Monday, September 28, 2015

The Pennine Way....


After visiting a local variety store in Settle, (where Iris bought some shoes), we wandered back to Ingleton for lunch and then, (sneakily), I decided to drive across the moors towards Hawes in upper Wensleydale. The route takes you between the Pennines on the eastern side and the lake district hills on the west and past some stunning countryside to boot.

Ingleborough from the north-west on a beautiful late September day. There is an iron-age fort on the top, if you can manage a two-hour, uphill stroll.


And looking in the other direction, across the upper-Ribble valley, towards the lakes. The moorland is probably the most sparsely populated part of England, (except for the lunatic drivers on the so-called main roads).

At the top of the valley there is one of the Victorian railway age's memorable constructions - the Ribblehead viaduct. Its 24 arches span the valley and the Carlisle-Settle railway still runs regular trains across it. It is now a listed historical monument.

The viaduct was built in the 1870s and over 100 men died during its construction. Something that thankfully, would not be countenanced nowadays. (Having said that, our current NZ government has just reneged on its promises to introduce better health and safety law, after our own Pike River mining disaster).

Continuing our drive, we passed many examples of previous generations' attempts to eke out a living on the moors. Derelict farm buildings and cottages such as the ones pictured below, were common.

 
 

A few miles before we got to Hawes, I spotted a signpost to Dent. I hadn't been there for many years so took the turn and headed down a steep road into Dentdale. We parked to check the view at the top of the valley, from our rental vehicle.


The campervan is in for repairs and we hired a "Ford Focus" but got upgraded to a Merc. I now not only look like Lewis Hamilton, but I drive a similar vehicle, (just as fast too).


Looking down into Dentdale over another of the many viaducts on the Carlisle to Settle railway.

When we reached the bottom of the hill, there was a small cottage nestled by the side of the road with a sign saying "Adam Sedgwick was born here in 1785". Well knock me down with a feather, who would have thought it!

We continued down Dentdale, along very narrow roads through the valley, to Dent itself, with fingers crossed that we wouldn't meet anything coming in the opposite direction. One of the bridges was so narrow that I wasn't too sure that the car would fit across it. It was a tight squeeze.

 

The bridge looks a lot better from this angle though.
 
We got to Dent without meeting any mega-vehicles and parked at the entry to the village. It is very unspoiled and has its original cobblestones right through the main streets. Immediately outside the church was a monument to the local mega-star, (yes, you've guessed it), Adam Sedgwick!
 
 
Here it is. A block of rock, with his name and dates. Despite the birthplace plaque and this monument, there was no other indication in the village or church of his claim to fame, so I had to google him. It turns out that he is considered to be one of the founders of modern geology. This despite the fact that he was a Church of England vicar and creationist and believed in Noah's flood and similar biblical events. It's always seemed very strange to me how some scientists, (who as a profession are usually amongst the more rational of thinkers), can believe in the irrational so readily.
 
We had a quick look around the village church which was a traditional church in many respects, including still having several yew trees in the grounds.
 

 
 

 
The nave and main window of the village church. There were also several notices about parish activities and a homespun tapestry at the rear of the church. One part of the tapestry in particular was of great interest to Iris, who has, you may remember, recently completed the "great scarf knitathon".
 
 
Not quite the Bayeux tapestry, but it was sufficient to get Iris looking for a membership form. She was very disappointed that there were none to be found, as she feels especially well qualified.
 
 
A view of the church with one of the yew trees in the foreground. These were not ancient yews, (as are to be found in some churchyards), but trees that have been planted in the last century. It's good to see the tradition being continued.
 
 
Dent churchyard with several Yews. (Don't get too excited you Kiwis, I'm talking about Yews not Ewes)!
 
 
 
 
 
A couple of views up and down the main street in Dent. We were lucky that it was an autumn weekday, as on a summer weekend, this would be Bedlam.
 
After our Dent-day afternoon we decided to head back to the M6, as Iris was not keen, (i.e. I was threatened with dismemberment), to continue all the way back to Carnforth on the country lanes. Unfortunately, there were about 15 miles of one-lane highway to negotiate, to get to the motorway. (When I say one-lane, I mean one lane coping with both directions of traffic).
 
During this interminable journey, we met other cars, trucks, vans and best of all a large agricultural behemoth, (towing at least 15 tonnes of cowshit), coming in the opposite direction. It's quite surprising how easy it is to continue driving straight through a hedge or a closed farm gate when you really need to, particularly when immersion in 15000 litres of manure is the alternative.
 
Eventually though, we reached the M6 and drove the 15 miles or so back home in about 11 minutes. Such are the joys of motorway driving.




Saturday, September 26, 2015

The Land of my Fathers....


Or one of my my Great-grandfathers at least, (one Price Edwards Griffiths - three surnames and not a christian name to be heard). We made a trip to Abergavenny in South Wales to catch up with one of Iris' nephews who she hadn't seen for 50 years but who had got back in touch with her via the glories of Facebook.

On the way to Wales we travelled down through the Marches and spent a little time in Shropshire and Herefordshire. I had never visited these counties before and was surprised how pleasant and charming the countryside was in these parts.

We stayed the first night at an excellent campsite near Wrexham where a 9-hole golf course was available. We hired some clubs and played 12 holes (7, 8 and 9 twice). We both managed respectable scores, although a certain person, (who shall remain anonymous), had a very large number of suspicious "practice shots" discounted from her the score.

The following day we visited Ludlow, a town that I had always wanted to visit because of its connections with A.E. Housman and Robert Graves. Housman, (like me), has roots in Lancaster and he is buried in Ludlow churchyard. A cherry tree marks his grave.

Graves wrote "Goodbye to All That", which for me is the definitive account of a soldier's First World War experiences. Graves was an officer in the Welch Fusiliers based at Ludlow. Graves also wrote "I Claudius" and the associated series that was one of my favourites. Housman is best known for "A Shropshire Lad".

The town of Ludlow itself was a typical English market town, with some lovely medieval buildings and the usual, bottleneck streets. We took the park and ride option to get into the town and were very glad we did. Some of the buildings in the narrow streets bore plenty of evidence of scrapes with heavy vehicles. The bus ride in and out was close to terrifying at times, as the bus drivers didn't seem to care, (or slow down), about the extremely narrow lanes, pedestrians, cyclists or other traffic, one whit.


The oldest pub in Ludlow, circa 1395, according to the date painted on the facade.


We enjoyed lunch in the town square right opposite the castle. Housman is buried in the churchyard of the church in the background.

An old cannon situated on the castle side of the square had a quotation from "In Flanders Fields" for some reason. I think Graves may have had some connection with John McCrae but I'm not sure.

 
Ludlow Castle

After visiting Ludlow, we stayed for the night a few miles south, still in Herefordshire, near the Welsh border. A pleasing feature of the meadows in Hereford, is that the farmers past, have left significant numbers of oak and ash trees in the meadows, to provide shade and shelter for the animals. (I say farmers past, because many of the trees were 2-300 years old and fully grown). Good on the farmers present though, for not hewing them down.


The following morning it was off to Abergavenny for the annual food  festival. We stayed at a site about 2 miles out of town and then walked back. The weather was lovely, (as it has been throughout our trip to Europe), so we enjoyed the walk along the narrow country lanes, that took us past an old church with an unusual feature - a sundial on the tower.
 
 
The church and a close-up of the sundial. The sun appeared to be running about 90 minutes late, (according to my watch anyway).
 
The food festival had the town bursting at the seams with vendors of all descriptions. One was a purveyor of a "Taste of Borneo", who didn't seem to be selling much though. Must have been a little daring for the Welsh Marches. Another foreign delicacy on offer was French onions sold by genuine Frenchmen on bikes, wearing berets and complete with strings of onions. They claimed to be the last genuine French onion sellers who still visit the UK. I was reminded of the days of yore, when they used to visit my Grandmother selling onions. She always made them welcome and forced them to have a cup of tea and a snack, (something English like a dripping sandwich), before they were allowed to leave.
 
These guys really know their onions. Apparently, they are all individually named, (the Frenchies, not the onions).
 
After our food extravaganza we returned to the camp and got ready for dinner. This was at a local pub where Iris met her nephew Peter, for the first time in almost 50 years.
 
While the two of them conversed in Scouse, (a strange dialect, which is unintelligible to humans), I enjoyed the local beer which is considered to boost one's intelligence.
 
 
The brains are in the glass! Despite the brewer's claim, that drinking this product transferred the brains from the glass to the drinker, I found that the more that I drank, the less effective my brain appeared to become. How strange!
 
We enjoyed our dinner together and promises were exchanged to avoid another 50-year interval between reunions. The following day though, it was back to England, the North and civilisation. The trip that took us 3 days through the by-roads was a mere 6 hours on the motorways. That's progress for you.

Friday, September 18, 2015

The North-East...

The land that everyone forgets. Or so it seems.

There are very few travel brochures, articles and the likes that rave about the Northeast of England and in truth we didn't spend too much time there. A brief visit to Durham and a day in York were all that we managed but at least we got a glimpse into this area and a brief encounter with the Geordie and Yorkshire cultures.

One thing that probably deters visitors is the paucity of fast roads in these areas. Whereas most other parts of England have fast and efficient motorways, these stop some way short of Newcastle and don't really start again until you are nearing Leeds or York about 50 miles south.

Our first stop in England, after crossing the border from Scotland, might have been Hardy's Fishing Museum in Alnwick (pronounced Anik). Hardy's is the most famous name in fly-fishing equipment and so for me was a moment of intense excitement, (well slightly interesting at least).
I saw the sign advertising the museum on the town by-pass and suggested, (as enthusiastically as I dared), that we pay a visit. Iris however, in her usual dulcet tone, (that I interpreted as meaning "take this exit and you die horribly and painfully"), suggested that we keep going south - so we did!

In this part of the world many of the town and village place names end in "wick". We went through or past Berwick, Alnwick, Cheswick, Goswick, Lowick, Fenwick, Howick and Aberwick plus several others in pretty short order. In old saxon, "wick" simply means a "dwelling place" and derives originally from the Latin "vicus".

After circumnavigating Newcastle-upon-Tyne, we came upon the Angel of the North, near Gateshead. The figure looms above the hillside next to the Newcastle ring-road and to be honest, doesn't look too impressive from this perspective.

However, a short detour from the main road brings you to the viewing area. Don't expect toilets or any other tourist traps or you'll be disappointed. A woman in a caravan, selling coffee and snacks, is your lot. When we asked her if there were any toilets nearby, she enlightened us with the news that she had a bucket in her nearby van, that was her emergency toilet when nature called. She did also add that she washed her hands, (not in the same bucket), before returning to the caravan.


The Angel, from the viewing area, makes an impressive sight and was well worth the stop. The locals in the Northeast have really taken this figure to their hearts, to the extent that it is part of the Geordie "identity"  now. It's kind of ugly and threatening in some respects but it really works as a sculpture. We were both impressed.


Two angels for the price of one, although Iris looks somewhat like Nanook of the North!

As you can guess from the clothing, the weather was somewhat iffy. But although it rained for about 8 hours on and off, every time we got out of the motorhome, it miraculously stopped, (thank you Saint Cuthbert).

Our next port of call was Durham. This small city and university town has a long history and traditions, based initially on Christianity and later on coal mining and associated heavy industries.
The town has strong connections with Lindisfarne and the cathedral was built as a shrine to Saint Cuthbert. (Yes, you Aucklanders, the same one as the posh girls' school).

Saint Cuthbert was buried at Lindisfarne, (where he had risen to fame as an ascetic hermit who suffered from hallucinations, (i.e. what religious people call visions)). His fame increased post-mortem, when the usual round of miracles occurred in his name, and beatification kicked into action.

He was admired by such worthies as Alfred the Great and Aethelstan, (whose last will and testament, we had been lucky enough to see in the British Library, (but that's another story)).

After the religious authorities of the time shuffled his body around various sites, (for 400 years), he was eventually dug up again and buried in the Durham cathedral, about 10 years after it was consecrated in 1095. Even this enshrinement didn't prevent the occasional exhumation to check that all his bits were still there, or to rob the grave of a few belongings, (such as an old prayer book and assorted garments etc.).

 
The cathedral in all of its glory. As usual with these buildings, it is the length and breadth of a football pitch and has 301 steps to the top of the tower.
 
 
The doorknocker on the main door of the cathedral. I was all set to give it a good rapping but some spoilsport had welded the knocker shut!
 
One unusual feature of Durham cathedral is the display of the Durham Miner's Association banners. Trade unionism was of course very strong in the mines and was vital to the miners' living standards and safety.
We have completely forgotten what working men sacrificed and fought for in order raise living standards and working conditions across all parts of society. The miners associations survived everything that the pit owners and politicians had to throw at them but couldn't survive Thatcher. If she was alive today, she'd no doubt claim that shutting the mines was to prevent global warming.
 
However, the union is remembered in Durham and the banners adorn a small side chapel of this huge building. Long may they remain.
 
Another unusual feature, was nine separate altars lined up across the rearmost (Eastern) end of the building. Each of these was dedicated to a local saint. Boy, there must have been some miracles going on in this town.
 
 
 One of the 9 altars.
 

The town of Durham was also a pleasant place and you can walk around it in 15 minutes and see most things of interest. It was worth stopping to see.
 
After we returned to our motorhome we set off for a nearby campsite and found it full. Apparently, the "Great North Run", which is a half marathon run near Gateshead, had swamped the local sites with demand for weekend stays so we headed for an alternative just across the border in North Yorkshire. Then, woe of woes, our satnav started playing up and in the end blobbed out completely.
 
Our alternative was, (can you believe this), to look at Maps!!!! Ye Gods and Little Fishes, how did people travel, when all they had was a map? The answer is, "in great confusion"!
 
We missed our first intended destination, (at Scotch Corner), completely and then drove in circles near Thirsk, (with no sign of a camp), before heading towards Ripon, where the map indicated a possible site. Ripon is another small cathedral town, very close to Fountains Abbey, but when you are looking for a campsite, is not the ideal place to navigate, with its very narrow, winding and un-signposted streets. After about 4 days in the centre of town, (actually around 20 minutes ) we saw a road sign upon which the said campsite was supposed to reside, and lo and behold, about 2 miles out of town there it was - FULL!
 
Fortunately, the camp owner gave us directions to another site about 4 miles away, down almost impossibly narrow country lanes, (which were well signposted though). We arrived at our destination to check in and a very "unusual" woman, with a propensity to talk to herself, took charge and announced that because there was a Mini (the car) rally on, it could be difficult to find us a pitch.
 
However, she invited me to follow her onto the site to see what might be available and promptly led me to a field that you could have held a football match on without inconveniencing any of the few temporary residents there!
 
She then held a serious debate, (with herself), as to which would be the best place for me to park. And having selected a space that was about 45 metres square, asked me if I thought I could fit the motorhome onto it? I restrained the urge to point out that I could fit approximately half of the existing campsite clientele into this space, and agreed, that although it could be a bit tight, with suitable care it could be done.
 
And so ended our visit to Geordieland. Despite being crammed into an impossibly small campsite for the night we survived to carry on with York as our next port of call.
 
Look out for our next thrilling episode!

Tuesday, September 15, 2015

Auld Reekie calls.......


After a couple of days in Loch Lomond we made the short trip across Scotland to the capital. We circled Stirling and its castle and saw our first highland cattle grazing below the castle rock.


Before going into Edinburgh we settled into a nice campsite about 45 minutes away from the city with a bus service every 10 minutes. The weather was gorgeous so we made the most of the city and surrounds while it lasted.

First stop in the city was the Scott Memorial, (just like the one in Dunedin but not as good). There reposes the person who according to Scots was Scotland's greatest ever author - well up to the 19th century anyway. Anyone who has ever read Walter Scott, (i.e. me), probably thinks that he is Scotland's greatest ever bore, a cure for insomnia if ever there was one. Still, he's immortalised here.


Next stop was a band of buskers playing their own songs in a free concert, just above the gardens. They were quite good but I was more taken with their "manager", who was selling their CDs and generally trying to gee up the crowd. He danced to the music as though he was suffering from a strange palsy, but otherwise seemed normal. Didn't buy a CD however.

 
Manager on left with "knock-knees".

The band was performing just next to the National Art Gallery and though art isn't really our thing, we decided to take a look. It was quite a pleasant hour or two though and there was an eclectic mix of local, medieval, renaissance and later art, set out in about 15-16 rooms. Excellent features of the gallery were that you could approach the paintings, touch the frames and sculptures and take photos without being harassed by a security guard.

The two paintings that took our fancy the most, were a self-portrait of Rembrandt, (not sure who the artist was), and a painting of Saint Francis of Assisi, (the animal nutter), receiving his stigmata from laser beams from heaven.


Self-portrait of Rembrandt van Ryn, artist unknown!
 

 
St. Francis being lasered! The bloke on the right doesn't seem too taken by this miraculous event though.
 

We ended the afternoon with a couple of drinks at a local hostelry, followed by a 10 pound Marks and Spencers dinner for 2, that consisted of pasta main, chocolate mousse and a bottle of french wine to accompany. Can't be bad.

Or can it? It wasn't until we had drunk the MS wine, that we noticed the reference to Urine! Perhaps it means something else in French?
 
Marks and Sparks are justifiably proud of their stores and the produce that they use. However, this large advertisement on the wall in the food hall left us wondering!
 
 


The next day we returned to take in the castle and the old town. At the entrance to the castle, they were preparing the grandstands for the Edinburgh Military Tattoo that takes place in the courtyard. Having seen this Tattoo on TV occasionally, I was struck by how small the courtyard is, and the attendant stands.
 
The castle from the courtyard, with a glimpse of the temporary stands on the left.

Iris discovered that the castle motto, "Nemo me impune lacessit", is the same as her own. Loosely translated it says, "Touch me and I breaka your face"! Here's a pic of the two of them together.


Leaving the castle, we strolled down the "Royal Mile" that leads to Holyrood Castle, which is where HRH stays when she's in town. We didn't get that far though, as we stopped at St Giles Cathedral to continue our cross-Europe cathedral comparisons.

 
Saint Giles from the outside, complete with wedding party. Not very inspiring, (the Bride was far better looking than the cathedral).
 

 
From the inside where sufficient light to take a photo was hard to find. It was impossible to use a flash because the church wardens demanded 2 pounds for a permit to take photos, so they had to be sneaked when no-one was looking.

Sorry Edinburgh, but your cathedral is bottom of the list in the European Cathedral Champions League in all respects. It's a squat, ugly, badly lit building, that is festooned with plaques commemorating just about every Scottish regiment that ever went to war for the British Empire.

Every single memorial plaque or board placed great emphasis on the hierarchy of Officers, Non-commissioned Officers and men in that rigid order. The same emphasis was also evident in the various orders of "nobility" that had tombs or memorials in the place.

A statue of John Knox took pride of place amongst the statues though and his statue looked as threatening as he probably did in life.


There was a light hearted touch in this commemorative plaque though!


Just before we left the Royal Mile we happened upon this encouraging pub sign. Fortunately, neither of us are whisky lovers, or we would probably still be in this bar.


A short walk from the royal mile, back into town, took us to Waverley Station, where for a mere Fiver, we got return train tickets from Edinburgh Central to North Queensferry.

Where you might ask? Well, North Queensferry station is immediately after the Forth Railway Bridge, one of the wonders of the Victorian age and still one of the world's exceptional engineering achievements, (imo). It took 8 years to build and was completed in 1890. At approximately 4 kilometers long, was the biggest and longest cantilever bridge ever built at this time.

 The story goes that the rail bridge is being perpetually repainted, and sure enough, there were scaffolds and screens on parts of the bridge that were being painted today.
 
The Forth Road Bridge was completed in 1964 and runs parallel to the rail bridge. Despite the bridge being 75 years younger than the rail bridge, it is already being replaced, (as its suspension cables and other bits are disintegrating). The worst case scenario is for it to be completely unusable by 2020.


The road bridge, (from the rail bridge). The 3 towers in the distance are the pylons for the replacement bridge that is being built. Let's hope this one lasts a bit longer than 50 years.

And that folks was Edinburgh. A very nice city to visit, where the people are friendly and hospitable. No trip to Scotland would be complete without a picture of the transvestite locals though, so here s/he is for my Scottish friends!


Man in a frock, or a woman with a weird hairdo? Ya pays your money and ya takes your choice!
This was a local busker on the royal mile.

Saturday, September 12, 2015

Back to Blighty......


Not quite coming back in the same fashion as the WWI and WWII soldiers but we decided that we had better return to the UK to get our wounded motorhome repaired. We'd had so much trouble getting information from the manufacturer "Swift", (I've written to them suggesting that they change their brand name to Escargot), or their licenced dealer, Marquis Motorhomes, who have proven to be as shifty a bunch of new or used vehicle salesmen as we have ever encountered!

Dover harbour, castle and white cliffs from our ferry.

Returning early to the UK turned out to be a wise decision, as there was a tangle of insurance details, repair quotations and the usual Marquis chicanery to overcome. Example - we gave Marquis a list of warranty defects to fix, (some significant, some minor), one of which was hairline cracking to the kitchen sink. The woman from Marquis who assessed it then came back to us, "great news, we've got a replacement for you in stock as we noticed the cracks ourselves before we handed the vehicle over to you".

So, like were they going to tell us or, if we hadn't noticed the cracks, would they just have kept the bowl as a spare?

Still, good news is that we have had our insurance claim approved and Tradewise Insurers take a bow, your service was as good as it could have been, with no delays or prevarication at all. Marquis had recommended a repairer to us who they used for their own purposes and they sent a representative to provide a quote. He managed this without even giving the vehicle a thourough check!

Fortunately we found a reputable repairer who impressed us with his professionalism and thoroughness and we are now just waiting for a date to get the repairs done.

In the meantime, we decided to visit Scotland. Our first stop was intended to be near Thornhill in Dumfriesshire, where I was going to have a day's fishing on the River Nith.

Unfortunately, since my last visit to these parts, the fishing rights on the central Nith had been ceded to the Duke of Buccleuch and a fee of 50 pounds a day now applies. I might have considered this if it was going to a local anglers' association but it goes so much against the grain, (for me) to pay money directly to a hereditary peer, that a swift re-appraisal was made.

We headed to Sanquahar to see if there was somewhere to get a licence but it was impossible to even park near the town so we started looking for a place to stay overnight. This entailed us scouring Ayrshire and following signs for camping and caravanning in various places but despite coming close, (we found a "holiday village" that had a sign saying "no motorhomes or tents",(and it was closed anyway)).

We gave up on Ayrshire and after seeing the worst traffic of our time in Europe on the Glasgow ring road we ended up north of Glasgow, at Loch Lomond, where we were only allowed on to the camp after singing all 11 verses of "By yon bonny banks and by yon bonny braes", plus paying the appropriate fees.

Yon bonny banks, with a couple of braes in the distance!
 
 
The following day, we wandered into Lomond itself, to discover a rather dingy sort of village that has definitely seen better days. The railway station was of a size that would grace a major city but has now been converted to a rather run-down shopping mall. The town centre was dominated by the ugliest mounument that we have yet encountered in Europe. Quite what the crazed stork/albatros/heron at the top signifies, I've no idea. The fountains were all permanently out of action too.
 
 
The monument was to one Alexander Smollett and was supposedly erected in 1870, by his loyal and loving tenants and "feuars", (feuars, being those residents unfortunate enough to be feudal tenants). It turns out that Smollett was both lord of the manor and the local, (conservative of course), MP. The locals certainly knew how to tug the forelock in those days.
  
Despite the local forelock tugging propensities, we had a nice lunch at a local cafe and encouraged by this, we went back to the local chippy for our tea later in the day. I had the usual seafood and chips which were decent enough. Iris however went for the local "Scotch Pie" as she had been encouraged to try these by her sister Phyllis, (a one time scotch resident). This gourmet offering, as we were about to discover, consisted of a common or garden minced meat pie that was deep fried until crispy inside and out and then plonked on top of a carton of chips! An alternative choice on the menu was, (yes, you've guessed it), fried pizza!!
 
For pudding, I avoided the Scottish delicacy of fried mars bars and opted for "Malteser Cake". Thiswas a cake in the sense that it contained icing and maltesers but there was absolutely no sign of cake stuff, the entire thing being icing, maltesers and some solidified pastry of some sort. Yum!
 
Eat your heart out McDonalds - there is unhealthier food than yours!
 
In between lunch and teatime we visited the "Lomond Shores" that is a new shopping mall cum visitor centre, on the edge of the loch. It was the usual trashy tourist trap but located next door was a "Bird of Prey centre that appealed to me but not to Iris because as you may know, I am a bird nut!
 
It was the best value for money in Scotland, as it had a range of UK and other countries' owls, hawks, falcons and eagles. The number one attraction for me was the Golden Eagle. I'd never seen one before in real life and although this was a captive, it was still awe inspiring.
 
 
The eagle is over a metre tall and has a wingspan of about 2.5 metres.
 
 
The owls in the centre were fairly reticent about showing themselves but one or two came out to play. This one has an uncanny look about it that reminded me of one of I's sisters. Which one? I'll leave you to decide.
 

 
 Big sis or little sis??
 
Of all the birds in the centre, my favourite was the ubiquitous Kestrel. These little hawks, (about the size of a skinny pigeon), are found in every corner of Britain and can often be seen hovering above fields and hedgerows, whilst waiting for their prey to show. There were two of them here and they were full of cheeky cheeps and chirps and even though they were tethered, often flapped madly, straining against their leashes and didn't seem to get upset by their restraints but rather enjoy the exercise.
 

 
 Little Kes!
 
 
Righto, that's all for this post. The next you hear we'll be in Edinburgh.