone from a nurse this morning.  Apparently there is no "obvious bone damage" but there is "significant soft tissue damage".  And, helpfully, because I had the accident 3 weeks ago if it was a slight fracture it would be healing by now and might not show up on an X-ray.  So.  Probably not broken, but possibly broken.  Yeah, that helps. 

I can hop around a bit more easily, but I still can't drive as I can't hold my foot in any other position apart from "flat on the ground" without a good deal of discomfort, and stabs of pain in my anklebone.  So I am wiggling it about in short busrts, and taking painkillers when it starts to really play up.

God, I'm old.  Nothing works properly these days.





*also meatlessly, fishlessly, chiplessly and puddinglessly

**Tropic Thunder.  He hadn't seen it, and I still find it amusing.

Stale custom

Gah I'm bored.  Bored bored bored. 

Being unable to drive or move around much is really dull.  Who'd have imagined it, eh? 

Even my longstanding love affair with the Internet has worn thin...custom has staled its infinite variety, and laughing at cats with things on their heads no longer seems to be enough.  I never thought this day would come.

It's like the end of something beautiful, it really is.  Well, till tomorrow when I will find it all hilarious again.

The highlight of my day today?  Making some redcurrant jelly, using the entire crop from our garden.  Mr WithaY harvested the berries yesterday, I boiled them for about 20 minutes in water till they were all squishy, then we set up a complex arrangement of upturned chairs, elastic bands, muslin cloths and a huge bowl, and left them to drip overnight. 

I did my cooking bit whilst standing on one leg, leaning on the cooker or the kitchen counters, in case you were wondering. 

Today I carefully measured the amount of juice (half a pint), added the appropriate amount of sugar (half a pound) and boiled it till I got bored (about 12 minutes).   

Hey presto, a really small amount of redcurrant jelly. 

Other news:  Bugger all.  My ankle really hurts, I can't stand on it for any length of time, and getting up and down the stairs is a trial. 

We dog sat yesterday for some friends, well for their dog, really, who was charming and well behaved.  Other than the whole "stealing a shoe and running up the garden with it" incident, that is.  But, it was an isolated outbreak and we made him sit in the garden afterwards and think about what he'd done.  That'll learn him.

Bestest Mate is coming to visit tomorrow; he is threatening to take me to Casualty in Salisbury and make a scene until I get crutches and/or an X-ray.  I will distract him with tea and chit-chat. 

We have decided that we are officially old now.  We had a chat about the best places to buy walking sticks last time we spoke on the phone.  Maybe we'll go shopping tomorrow.  I can sit in the car while he checks out the best stick bargains.

I can't wait.

Nantucket - The Fracturing

Soooo you know this sprained ankle I got on holiday?  When I fell over like a fool in Nantucket? 

Yeah, you remember. 

Anyway, it's been two weeks since the whole pothole of DOOOOOOM incident, and although the swelling has gone down a bit and the bruising has faded, it still hurts like billy-oh.  I rang the doctor's surgery on Monday to ask advice from the nurse there, who gave me some good advice (don't walk on it) and made me a conditional appointment to see the doctor on Friday if it was no better.

It was no better.

Mr WithaY came home from work early and drove me to the doctor, and dropped me off in the carpark outside, so I only had to hobble a few yards.  Once the traditional "awkward wait whilst chatting to people who might be horribly contagious" was over, I limped into the doctor's office.  Usually when I go to see my doctor it's because I have a chest infection, I am fortunate that very little else seems to go wrong with me*.   

He asked me what seemed to be the trouble, having watched me limp in slowly and painfully. I was tempted to say "My nose really hurts," but thought better of it.  I explained what had happened and unstrapped my ankle from the amazing neoprene and velcro techno-bandage I bought in America to show him the hideous offender.

He said "Hm, probably some nasty ligament damage.  I'll have a feel about.**"  A few moments of poking the soft tissue around my anklebone, asking "Does this hurt?  How about now?"  and me going "Nu-uh, nope, nothing," followed.

He looked at me.  I looked at him.  He poked my anke bone.  I yelped and went through the roof. 

"Ah," he said.  "That's probably a fracture, or a bone chip.  You need an X-ray so we can see how bad it is.  I'll refer you."

Well, to be honest, he first offered me the option of a "walk-in" at the big hospital in Bath, but as my gorgeous guitar teacher recently had 5 days of hell on toast in there with a broken AND dislocated ankle***, I declined.  I'll wait for an appointment at the local fracture clinic, which should come up in the next few days. 

So.  Still all strapped up.  Still not started my new job.  Still can't walk anywhere.  Still can't drive.  Unable to do much around the house, so even domestic drudgery displacement activity is out, I am getting bored. 

Suggestions for entertainment, please.

*Apart from the occasional violent bout of norovirus, which is frankly gross and terrifying

**Oo-er missus

***Playing cricket.  Honestly. 

Holiday snaps part 3 - Cape Cod

Finally!  The last leg of the mega-holiday, including such highlights as "Boiling in Provincetown", "Lobster II" and "Nantucket - The Spraining."  Bet you're glad you looked in, aren't you?

We drove back from New Hampshire, past Boston, taking in some of the famous Afternoon Traffic Queue On The Way To The Cape, which was a nice ambition realised.  Our friend was delighted to see us, which, considering we were going to be eating her out of house and home for a fortnight, was remarkably nice of her. 

The weather took a turn for the unfeasibly hot while we were on the Cape, temperatures of 30-plus degrees day after day, which meant that we lived in shorts and t-shirts, and all the clothes we'd packed for "cool evenings" were left mouldering sadly in our cases.  I had packed a selection of shawls, pashminas, scarves and even a cardigan. None of them were used once.

My joy at being back on the Cape was slightly tempered by the headlines in the local paper, all about how Great White Sharks were back, swimming around just off Nauset Beach chasing seals into the shallow water.  The sharks were spreading joy and excitement among the marine biologists, but also buggering up my plans to swim off Nauset Beach, and possibly get up close to the seals. 

To compensate for this mighty blow, we went out for another lobster dinner. 

There was some sort of salty old sea-dog band entertaining the diners with sea shanties and accordian music, and later in the evening, a solitary guitarist who wandered between the tables, playing mournful songs.  What made it even sadder was his tips bag, strapped to his waist.  If you wanted to tip him, you had to get up really close and drop the money in, a horribly intimate thing; he had the bag strapped to his belt, so you'd have been groping about in his trouser area.  Brrrrrrrrr.

We champed through our lobsters and sweetcorn, trying not to notice the minstrel and his trouser bag of woe. 

Also paid a visit to my arch enemy Dr Gravity's Kite Shop. 

He sells kites.  Including a kite shaped like a horse.  Can you imagine how terrifying it would be, seeing that bearing down on you from the sky? 

Plenty of other, less fearsome, kites too, though, as well as whirly things you hang in the garden.  We bought one with a lighthouse on it, and will adorn one of the many, many WithaY sheds with it. 

There's a lot of Nature on the Cape.  We went and looked at some of it up close.  There are several families of Osprey living in nest boxes in the marshes, and you can walk close enough to them to take a really blurry picture with a zoom lens.  Well, I was happy just to see them, to be honest.  One day when we were at the beach (not Nauset though, not with the fucking sharks, oh no matey, no thank you) we saw one flying along, looking for fish.  They're surprisingly large, and the big hooked beak looks like it could eviscerate you no trouble at all.  So don't piss off an Osprey, is my advice.

We also went to a beach with the most amazing boardwalk.  This was the latter part of the holiday after I'd sprained my ankle so I gimpily hopped along the first few yards, then gave up and sat on a bench while the others went all the way to the end. 

To infinity and beyond!  Our friend had very resourcefully found me an old broom handle to lean on as I walked, so I amused myself by waving it at them and saying "Fly, you fools! Fly!" as they went off to explore the far-away end of the boardwalk.  They, probably wisely, ignored me. 

The view from the invalid's bench was pretty nice too.

Look, here's me and Mr WithaY on the boardwalk.  You can't see my Staff of Leaning. 

And of course, there was the ill-fated, disaster-laden trip to Nantucket.  What a day.  On the high speed ferry out from Hyannis, my eye was caught by this advert in the free newspaper. 

I had no idea that Lung in Vomit was a Nantucket speciality.  Things went, quite literally, downhill from there, thanks to this...the Pothole of DOOM.  Yes, DOOM. Possibly even DOOOOOOOOOOM.

See that pedestrian crossing on the right?  I was walking across it, minding my own business, looking at the traffic (safety first!) when I must have put my foot in the hole, turned my ankle over and went down like a 5'10" sack of shite, not to put too fine a point on it.  I hit the tarmac, and once the initial "What the FUCK?" moment passed, realised I was:

(a) on the ground 

(b) in the middle of the road

(c) the centre of an alarmed crowd

(d) injured and bleeding.  Maimed, in fact. 

A kind lady was fussing over me, I was muttering "fucking hell" under my breath, the traffic was held up as there was a body in the road (mine), and the local police/community support/Scouts were mobilising into action.  It was like a scene from a disaster movie, but without the volcano. 

My day in Nantucket, therefore, consisted of hopping painfully between places, then sitting with my foot up, taking ibuprofin and whining loudly.  Here's me in a coffee shop that had free WiFi access, drinking an iced latte.

It's a rubbish quality picture because I took it on my phone and have no idea how to embiggen it without making it blurry.  You get the idea, though.

But, the main reason for the trip was the Whaling Museum.  And it was absolutely marvellous.  Here it is from the bench I sat on outside.

They have about a million exhibits, most of them made of bits of whale, some of them just wonderful.

I liked the huge Mobile Of Many Whales they have hanging in the front of the building.

They also have, in case you somehow manage to miss the whole whale-related theme, a skeleton of a whale that was washed up on the shores a few years ago.  It's HUGE and looks like a dinosaur.

The day in Provincetown was HOT, baby, damn hot.  I think it may have been the hottest day of the entire holiday, and we were out at sea, whalewatching for a chunk of it, thankfully.  My whale pictures are rubbish, but take my word for it, it was thrilling.

Here we are on the whaewatch boat.

And here's a whale, chilling out.

Once off the boat, we found a place to eat and sat panting in their airconditioned room, surrounded by very loud, very gay men, all having a fine old time.  I saw this as we walked through the town.

We did a sunset dune buggy tour, ending at a beach where we watched the sun go down (there was a clue on the name of the tour, really).  The dunes are unearthly, I liked them very much. 

Parts of them look like how I imagine the Veldt looks. 

Parts of them don't.

That teeny black speck on the upper right?  That's a seal.  Honest. 

Ok, I can sense that people are probably losing the will to live now with all the "what I did on my holidays" stuff, but to be fair, that's all that this blog has ever been about.  I reserve the right to post more photos as and when I feel like it though, I took loads.  LOADS. 

So, a picture I took out of the window of the plane as we flew home.  I might use it as an album cover when I get my arse in gear and become a successful professional musician*. 

Hello sky, hello clouds. 

I saw a crop circle from the air too, which was lovely, somewhere between Cardiff and Bath I think, but I was too slow and the clouds were too numerous to get a picture of it.

Other news:  I am off to the doctor to get my ankle checked out as it is still BLOODY painful and I can't walk any kind of distance, which is tiresome and slightly worrying.  I don't think it's fractured, but it's hard to tell, so I will feel better once it's been poked by a professional.  Ooh matron.

Also, went to Fat Club this week, and despite the lobster, butter, ice cream, fried clams, Reeses' peanut butter cups, nachos, cocktails and eggs benedict diet I followed, have lost 2 pounds while I was away.  So yay me.   

Oh, and to end, this was the sign outside Harwich library, where I borrowed their pcs a couple of times.  I think they just thought of random words that children would like and slapped them on a noticeboard.  I hope it worked. 

*Never. But in my head, one day. 

Holiday snaps part 2 - Maine and New Hampshire

Yes, more pictures.  But this time of Maine! And New Hampshire! So much travel, so little of America covered.

We left Boston on a cloudy Sunday morning, after a huge breakfast. We had been advised to use a small cafe down the street from the hotel, and their Eggs Benedict was superb.  

The trip to the airport to pick up the hire car was entertaining.  The courtesy bus, shared by three hotels in the area, was driven by a cheerful Jamaican man who was playing a Bob Marley cd.  He drove along, occasionally bouncing the minibus off small obstacles like crash barriers and kerbs as he tried to drive, sing, chat to his passengers and answer his mobile phone all at the same time.  He was most impressed that Mr WithaY and I had heard of Bob Marley.  So much so that I can only assume that most of his guests come from remote islands in the South Pacific. 

Delivered from the Jamaican rally drive champion 2010 we went to talk to the nice Alamo lady at Boston Airport.  She looked us up on the computer, checked that we had ordered a car, then looked us up and down quizzically.

"How far are you driving?"  she asked us.

"Oh, you know, up to Maine and back, then down to Cape Cod...around and about."

She shook her head sadly, and said "This car you ordered is no good...it's too small for you."  I wondered if perhaps we'd inadvertently booked a clown car.

"You need something bigger."  She looked at us again.  "Much, much bigger.  Tell you what, if you are willing to pay to upgrade one level, I'll upgrade you three."  We nodded.  She nodded.  It was a done deal.  Her colleague wandered over as we finalised the paperwork and she told him to take us outside and "pick them something nice" which I thought was very kind. 

The car lot was packed with all kinds of huge cars, but the one that we both spotted immediately was a Jeep.  So, we set off to New Hampshire in a Jeep Patriot, which was comfortable, economical, had fab aircon and a decent stereo.  Kudos to the Alamo lady.

I thought it was quite a big car, till we came out of LL Bean later in the trip and saw what had parked either side of it. 

Anyhoo, the drive up to New Hampshire was fun, once Mr WithaY remembered how to drive an automatic, and that they drive on the right, the RIGHT, darling, other side, over there. 

The placenames in New England are eerily familiar.  Amesbury!  Salisbury!  But in America!  How thrilling. 

We drove up to see our mates in New Hampshire, where over the next few days we went out for lobster and steamers, saw a chipmunk, went for a long hot walk along the Marginal Way, visited many, many shops, ate fab food with our friends, and went to a graduation party with hogroast.  The man roasting the hog was using a giant steel machine, all rotating spits and charcoal which he'd designed and made himself.  It was called the "Oinkmaster 8000" and he was justifiably proud of it.  The roast hog was delicious. 

Look, a chipmunk.

One day we went up into the White Mountains, and had a trip on the North Conway Scenic Railroad, on a huge train with a cowpusher on the front.  Mr WithaY and I had seats in the Pullman coach, slobbing out in wicker chairs as we chugged sedately through the countryside.  It's very green, with a lot of mountains, as you'd expect, including Mount Washington, famous for having the worst recorded weather in the USA.

In the Ladies at the North Conway Railroad Station is this sign:

I was rather hoping they'd have a T-shirt for sale in there that said "My girlfriend went to North Conway Scenic Railroad and all she bought me was a box of personal hygiene products" but I couldn't find one.

There's a museum in Conway all about the observatory up there, where they have a mock-up of the shack that you can stand in while the windspeed goes up and up and up.

The shack shakes, the floor moves, the snow flying past the windows blurs into white lines and the noise is extraordinary.

200 miles an hour, eh?  Better get the washing in, I suppose.  The museum had loads of interactive exhibits you could poke about.  My favourite was the Vortex of Doom.

You could change the movement of the wind with your hand, man.  With your hand.  It was, like, awesome.  I dicked about with it for ages.

The highlight of the trip into Maine was the visit to LL Bean, long planned and much anticpated.  It's got everything, including a giant boot outside.

I liked these.  A selection of things that make duck noises, and not just any old honker, but a MAGNUM honker for those situations when you need that extra magnitude of honkage. 

They also had the DUCK COMMANDER for people who need to take command of ducks from time to time.

And this, which I just giggled at like an idiot while Mr WithaY stood a little distance away tutting and telling me to stop being childish.

Moving on.

When you go out for a lobster dinner, they mean what they say.  You get lobster, butter, sweetcorn and that's pretty much it.  Maybe some steamers as well, but it is usually all about the Lobster. 

I decided not to get this one, as it would have cost about $200, and instead went for something a bit smaller.

They have some stunning sunsets over there.  This one was going on as I champed and nommed my way through the lobster.  I expect it made an uplifting background to a frankly unedifying and probably repellant sight, as shell fragments and butter flew in all directions.

On that note, I will end, as I have a bazillion photos and I daresay you're a bit tired of them for now. 

Other news:  My ankle is recovering slowly, although I still can't drive which is tiresome.  We've got the loft insulation blokes coming tomorrow so I hope that we will be able to put all our stuff back in the loft soon.  I think a car boot sale might be in the offing, as there's stuff in the loft we've not used since we moved into this house, over 8 years ago. 

Oh, and we have started harvesting carrots from the garden, and very nice they are too.