The Woods. Different ones.

Another weekend, another visit to the Outside.  Brrr.  Sky.  Trees.  Weather of all descriptions.

Mr WithaY was away all last week, on the final instalment of his 10-month training course, which will (assuming his portfolio is accepted) provide him with an excellent bushcraft instructor's qualification.  He's worked really hard at it for almost a year, and I am tremendously proud of him.

Sunday was billed as the Families Day, and the friends and families of the trainees were invited to go along and spend the day doing various bushcrafty things.  We were asked to bring a picnic.  I got up early, packed the picnic and headed off.  According to my satnav, it would take about an hour and a half to get there, and Mr WithaY had asked me to try and be there as close to 1000 as possible, as the day was due to kick off at about 1030-ish.

I had a very pleasant and uneventful journey, finding the location (almost) first time, where Mr WithaY met me with black fingernails, a five day woodsmoke aura and a huge grin on his face.

We made our way along a rutted muddy track (in a LandRover...well, there was a picnic to carry) to a seemingly featureless bit of woodland.  We'd arrived.

Mr WithaY proudly gave me a tour of the site.  And now I shall do the same for you.

A couple of the teaching areas, and the tea point.  They don't have a water cooler to stand around and chat, but the giant kettle did the job nicely.

I had tea.  In the woods.

Look.  Outdoor tea.  From some sort of metal tea-bucket.

This is a view of the kitchen.  There, far away, under that tarpaulin.  When I arrived, they were all washing up after a giant fry-up fat-boy breakfast, apparently.

Anyway, tea drunk and tour completed, more people arrived and the day kicked off in fine style.  I had a go at starting a fire using a bowdrill.

Fail.

It was very interesting to watch other people doing it though, and most of them managed to at least get some smoke, if not actual fire, so the chaps doing the instructing were pleased.

Then I went and had a go at making damper bread.  This is a very simple bread dough which you wrap around a stick and bake over the fire.  I made mine - made it a bit too wet, unfortunately - but I got it wrapped and placed over the fire, and wandered off to see what Mr WithaY was up to.

We chatted for a bit, and he asked what I'd had a go at.  I said "I'm making damper bread."

"Where is it?" he enquired.

"Cooking..." I replied.

"Yeah.  You need to go and watch it.  Make sure it doesn't burn."

Gah.

Anyway, I had added cinnamon and sugar to the dough, so in fact it is simply caramelising nicely.  Nom nom nom.

Here are some other people not burning their damper bread.

One of the trainees' family included a teeny baby.  They constructed a fantastic Bushcraft Baby Rocker device.

Every so often one of the parents wandered over and gave it* a gentle push, and she slept happily for ages in there.

Anyway, here's my damper bread, proudly held aloft before vanishing into my gaping  maw.

The picnic was a success.  Several years ago, when we both still had "proper" jobs, and therefore disposable income, we bought a ridiculously fancy picnic basket/backpack thing.

It contains a cheeseboard, napkins, salt and pepper pots, one of those fancy cork things with a silver top to put in your bottle of wine to save some for later, and all the crockery and cutlery you might expect to need when you're eating off the floor.  In the woods.

And a picnic rug.  We're not savages.

I do like the combination of mud-encrusted bushcrafting chap's boot, and dainty gingham napkins.  We went for a stroll after lunch and collected up some logs that needed to be moved from one woodland glade to another, and then it was almost time for me to go home.

The weather was perfect. The first properly sunny day for bloody ages, which made it a thoroughly enjoyable time.

Mr WithaY and I walked back down the rutted muddy track to where all the cars were parked, I changed out of my wellies into sensible driving trainers, said our goodbyes and I set off for home.  Before I left, I pressed the GO HOME button on my satnav.

The anticipated arrival time seemed a bit optimistic, but I decided that it was just due to traffic. Or roadworks having finished.  Or goblins.  Let's just say I didn't give it much thought, and leave it at that.

I headed off through the little country lanes, listening to the radio, and enjoying the sunshine.  I drove some distance, several times thinking  "I don't remember coming along this road on the way here..."

I have a bit of a track record re: navigating, though, so I suppressed my anxiety and put all my faith in my satnav.

Schoolboy error.

I had been driving for about half an hour, and still hadn't seen any signs to where I thought I was headed, and then suddenly I was off the tiny back road meandering through the pretty country villages, and on the A3, heading for London.  I swore.  Apparently I was on the Hog's Back, where there are no places to turn around.  My satnav was still insisting that I was heading in the right direction.

I did not believe it.  

Then, as if that wasn't bad enough, I then went into the Hindhead Tunnel.  Readers, I had never heard of such a thing before, but I assure you it is a very, very long tunnel indeed.  I had to drive through it, with my radio and satnav both cutting out, the message on the display screen simply stating "Satellite Not Located" in a blunt refusal to help.

Once out the other side, I turned down the first side street I found, pulled over and looked at my satnav.

Readers, a valuable  lesson:

When you press the GO HOME button, please ensure that you have previously programmed it to point to your home.  If you have failed to do this, it will default, and send you to the satnav factory's home, somewhere in central London.

I arrived home some considerable time later.

Let's never speak of this again.




*The seat thing, not the actual baby.  That would have been unkind.

Finding My Way - The Revenge

When the weather is nice, I am outside, and consequently spending less time at the computer, which means I tend to blog less.  Even less than normal, which, frankly, is not that frequently, is it?

Plus I have been away.  Properly, like a mini holiday.  Middle Sis and I went to Ragdale Hall for a couple of days R&R for her birthday treat.  It was marvellous.  We booked one of their special offer three-day, two-night breaks, with a few treatments included, and had a lovely time.  Neither of us had ever been to a spa before, and I think going to Ragdale has now spoiled us for anywhere else.

Yes, everything was marvellous, and if it wasn't on the other side of the country it would be even better.

The journey up there was uneventful and smooth, and I found the place with no trouble at all, arriving in the sunshine with a big smile on my face.  Mr WithaY had kindly offered to lend me his Satnav, but I declined on the grounds that I had the route all written down on a series of Post-it notes. 

What could possibly go wrong?

Well.  I'll tell you.

Remember the day I went to help at the lunch party?  Remember how lost I got, travelling less than 15 miles?  I bet you thought that was impressive.  You ain't seen nothing yet. 

Driving all the way back from Leicestershire offers so much more opportunity for monumental navigation errors*, and I took full advantage of that fact.

I left Ragdale on our last day after a fine lunch, and drove across to visit a mate who lives sort-of-locally.  I called Mr WithaY as I was leaving their place at about 7pm to let him know I should be home in, oh, about three and a half hours or so, all being well.

All was not well.

I bowled along happily enough for an hour or so, heading for the M6, from which I planned to join the M5, scoot down the left hand side of the country as far as Bristol, go through Bath, and then home.  Easy.

I got onto the M6, making good time, driving in a beautiful sunny late evening light which made everything look pretty.  There was very little traffic, so it was comparatively stress-free, and I was pootling along listening to the radio in a relaxed and cheerful manner. 

However, the weather changed, and by the time I got towards Birmingham it was pissing with rain.  As anyone who has ever driven on a British motorway will know, when it rains hard, visibility reduces to terrifyingly short distances.   I slowed down, cursing the huge lorries which were kicking up clouds of spray and making it impossible to see the road signs.

Yeah, you can see where this is going.  Unlike me.

I saw a sign that said the M5 junction was coming up, but not when.  There were also road signs for the M42, which I had no intention of driving along, so I stayed where I was, carefully pottering along the M6 in end of the world weather and almost zero visibility.  More road signs followed, alternating between the M5 and the M42, as well as signs for smaller local roads leading to places I'd never heard of. 

There's a major junction on the outskirts of Birmingham where the road splits into two, possibly three different directions. One of these continues along the M6, going South and - this is important - East.  The other goes to the M42, headed I know not where, and the last gets you onto the M5, heading South and West. 

I squinted at the signs when I could see them, waiting for the one that said "M5 this way", ignoring the ones that said "M42".  And I continued to ignore them as I went sailing past the junction, spotting far, far too late that the M42 sign also said "Oh yeah, and the M5...go down here if you ever want to see Bristol again, sucker."

I missed it.

Well fuck, I thought to myself.

Ah well, I thought to myself.  There will be another exit for the M5 in a couple of miles, it's a big motorway.

Bound to be another exit, I thought to myself.  Bound to be. 

All will be well, I thought to myself.

Readers, I was wrong.

I drove for miles.  And miles.  And MILES.  I passed junctions to places I had heard of, but had no clue where they were in relation to each other, or, more importantly, to where I was trying to be.  I wished, oh how I wished, that I had borrowed Mr WithaY's Satnav.  Or indeed had the brains to put a bloody map book in the car. 

I just kept on going, down the M6, thinking "at least I'm heading South," and trying to gauge where the fuck I was by the names on the roadsigns.  My knowledge of the Midlands is woeful, a fact I was increasingly aware of as I drove through them. 

After several thousand miles, the M6 turned into the M1.  At that point I thought "Oh fucking hell," and realised I was seriously, seriously lost.

The car was getting low on diesel, I was hungry and needed a pee, and so when I spotted a sign for Services I said a small prayer of thanks.  That turned into a wail of horror when I saw that it was Watford Gap services. 

Bear in mind, readers, that I was aiming for Bath.

Bath in Somerset.

Almost on the other side of the bloody country.

I stopped at the Services, filled up with fuel, used the facilities, got some supper - it was 9.30pm by now - and bought a map.  I looked at where I was, and where I ought to be and sighed deeply, showering the steering wheel with service station food crumbs..

Readers, I had to backtrack miles and miles and MILES across country, driving to Northampton, Oxford, Swindon and then finally home.  It took hours, and I crashed through** the front door at close to midnight. 

Other news:  We went camping at the weekend.  But, fortunately, we have mates who own a splendid motor home, who offered us the use of the other bed, so we were warm, comfy and very smug.  Marvellous.

It was a multi-period re-enactment event, what larks.  I shall post some photos as soon as I find my camera.  I didn't dress up, though, instead spending much of the weekend chatting to old mates, reading an excellent book in the shade and wandering around in the sun admiring all the various Uniforms Through The Ages. 









*The polite term for "fuck-ups"

**Not literally

Flaming

I'm typing this slowly and painfully, moving my arms as little as possible.  Why, dear readers, is this?  Why, it's because I have:

a)  Tired old arms from a day of hard work yesterday, mostly spent carrying trays across a sunshiny lawn, whilst nimbly dodging a football being kicked around by many small children.
b)  Aching wrists after de-stoning a huge - huge - box of cherries and putting them in the freezer for "later".
c)  Managed to get sunburn across by upper back and shoulders this morning whilst enjoying the glorious sudden advent of proper summer in the garden.

Yesterday I was helping a friend cater a garden party, all very smart, in a marquee in someone's garden.  It was a cold buffet, lots of ham, salmon, asparagus quiche, potato salad, that kind of thing, and then a shitload* of fruit tarts and chocolate caramel cake. 

Everyone was anxious about the weather, it being a garden party and all, but by noon the rain had stopped, the sun was out, and the remainder of the day was just gorgeous.  The garden overlooks acres of green barley fields, so whenever the wind blew it was magical, watching the barley move like the sea.  Loved it.

However, being the lazy non-working lightweight that I am, I was completely knackered by the time I got home, and spent the remainder of the evening on the sofa, whining.  And eating a Chinese takeaway.  And watching The Odd Couple on DVD, which neither Mr WithaY or I had seen before.  It was very pleasant and relaxing.

Today - another gloriously sunny one, must be some mistake, surely - I have been doing stuff in the garden.  Things have been transplanted, pruned, watered, trimmed and moved around, and now it all looks fab.  My new parasol is finally up, and Mr WithaY and I sat under it together, reading our books for an hour earlier. 

As a result of being an idiot, and not wearing sunblock whilst weeding the garden, I have bright scarlet shoulders and upper back.  That's going to hurt when I get in the bath later. 

Other news:  I finally bit the bullet and bought a new mobile phone.  My iPhone, which is about two and a half years old, has been playing up for several months, refusing to synch with iTunes, or to backup properly, and I kept putting it off and putting it off.  Because, you know, it's a pain in the arse and all, changing mobiles.   

I did go so far as to take it in to be examined by the Apple experts at the store in Bath a couple of months ago.  Their expert opinion was "It's broken."

Yeah, thanks for that, genius.

Anyway, I had to go to Salisbury earlier this week, and as I was walking around, I passed the O2 store, so popped in and waited until one of the staff deigned to notice me.  To be fair, they did have a laminated sign on the cashdesk which said  "We're understaffed today, so we might just ignore you for a bit.  You don't like it?  Tough titty, loser."  I may be mis-remembering the exact wording.

After six or seven hours, a girl emerged sulkily from a cupboard at the back of the shop and asked me what I wanted.  I felt like replying "I want you all to kneel miserably at my feet while I lambast you at length for your total lack of any kind of customer-facing competence, you useless, useless goons," but what I actually said was "I want to buy an iPhone 4 please." 

She looked at me as though I had asked her to sell me a guinea pig curry, then slowly went and fetched the correct item of technological crack cocaine. 

We had a long, tiresome discussion about the sim card it needed.  In my head, the conversation went like this:

Me:  I would like to buy a new phone and keep my current number.  How do I do that?

Helpful staff member:  You buy the phone - here is one - and a new sim card - also here - and then contact the O2 customer services - here is the contact number - and they will migrate the number when you are ready.  Thanks for your valued custom. Oh, and please take this pretty bunch of flowers as a thank you for spending so much money with us in these hard recession-driven times."

In reality, it wasn't quite like that.

Me:  I would like to buy a new phone and keep my current number.  How do I do that?

Staff member:  Oh.  Um.  Well, we've got the phones in stock.  You want one?

Me:  Yes, please.  (there was a brief struggle until she understood which type of iPhone I wanted, but we got there eventually.)  Can I put the SIM card from my current phone into this one?

Staff member:  Nah.  S'different.

Me: Ok.  So do I need a new SIM card?

Staff member:  Um.  Yeah.  You want one?

Me:  Yes. Please.

She rummaged under the desk, pulled out a small cardboard folder and dropped it on the counter in front of me.

Staff member:  Anything else?  (She was clearly bored by now, her attention riveted by the two young men with complicated hair who were sat at a nearby table having an animated conversation with her colleague.  If she'd had some gum, she'd have been blowing bubbles at me.)

Me:  So how do I transfer my number to the new phone?

Staff member:  I can do that now.  What's your number?

Me: No, I need to download everything off my old phone before I transfer anything.  How do I do it?

Staff member:  (exasperated by my stupidity) Yeah, I can do that now.

Me:  Do I contact O2 when I'm ready to transfer?  Or what?

Staff member:  Yeah. You could do that.

I paid for the phone and the SIM card and went home, pausing only to buy a large bag of fresh cherries at the market stall on the way back to the car.

When I got home, 25 miles and 45 minutes later, I discovered that the SIM card was missing.  The plastic casing was there, but the actual micro SIM was gone, probably previously sold and the cardboard wrapping dumped under the counter.  How I laughed.

So, all the way back to Salisbury the next day to get a new SIM.  The young man who served me was less challenging, but still seemed puzzled by what had happened.  Well yes, I suggest you get your colleagues to stop chucking empty SIM wrappers in with the ones for sale, matey.  That might help. 

The story has a happy ending.  My new phone is working, and my number has been successfully transferred to it.  Yay. 

Unfortunately, my OLD phone had stopped backing itself up to iTunes in early March, so I have a bit of work to do to get things back to spec, but otherwise, it's all good. 

Oh, and I bought a great big box of cherries on my return visit, as they were so lovely.  Today I have been de-stoning and freezing cherries, and my fingers are stained black. Niiiiice. 

Other, other news:  We've all but cleared out father-in-law WithaY's house now.  The sale is progressing. I really hope in a couple of weeks it will all be over and we can stop fretting about it. 

This week I am mostly going away with Middle Sis for a few days of pampering, foot massages, swimming, nice food and (if past history is anything to go by) lots of inappropriate laughter. I am very much looking forward to it. 






*technical catering term.

Mal de Dorset

This weekend I have done a lot of driving, most of it either in the dark, or in appalling low visibility due to heavy rain. It's been fun.

It took me over two hours yesterday morning to get to my lovely Mum's house. A combination of appalling rain, motorway spray and heavy traffic meant that I seldom managed to get much over 50mph, except for brief spurts on the motorway, in between the 40mph roadworks sections.

Ahhh travel in 21st Century Britain.

It was a shame that it was so dark and rainy, as otherwise it would have been a beautiful trip. What I did see of the trees in all their Autumn glory was lovely.

All that aside, once I got there, we had a relaxing comfortable day doing little more than chatting, doing the Saturday Telegraph crosswords, watching films* on TV, and eating a rather splendid Chinese takeaway.

It was excellent.

When I got home, Mr WithaY was collapsed full-length on the sofa, post-bath in his tracksuit bottoms and a huge sweatshirt, watching "Watchmen" on DVD. He was knackered, having got up early and spent the day tramping across the countryside, shooting. He brought some pheasants home, so I expect they will feature at a Dinner Party Near You** soon.

I watched the last 40 minutes or so of the film with him, and thoroughly enjoyed it, despite having seen it before, and missing the first two and a bit hours this time. If you haven't already seen it, you should. It's long (almost 3 hours) and there are some icky "look away" bits, but the story is great and I love the way it's filmed.

Today we went down to check on Father-in-Law WithaY's house (still standing, still full of all his stuff, still not for sale, gah) and then called in at Tesco in Shaftesbury on the way home. Unfortunately, I was overcome with what can only be described as sea-sickness on the way there, and spent much of the trip feeling myself getting paler, tremblier and cold-sweatier. As we drove through Shaftesbury I was having nighmarish visions of having to stick my head out of the window and vomit copiously all over the scenic streets and merry tourists.

I managed to not do that, but it was a close run thing.

Walking around the Tesco car park taking big breaths*** restored me to more or less normality, and we were able to get all the groceries AND another digital radio (£25! Bargain!) without any vomit being involved.

The radio I bought at Asda is now living in my study up here, as I can get Planet Rock on it. Hurrah. The one in the kitchen is currently tuned to BBC Asian music. Mr WithaY and I were dancing around to bhangra music as we put the shopping away.

Before I felt as though I was going to die, I took a couple of pictures out of the car window of a fabulous poppy field in full bloom.

You can't see just how big that field is.  It's HUGE.  Take my word for it.

*"A Passage to India", which I had read but never seen before, and then "What About Bob" which contains Richard Dreyfuss chewing up the scenery in a splendid manner.

**But only if you live round here. If not, get used to disappointment.

***Yeth, and I'm only thixthteen.

Short

Back home after a couple of days visiting my lovely Mum. Middle Sis popped down too so today all three of us and Mum went out for lunch together. I can't remember the last time it was just us without hordes of small children stampeding through the place as well.

It was lovely, and just what I needed after a particularly shit time just lately.

The drive home through Wrath of God thunder and torrential rain was interesting.

Anyhoo.

Music news: A lovely Internet mate recommended I listen to Chris and Thomas . I did, and have fallen hopelessly in love with their music.

I urge you to do the same.

Raising the goblet

I have been at the National School of Government this week. It's like the School of Rock. But with less rock. And more government.

They have very severe views on car parking.



But on the plus side they have excellent blossom trees in between the classrooms, which made walking around the site in glorious sunshine an absolute pleasure.



I was so impressed I took a close-up.



Lovely.

We had an exam yesterday afternoon, marring an otherwise relaxing couple of days. The tutor had been telling us all how straightforward it would be if we just used our common sense, and how we'd all worked so hard that we'd be fine.

Lies.

LIES!

It was really hard and we all staggered out afterwards like the survivors of some hideous disaster where people had had to eat each other to survive. Many of us were ashen.

I actually finished early, and was able to flee the exam room, stepping outside with a sigh of relief. This quickly turned to dismay when I realised I had left all my course notes in there, and would have to wait outside till everyone else finished.

Arse.

So, I waited till the others came out and then we all did that stupid "I put this for question 3, what did you put?" thing that you do, as if it ever helps.

No idea when we get the results, hopefully it's not too long to wait. The pass mark is about 60 percent, and if I can't get that then I am a complete dolt. But it has been known for me to demonstrate primo doltage before now.

The drive home, which I expected to be a complete nightmare as it was slap bang on 5pm when I left, was fast, tranquil and beautiful. The junction from the M3 onto the A303 is completely covered in primroses. Go and see it. Really - the whole cutting is bright acid yellow with them, and it's lovely.

Other news: While I was down at my lovely Mum's the other week the local news programme was running a story about a windmill. Said windmill used to belong to famous writer Hilaire Bollock, according the the presenter.