A changing Bygdøy

Opposite our house there used to be 2 attractive wooden detached houses in their own grounds with big gardens full of trees.

They have now gone to be replaced with no less than 6 houses on one plot and 5 houses on the other plot. From two families to 11 families!!

This is the current scene around the second house (the yellow house partially demolished) with the nearest construction producing 2 of the five properties.

Note the six birch trees on the property and the adjacent property, the one on the right has been topped as they cannot chop it down, thank goodness. Note how ugly it with this “top pruning”.

 The consequence of this type of “eplehagen” development are substantial:

·         There seems to be no standard design relating to the houses demolished. For example, of the eleven new houses only three retain a traditional gable roof, the remaining eight have flat roofs with terraces.

·         Trees have been felled. There were at least four large birch and horse chestnut trees on the first plot. Fewer orchards and less bird life.

·         Eleven houses probably mean eleven families. As the price of the new houses in this area is very high, only those with financial means will be able to buy them.

·         Eleven houses mean eleven plus vehicles, a likely substantial increase in traffic from before.

Changes are often necessary and increased urban density is the result.

C’est la vie.

Sea Harvest

 Merry Xmas to you all.

Here is another article from the pen of my brother, Peter.

The smell of fried bacon still, lingered as we set off to collect Richard.  Mum always insisted we start the day on a good breakfast.  We walked through the garden and over the bottom stile grabbing a handful of peapods as we passed the rows.  Away on the distant hillside a plume of smoke followed the tank engine pulling its few carriages up to the cliff top station.  As we approached the top of the bank we heard the clatter of Len’s horse and cart before it came into view.  Len looked as he always did, covered in black dust, as a coalman should look.   

The red pantiled roofs of the cottages were spread below us like a garish scarf.  Seagulls sat on chimney pots squawking the news at each other and contemplating the likelihood of tasty fish morsels when the fishing boats returned. We ran down the bank past the fish shop and up a narrow cobbled street to Richard’s house.  The smell of fresh bread from one of the village bakeries reminded us to get a penny loaf on our way home.  Richard handed us our buckets, shrimp nets and crab hooks, which we kept down the bank at his house for convenience.  A few houses higher up the lane was our village school and the coastguard station, which had a commanding view of the whole bay.  On the horizon ships were dotted like crumbs on a green cloth.

The smell of the gas works hung in the air as we approached the beach from the cliffs.   Taking off our shoes and tying them by their laces we hung them round our neck and walked up the cliff, and down to the beach.  Our feet were tickled by the grass smoothed by soft mud on the cliffs, covered in sand and finally stabbed by the barnacle covered rocks as we headed for our favourite shrimp pool.  The sea was just leaving it isolated.  We walked across the still cold shallow water, and shuffling our feet into the sand we could feel the shrimps with our toes. 

After collecting a few we left them in one of the buckets and followed the tide down the rocks to collect winkles.  The strong smell of seaweed rotting above the tide line was blown down to us on the offshore breeze.  Carefully stepping over the slippery seaweed we gathered winkles until the tide had receded far enough to expose the scaurs that were home to crabs and lobsters.

The sound of jingling harnesses distracted us and we ran back up the beach to greet the horses and ponies waiting to give rides to visiting holiday makers.  The strong horsey smell was added to as they relieved themselves on the wet sand.  As usual we volunteered to lead the donkeys on their 10 minute route along the sand and back.  Our reward may be a free ride at the end of the day.  There wasn’t enough business to warrant our help so we were asked to come back later.

Jim the sea urchin man was setting up his stall.  If we were lucky and found a couple of good sea urchins he would give us three pence for them.  He would clean off the spines, gut and polish them and filled them with thrift and heather flowers they would provide the tourists with a memento of their holiday.  Before returning to the hunt we built a dam at the outflow of one of the draining pools.  The soft sand squidged between our toes as we battled in vain to stop the tides outflow with rocks and scooped handfuls of wet sand.

The sun rose higher and dried the sand above the tide line.  The breeze played with empty cigarette packets, before dropping them back on the sand.  John my elder brother decided the tide was right to look for crabs.  We retraced our steps over the barnacle and limpet encrusted rocks, before stepping off the scaurs to find the holes where the crabs hid.  Glances back to the village, which nestled in a gap in the cliffs, through which a stream flowed, showed us that we had our bearings right.  The scrabbling of our crab hooks in gaps in the rocks almost drowned out the soft rippling sound of sand and pebbles being fondled by the sea.  We searched in vain, and soon returned to the beach.

A noisy game of beach cricket was in progress, and we soon joined in.  Shouts and curses erupted when our wet ball landed on the back of a young woman sunning herself higher up the beach. 

Soon John shouted, ‘Here’s Mum,’ and we left the game and joined her and Richard’s mother with our picnic lunches.  Orange juice was greedily swigged down before tucking into our egg and cress sandwiches and cold sausages.  An apple for a pudding and then maybe an ice cream cornet from Trillo’s van that stood at the foot of the slipway.  It was our lucky day.  The cold soft ice cream and the crunchy wafer was the perfect finale to a summer’s morning on the beach.

 

Growing up in Robin Hoods Bay

 My brother is an entertaining writer of short stories, Here  is one on our childhood memories.

Memories

Memory is a funny thing.  As my mother entered her final years, she seemed to have an incredible recall of events and people from over 80 years in the past.  Whilst still aware enough to remember who the prime minister was, she would have trouble remembering what had happened to her in the last week.

 

My memory for some things is poor; I am dreadful at remembering names.  I can recall that I know the face, but often not the association or the name.  On the other hand, my wife’s memory for names and faces is amazing.  She still on occasions meets and remembers people who she knew at primary school.

 

I can remember numbers, places, names of places and events.  It probably says a lot about the kind of people we are.  My wife is a warm, friendly people person.  I can remember numbers.

 

But the purpose of this piece is to recount some of the memories of my childhood.  Some I certainly remember, some may be that I remember what I have been told.  I am describing events before I was 9 when the family lived in Robin Hoods Bay prior to our move to Middlesbrough.

 

Robin Hoods Bay on the Yorkshire coast grew up in 3 phases.  Early settlers were subsistence farmers living high above the coast in fear of Viking raiders, fishing when weather permitted.  Once it was safe to do so they moved down to the coast.  The wide bay has three streams cutting through the soft cliffs of shale and clay.  They chose the northernmost and built their houses astride the steep sided beck. In appearance it looks as though a child had spilled their toy houses and they lay where they landed.  Later still the Victorians built a railway and started to construct a more orderly village near the station on top of the steep bank that led down to the old village. 

 

Fishing boats would be drawn up in a square at the village foot where a slipway led down to the beach beside the culverted stream.  At high tide the sea rose up the slipway and in stormy weather flooded the square.  At low tide sands lay at the foot of the cliffs on either side of the village.  Rocky outcrops or scaurs lay in parallel bands angling out from the beach.

 

This long hot summer we have enjoyed brings to mind another one – 1947.  But it is that winter, which brings up a memory.  At that time my father was still in the RNR, having been drafted in 1939 from his position as a Merchant Navy Officer.  His role involved him travelling from one naval dockyard to another adjusting magnetic compasses on naval vessels.  He managed to get home most weekends.  But there was one weekend that he got home and was trapped.  The tale was told that the village was cut off for six weeks.  Huge drifts blocked both the rail line from Whitby and Scarborough and the roads over the moors.  My memory testifies to this. 

 

Running short of fresh meat my Dad elected to take his shotgun onto the cliffs and try and bag a rabbit or two for the pot.  He took me along well wrapped up against the snow.  I would be 5 and it is a bit of a mystery why he decided that watching him shoot rabbits was good for my education.  In the event we didn’t get any.  Whilst tramping along the cliff top in the snow I tripped over something.  Dad picked me up, brushed me down, and scraped away the snow to reveal what it was that had felled me.  It was the top of a telegraph pole.  The phone line followed the railway line and at this point it was in a cutting that was completely filled with a snowdrift.

 

I have another incident in the snow, but this would be later in about 1950.  Having been allowed to move away from the Bay School, where I had started my education at the age of 6, I now walked to Thorpe School with my brother and one of his friends. The journey was about ¾ mile and involved walking up a steep bank just passed the railway bridge on Thorpe Lane.  We had trudged through the hard packed snow as far as the bank. As we started on the bank a United bus drove up behind us.  We thought it would be a good idea to get a help up the hill so as the bus slowed down to gingerly climb up the bank we clung onto the back and let it tow us up.  It did seem a good idea at the time, but the bus driver had an alternative view.  Before we had got to the school half a mile away he had stopped there and reported our escapade to the headmaster.

 

On arriving we were summoned to the front of the boys assembly.  Not as intimidating as you might think, there were probably only about 30 children.  The headmaster said he had a mind to punish us for our foolhardiness and asked us which punishment we would select. Being new to the school I was uncertain what he meant by this, but he soon revealed his intent.  He opened a cupboard to display his armoury.  It contained a thin Malacca cane, a walking stick, a leather strap, a plimsoll, a riding crop and a shepherds ‘hezzle’ or hazel walking pole.

 

Being the new boy, I was asked first and deliberated my choice.  I knew the Malacca cane would sting, as would the riding crop.  I settled for the hezzle.  He asked me to explain my choice, and I said that I believed it would hurt less than the others.  Turning to the school he asked them if they agreed with my selection.  To a boy they confirmed that my judgement was misplaced.  I shivered with dread anticipation.  In the event the headmaster then decided to let us off with a caution.

 

A similar recollection from these wintry days was batting to school through heavy snow and arriving cold and wet.  We were told to remove our coats and dry them near the potbellied stove that supplied the room with heat.  Once we were warm and the clothes a bit drier we were packed off to trudge our way back home through the driving snow.

 

On the way to school we had passed the local church St. Stephens, known as the village cathedral because of its classic imposing structure.  In the late 19^th century it replaced, for regular worship, the old church, high above the village.  Close by the church was the vicarage, another good example of Victorian architecture.  It was here that I enjoyed or endured, you may choose, two of life experiences.

 

My mother was a fine pianist and organist and often played the organ at church.  She was keen for her sons to be part of the church music experience.  My older brother was already in the choir, and it was my turn to audition.  I was an altogether different proposition.  Shy, lacking in confidence, and with a marked stammer, I was unable to produce a single note at the audition in front of the vicar’s wife.  I was thus destined never to grace the choir stalls. 

 

I did grace the vicar’s lawn though, or maybe that should be disgrace.  Every Whitsuntide the vicar held a garden party in the grounds of the vicarage.  One of the highlights of the event was maypole dancing.  Quite how the vicar rationalised this ancient form of pagan symbolism with his Christian duties is not recorded.  The weaving of intricate patterns and the successful un-weaving appealed to my senses.  Unfortunately, I did not always get it right and the chaos that can ensue when a young boy takes the wrong step on the unwinding can be hilarious – for the onlookers.  Apart from the boy’s mother that is.

 

I started school when I was 6, delayed due to a bout of pneumonia.  My education had been at home, and I apparently developed reasonable reading skills and the ability to knit.  My reading ability resulted in a change in my grandfather’s choice of Sunday reading.  I can remember the incident, but the result was explained to me many years later.  Reading the paper one weekend I pointed out to my mother that the paper had made a misprint.  They had spelled the word six with an e instead of an i.  My grandfather’s copy of the News of the World was cancelled forthwith.

 

Our papers were delivered by Bill Brown who ran one of the village shops.  He also delivered groceries for Uncle Dan.  He wasn’t really an uncle, just the husband of a lifelong friend of my mother.  He ran the village grocers and post office.   Part of his trade was to provide a grocery service to the many farms that dotted the hillside from Ravenscar to Ness Point.  He walked up to each farm once a week and took orders from the farmer or his wife.  The orders were assembled and then delivered by Bill Brown in his old, battered Armstrong Siddely, whose rear doors were tied together with cord.

 

My role in all this I shared with my brother.  We helped Uncle Dan assemble the orders after school. We weighed sugar into blue paper bags, and flour into brown ones.  Tea was scooped out of the tea chest and weighed into packets, which were then carefully folded to prevent spillage.  I carved and weighed lumps of lard, margarine and butter from large slabs and neatly wrapped them in greaseproof paper.  Shelves were trawled for tins of peas and peaches, jars of meat paste and pickled onions, and the haul was packed neatly into cardboard boxes. But the best job was grinding the coffee beans on the big old grinder.  The wonderful smell is to me the best part of coffee, more preferable than the taste.

 

I received no pay for this work, a dip into a sweet jar was all I could expect or wish for.  My mother reaped the benefit through Dan’s generosity with his groceries and his surplus eggs when the hens were laying well.  I suspect also that my mother’s food ration coupons had a degree of elasticity.  It was with Dan that we learned an early lesson in animal husbandry.  Once his hens were no longer able to produce eggs they were promptly despatched.  Dan showed us the most effective way to wring a chicken’s neck.

 

There are other memories of my childhood, which I have known for a long time was a very precious and privileged time in my life.  Catching lobsters and collecting winkles on the shore; Christmas Masonic parties; the deadly scourge of polio; penny bread loaves, fleeing from strange men and arson.

It was inevitable that as children we would spend a lot of our spare time on the beach, particularly in holiday time.  We would spend this time largely unsupervised, generally 4 or 5 of us in a small group of mixed ages, but all under the age of 12.  The bay had notorious tides patterns, which each summer managed to strand some holidaymaker on the scaurs requiring them to swim to safety and occasionally they needed recovering by boat.  Somehow we kids already knew the dangers and managed to watch out for each other as we gathered winkles, sea urchins or fished for crabs and lobsters.

 

Winkles were taken home, boiled and after seasoning with salt and vinegar eaten with a pin. Getting the winkle out of its shell is a simple matter of skewering the end, twisting and pulling before discarding the flat cap that seals the flesh in the shell. Sea urchins were a different matter.  These provided us with the pocket money that we could spend at Trillos ice cream van to be found on the beach most holidays.  Both on the beach in the high season and in a small shop in the village a local man, a real ancient to us youngsters sold the sea urchins, gutted, stripped of their spines and polished.  He then filled them with small bunches of coastal flowers such as thrift, samphire and sea lavender and sold them to holidaymakers.

 

Crabs and lobsters were taken home to eat.  The local fishermen caught them in lobster pots, but we and other villagers used our crab hooks. Getting your own crab hook was a rite of passage for children.  The hook was a broomstick with a metal spike on the end twisted into a hook. The technique was to follow the tide as it ebbed and start poking your hook into crevices under the rocky scaurs.  Both crabs and lobsters objected to this intrusion into their premises and grabbed the hook with their claw.  The task was to gently tease them out of their hole, bind their claws with string and drop them into your bucket. Memory tells me that we got loads.  The reality is that we probably had many more failures than successes.  We also had to follow the conservation rules, which prevented us taking immature specimens.  Immature lobsters were called ninties by the local fishermen for some reason.

 

We must have had some success, as I recall that summer evening meals sometimes comprised a large bowl of salad, local bread, more of this later, and a cooked lobster on each plate.  It was a matter of pride to extract as much flesh as possible using only a teaspoon.

 

When the tide was in we played on the cliffs and beside the village stream until we were banned from doing so.  This arose when one of our extended gang contracted infantile paralysis, or polio as it came to be known.  It was believed that she contracted the disease from the stream, which probably served as a sewer for half the village and farms further up into the hills.  The fear in the village was palpable and as a young boy I was aware of this.  Fortunately, no one else became ill and Ailsa remained isolated until her sad early death as a teenager.

 

The other illness that haunted us from these times was TB. My brother had an infected gland in his neck removed and for years the family were regularly screened for the disease.  The source of the illness was never established, but we all drank milk delivered directly from the farm.  The milkman, old Len, walked the streets with a yoke across his back carrying two pails of milk.  He ladled your requirements into your jugs from his standard measures, in pints not litres.

 

The cliffs in spring were carpeted with primroses, and one day my brother and I gathered fists full to give to our mother on Mothers Day.  My brother had a little wheelbarrow made by a joiner friend of our parents.  We decided that this would make a good receptacle for our gift.  However, once we placed in our primroses the gift looked a bit sparse.  The primroses needed augmenting, and we found some daffodils in a field along Church Lane.  These were nearer than another trip to the cliffs for primroses.  It was later that we were told that we should never ever consider taking flowers from the churchyard.

 

But life was not all fun. One of the local tradesmen, the coal man if memory serves me right came with a health warning. Our parents advised us that we boys should stay away from him.  Why this was so was never explained, adulthood provided the answer. One late Autumn afternoon I was returning home when he appeared behind me and called out.  What he said or what his   intentions were I have no notion.  I had just one idea.  To run for home.  I was soon there but in my headlong flight I misjudged my turn into the drive and ran headlong into the gate.  Within minutes I had a lump the size of a hen’s egg on my forehead and my mother soothing it with a cold compress.

 

In those days the village had a thriving year-round population and was well served by local shops.  These include a shoe shop, grocer and general dealer, a milliner and fabric shop, newsagents, butchers, wet and fried fish shops, cafes and bakeries.  It is the last of these that gave me a lifelong taste for fresh, home baked bread.  On the way home from school, when I was about 6 or 7, I would call in to collect the bread ordered by my mother.  I would also get a penny loaf.  This was a miniature loaf about three inches long.  They were still warm from the oven, and I would eat it as I climbed the bank to home.  The Hovis advert filmed in Shaftesbury is redolent of this memory.

 

The smell of the warm bakery reminds me of another smell, in an altogether different setting.  One of my sons recently described his love of the coal and log fire he now lovingly tenders in his Victorian house.  He believes that all men are at heart closet pyromaniacs.  This may stem from the racial memory that man was responsible for providing the fire for warmth and cooking.  Whatever the reason I too have the love of fire.  Many a happy hour has been spent in feeding garden fires in the days before they became antisocial.  It all started as a young boy.  I was probably eight years old.

 

I was accompanied and maybe encouraged in this joint venture by my cousin Liz and best friend Richard.  We bought a box of matches at the Top Shop, so named as it was at the top of the bank in the village.  Oddly there was no complementary Bottom Shop.  Or maybe this is not so surprising.  Such a purchase by children was not questioned, as our parents often sent us on such errands.  We walked out of the village on the cliffs to the north of the bay.  The railway line ran along the cliff top between arable crops on the landward side and fields dotted with sheep and stands of gorse bushes, towards the sea.

 

Our game was to set light to the dry grass at the base of the gorse bush and then stamp it out before it set light to the bush itself. This worked very well, and we enjoyed the few miniature blazes as we moved from bush to bush. We got a bit bolder each time until the inevitable happened. We couldn’t stamp it out and we learned one of the wonders of nature.  When a gorse bush sets afire it does so in an explosive manner. Faced with this conflagration we did what every arsonist would do in the circumstances, we ran like hell back to the village. With great presence of mind, we threw away the box of matches as we fled. Nearing the village, we heard the siren of the fire alarm, so we made our way to the fire station and then followed the crowd and the fire crew back upon to the cliffs to watch them extinguish our fire. 

 

Another act of destruction, and of this I have no memory was one Christmas, probably 1948.  The story was related by my mother to anyone who was prepared to listen to her tales of the perils of raising boys.  Apparently my brother and I were keen to own a cardigan.  Granny sharpened her knitting needles and set to with a will.  Eventually Father Christmas brought us each a hand-knitted Fair Isle patterned - sweater.  But we wanted cardigans.  The solution was clear, and I credit my brother with the solution.  Despite being left-handed my 8-year-old brother made judicious use of the kitchen scissors, and we had our cardigans.  Granny left in tears.

 

About two doors away on Church lane was a relation of my Mothers, with the quaint nickname of Chipping Hammer Tommy.  He was a retired ship’s captain and acquired his name due to his diligence in keeping his ships in tip top condition.  To do this he insisted that the crew made full use of chipping hammers to remove old, chipped paint and rust.  His desire to keep his paintwork up to scratch resulted in one of my first DIY jobs at the age of 8.  Quite how everyone thought it was a good idea to allow such a young child loose with a tin of green paint and a garden gate in need of a touch up I have no idea.  However, by all accounts the task was completed satisfactorily, and I eventually returned to my natural colour.

 

Christmas in these austere days in the late 40’s were grim. A large present was an enormous treat, what we usually got was a sock filled with oranges and nuts.  I do remember receiving a gantry crane one Christmas. This could move across the floor, and the crane hoist could lift and move the length of the crane.  It provided many hours of fun.  Another regular event at this time of year was the Masonic Christmas party.  This was usually held in Whitby, and we children travelled through by bus.  I have little memory of the details apart from receiving a Dinky toy of an army lorry that had a detachable hood.

 

We lived in my grandfather’s house, we, being my mother, brother and I and late in the 40’s my two younger sisters. Dad worked away a lot of the time.  One task that was allocated to my grandfather was to take his two grandsons to have their hair cut in Whitby.  The journey was by train.  Our role as boys was to watch for the train leaving Ravenscar station across the bay, which signalled the time we needed to walk up to the station.  Apparently at the barber’s I was a fidgeter and far from his favourite client.  He mounted us on a plank laid across the arms of his barber’s chair, and set to with his scissors, trying hard to avoid cutting my ears.  Our reward for enduring the ordeal was a visit to the Smugglers Café with Granddad to enjoy a drink and admire the many ships in a bottle which were on sale to customers.

 

This village life changed when the family moved to Middlesbrough soon after my 9^th birthday.  Although we lost the freedom that the village gave us, our new home in Middlesbrough was at that time at the limit of Middlesbrough’s urban expansion.  Fields at the bottom of the garden, a stream 100 yards along the road, and woods and playing fields, little further away allowed us to continue in some measure the childhood freedom we had taken for granted.  The promise of a bicycle if we achieved success in the 11+ would allow us to explore even further afield.

 

 

 

 

 

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Holiday Review

 I used copilot to draft this article and then edited it. My experience was that it limited my creativity and it took just aas long to edit the artificial intelligence derived draft as to start with a blank page.

A Personal Account of a Memorable Getaway

Introduction

There’s nothing quite like escaping the arrival of winter with cold and long nights with a well-earned holiday. Recently, I had the pleasure of spending a week in Ischia in Italy, and I’m delighted to share my experience. Whether you’re seeking adventure, relaxation, or a bit of both, Ischia offers an abundance of delights that make it a great destination.

Accommodation

We stayed in a small hotel in the main town on the island, a quiet oasis set back from the main road into town. Reminded me of other southern Italian towns with open arches instead of doors all painted white.

Activities and Attractions

• Boat tour: To explore the southern coat of this volcanic island revealed stunning bays with small village and also larger tourist destinations.

• Wine tasting: Ischia has its own winemaking, and we enjoyed a day trip to taste both local wine and food.
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• Cultural Spots: There is a long history of settlement by the  Greeks and a visit to an archaeological museum revealed many artifacts.

Local People and Atmosphere

The real value of our annual visit to Italy is to experience the atmosphere and mingle with local people. There is nothing like sitting in a restaurant and flavouring the ambience of Italian living. A day trip to a small island, Procida resulted in lunch in an idyllic fishing village. 

Evening meals with our group were a highlight of the tour.

Of course you also get the very vocal and apparently chaotic scenes that we experienced on our trips by ferry.

Overall a wonderful way to get some late summer sun in a vibrant culture before the onslaught of the northern winter.

Summer ferry to Denmark

 

Summer Holidays are always welcome and especially when we go to Denmark.

The holiday really starts when you leave home and that requires planning because we are going to take a ferry from Norway to Denmark in the middle of summer, lots of people on the road. Lots of traffic.

Nevertheless, it is exciting as we pack all our goods and prepare to set off. The first challenge is. Shall we stop and have a cup of coffee on the way or are do we not have time? Must we press on because of delays on the road etc with good planning, that's not a problem, so we stop and have a cup of coffee. Very pleasant.

Then we set off for the ferry terminal and the queue starts about 3 kilometres from the ferry terminal and we join a queue. Everything gets exciting. We pay for our entry. They know all about us. Because they have the car registration number from the overhead camera and we booked online no problem. Straight into a parking lane with a ticket to let us into the buffet when we get on board.

Then the chaos starts. Once given the signal to drive onboard you join a line traffic until you've parked the car, You must remember where you parked the car. Quite important which deck, which side you go upstairs. And you look for the cafe entrance. Complete chaos. Not everybody likes the idea of queuing, so it is like a rugby scrum, pressing in to find the answer, the answer to who can help you with the finding a place. Finally, we get in there, sit down, sigh of relief. Just relax for a few minutes. But not everybody else, no, they are running round, filling their plates with food, sitting down and talking, talking, talking. Time to observe people around us. There is all sorts of people. There are groups going to music festivals, there are groups going on holiday, there are young families, there are old, there are lorry drivers. All are interested in one thing, food.

It appears something takes over when they word buffet is mentioned instead of eating sensibly and taking just enough for the period. They fill their plate repeatedly. They gorge. There is even a card on the table which says eat as much as you like but please do not waste food. That tells it all. Nevertheless, it is nice to see that there's lots of families, young families, looking after their newborn baby. Carrying all the requisite number of. carriers, changing gear that is needed. And older kids running around. Taking part in treasure hunts, etc. The start of the voyage was a little bit bumpy, a little bit bouncy, there was a little bit of wind on the bow, but as soon as we got away from the Norwegian coast, moving towards the Danish coast, it subsided.

As a seafarer, I'm extremely interested in what's happening outside of the ship. Not so people travelling on holiday in the buffet. All they are interested in is eating, talking to each other, drinking as much as they can and enjoying, which is, after all, the start of their holiday.

Happy holiday

Senior Travel revisited

 

On a package charter flight

You would think that as you get older it would be easy to travel abroad, especially if you spent a large part of your career travelling internationally.

But it does not. Why is that?

Well, your age and your physical and mental resources become somewhat diminished.

Secondly, travel procedures change. Remember how parking rules change and become confusing. Well, it's the same with flying, especially if you are on a package tour.

It starts the day before travel when you start the challenge of finding your travel gear. Where are my sunglasses? Do I need my swimming gear in the Canary Islands in February etc etc.?

You learn as your memory fails you to assemble everything in one place before packing and only then start the procedure of packing. What are the travel agent’s rules for the tour. Well, they're different from ordinary flight booking and check in procedures. No check-in details, only a booking reference number. But it is all sorted out at the airport. Passport number and booking reference number, work. Whew, what a relief! With two artificial knees, progress through security requires special attention. Off with belts, hope the trousers stay up, off with the shoes and then the indignity of the standing in a glass machine with your hands over your head, followed by a body search. So boring.

Once you have past security there is a sigh of relief.  Now we can relax, we are in the hands of the airline.

Airports are a great place to observe people, they display a microcosm of society, all waiting to depart to various parts of the world.

The young Thai couple who talk in Thai with the waiter, the Asian family that clear their table and place a tray of discarded food on the trolley. Not something we all do!

One noticeable feature is the number of people with small sacks on their back, a typical feature for Norwegian travellers.

We sit in a cafe and wait until it happens. “Go to gate!”

Immediate response. Half the cafe guests rise and saunter over to the departure gate where seating is at a premium!

We watch the gate operators keenly as they check and double check the readiness to board the aircraft. By this time the gate is surrounded by many people clutching boarding cards and mobile phones with check in details.

Then the bombshell. We will be boarded by groups A, B and C! We are Group B so expect to board as the second group, but we were the first because we are in the middle seating area of the plane.

Onto the plane with the usual queuing, bumping into people and finding your seat. Sit down and wait for the public address to announce boarding complete.

Now is the opportunity to find a vacant seat to be more comfortable by the emergency exits. No such luck, the flight is fully booked.

Once airborne, you start to look around you. Babies and children run up and down the aisles. I had an aisle seat, which I thought was wise because I can get out without disturbing other passengers in my row. What a mistake!

I was battered, bumped, hit by trolleys and by people passing down the aisle. Not a wise choice.

The ordered warm foods arrive, and it was the signal for others to remove home food from their packs and start eating. Clearly a reference to charter flight onboard food!

However, it was not too bad. Then we all settled down to the remainder of the flight. Noise cancelling headsets in place. Neck supports inflated and you take up a recumbent pose. Good. But how do you do that. Some rest their heads on the table, or they sit upright and try to go to sleep, but not everyone. Sudoku ready, reading newspapers, watching video, take out knitting, all take people's attention as we headed South at 35,000 feet to warmer climes.

The flight attendant announces there is one hour left before arrival. So, the queue for the toilet starts. Should I join it or wait. Eventually there is a gap in the queue, and you scurry forward and bounce around from one seat edge to another as you weave your way down the aisle. When you get in the toilet basin is full of grey water! Take down your trousers and try to sit on the toilet seat that requires Houdini like antics. Is it because I've gotten older or am I imagining it?

 Finally, you return to your seat, the toilets ate off limits and the plane descends, and you look out the window and see an airport full of aircraft. You land. The scramble to get baggage. And finally, out onto the concours where a lady with a large sign assembles us and lead us to a bus and we're on our holiday.

A sign says Welcome to Las Palmas. I think a siesta is what I need!

A feast of traditional Yorkshire food

 Like all food, regional diversity in Yorkshire is no exception.

 Of course, everyone knows about Yorkshire puddings, or do they?

A Yorkshire pudding is not some soggy sponge like batter that you eat with your

Sunday roast, but a light, fluffy, crispy cup like dough that is filled with gravy.

A real insult to a Yorkshire person is to serve the Yorkshire pudding with the main course. It should be eaten alone as a starter. The reason for this is pure Yorkshire. Fill ’em up with Yorkshire pudding and they won't want as much main course! Thriftiness is a Yorkshire trait always to be followed!

Of course, if you come from Nottinghamshire, you would eat your Yorkshire pudding with jam as a dessert. But then again, they're really daft from down there!

A variation on the Yorkshire pudding is “toad in the hole”, a large Yorkshire pudding with sausage embedded in the mix. Very filling.

Then there are kippers, another essentially Yorkshire fish delicacy. In my youth, my brother and I would visit Whitby., walk across the bridge to the east side to buy kippers from Nobles, the fishmonger. You know you're in the right area because there were those sheds emitting a lot of smoke, the curing houses. A kipper, for the uninitiated, is a smoked herring. It is gutted, flattened out and hung up to smoke.

We ate ours for breakfast, best poached and sometimes with the poached on top. Delicious.

Another Yorkshire rarity is the pikelet, which in the south they call a crumpet. It is a griddle bread made from flour., water and yeast. Like a pancake but thicker and full of holes. Best toasted and loaded with butter as a breakfast delight.

 Then there is Yorkshire Brack, a moist fruit cake not unlike English Christmas

cake. But with a difference. The dried fruit are first soaked in Yorkshire tea not alcohol before mixing and baking to produce a fruit loaf.

 

 

 

 

What about Yorkshire tea, blended in Harrogate and producing a strong cuppa.

Finally, Yorkshire, like many northern regions, likes afternoon tea.

It is a meal around 4:00 PM served in many hotels and especially tea rooms. Those special afternoon cafes offering cafes offering cakes, pikelets and the final

Yorkshire Delight, the Curd Cheesecake. Sometimes called Yorkshire Curd Tart. Made of fresh curd and including currants and egg, it tops off a fine afternoon tea.

Enjoy.

The irritation of getting old

 You know yourself, that you are getting older. Your knees do not work as they used to. They're not as flexible, for example going downstairs you need to hold onto the rail. You are short of breath if you attempt to run, I should say hobble to catch the bus.

Worse still you notice you do not have the physical strength that you had, and you start to have arthritic pain in your shoulders and fingers.

Such is your state now!

You are mentally sharp although your short-term memories come and go. You tire more quickly, and afternoon siesta has become a welcome break. You accept all of this; you have to as there is little you can do about it!

Adapt to survive has become your watchword.

Add extra time to reach the bus, Do physical work in shorter periods with plenty of rest time.  It works.

 But it is not your discovery of how your body ages which is the most annoying. It is how people change their behaviour towards you that becomes most irritating.

You must be tired, why don't you take a nap. That's too heavy for you to lift. Think of your knees. These statements are meant in good faith, but firmly place you in the category of old!

Your younger colleagues do not seem to be so available, often excusing themselves. Your offspring are weary of your opinions, you are old fashioned, Dad, you don't understand!

Amongst your peers, the topic of conversation often ends up on health issues. How many times you must go to the toilet in the night. Should you be concerned about pains in the arms. Have you tried natural health prescriptions for cholesterol, etc etc.

 Are we returning to our childhood when everything was better!

 Oh dear, what a predicament.

Group travel

 

Trials and tribulations at the airport

Lately we have been using group travel to travel abroad instead of all the planning necessary when you do it yourself. It is convenient and you meet interesting people also in the group. The downside is that the itinerary is decided, and timing is sometimes not convenient.

Take our last trip to Puglia in southern Italy in October.

The travel instructions stated that we meet up at the airport at 0515, that is very early for us and necessitated an overnight stay in an airport hotel.

Early morning in the airport was chaos, it seems that all charter companies have early morning departures. We rush to find a free check-in automat, no friendly face just a machine that seems to demand an ever-increasing number of personal details before spewing out baggage tags and boarding passes. Pushed out of the queue by impatient persons behind us we found a free space to attach our baggage tags and store our baggage id tags, not in your passport at it tears up the pages but, in a wallet, or handbag.

Then join a long queue for what is called “baggage drop” which in reality is another self-service action to place your baggage on the conveyor and ensure you have used the barcode reader correctly. Will it go or will it not. Stress, stress, stress. I thought this was a holiday!

And we are not finished yet! A slowly moving crocodile of people shedding water bottles passes through a security check-in to join another queue for depositing personal items for security examination.

Off with coats, hats, belts, and wallets, take electronic equipment out of the hand luggage. Must remember a Kindle is considered an electronic item. Do not want my tray to end up in the “investigate further” lane.

For me with two artificial knees, there is always a beep as I pass through the electronic gate, beep and I am guided to another electronic search gate where a particular stance is required with feet apart and hands over your head. I feel like a criminal being body searched but I know it is for my own safety.

All is OK and I can go through and pick up my belongings, find a free space to dress myself, place all my personal belongings back in my bag, check I have not forgotten anything, and I am free to enter the airport.

All I really want to do is lie down and have a rest but this is “holiday” so I guess a coffee and baguette will have to do before we start another round of search for our gate and boarding of the aircraft.

Some start to what is supposed to be a relaxing holiday. I wonder when that will come!

 

Early School Days

 Robin Hoods Bay

My first recollection of school was around 1945 when I would be 5 years old. We lived in my grandfather’s large house in Robin Hoods Bay, a small fishing/farming community on the NE coast of Yorkshire.

Robin Hoods Bay was really divided in two, those that lived at the bottom of the bank in the old village and those that lived at the top of the bank.

Grandfather was a successful Captain, like many men in “the Bay” who bought new and expensive houses at the top of the bank. Our house, “Lincoln” had a large garden adjacent to the car park, a pantry, a “poshtub” in an outhouse where clothes were heated in a water bowl before being poshed, rinsed, and hug out to dry and a set of room indicators over the entrance hall inked to each room. The idea was that this was an indicator for servants where there was a request for service. Not sure why we had them as we had no servants!!

School was in the hamlet of Thorpe some one kilometre away up two steep hills, Donkey bank and Thorpe bank to an imposing stone building on the outskirts of Thorpe on the way up to Fylling Dales. We did this all-year-round summer, winter, sun, and rain.

The school was run by a man and wife teacher duo that lived onsite, so it paid to be on time, a demanding target most days!

There was no bus so we had to walk and often my brother and I would join up with the Lawson children as we made our way to school. That meant we often got up to some pranks on the way or on the way back.

I have absolutely no recollection of the teaching we received which might say something about my ability to learn or the content we were presented with. Remember this was late 1940’s and I was only seven or eight years old.

However, paradoxically I do remember some of the incidents that occurred on our trips to and from school.

One was the winter of 1947, one of the worst on record. It snowed for a week and left snowdrifts telegraph pole high. Snow clearing took a long time in coming.

However we must go to school so off we went on this winter adventure. After wading through knee high snow up Donkey Bank we came to a giant snowdrift outside the Vicarage on Thorpe Lane completely blocking the road.

Tunnelling through it was the only option if we where to get to school so without regards to safety we excitingly we buried down to the asphalt road and onward through the snowdrift to emerge some two metres later. What an adventure even though we were by now soaking wet.

So we arrived at school shivering and found we were the only ones to make it. Yes! Success!

However, our elation was short-lived as the teacher made us take off our clothes and hang them over the large potbellied stove in the corner of the room to dry. Once dry we dressed ourselves and were sent home as the school would be closed for two weeks until the snow melted sufficiently so that children from the outlying farms could reach school, experiencing that our snowdrift tunnel had survived so we arrived a little less wet than our outward journey.

Three years later we moved to a new house in Middlesbrough, and I was to attend Whinney Banks junior school.

The transition from village school in Robin Hoods Bay to a large junior school in a large town was a huge step for a ten-year-old boy.

Now there were classes of 20-30 pupils and a class timetable with different teachers and subjects such as PT and RI. What are they?

Physical training (PT) took place in a gymnasium with lots of apparatus that we had to use such as climbing ropes. We had to change for this class into shorts and sports shirt and plimsoles on our feet. These were black soft soled trainers.

Religious Instruction (RI) was quite different and very difficult to grasp. Here we were to focus on the Bible, both the old and new testaments and learn by heart the ten commandments. These lessons were often in a coded language relating to evils, sins, and heaven. All very difficult for a happy go lucky ten-year-old.

Then there were breaks as they were called, a sort of pause between classes when we could go out in the playground and meet up with our newfound pals and have fun. I must say fun often meant taunting other pupils, called bullying today!

It was in one of these breaks that I came across my first sighting of a boy “of colour”. I think he was either from Pakistan or India but spoke with a broad Middlesbrough accent. My first contact with multiculturalism.

We got free lunch when we could sit together in a huge canteen. The food was not very exciting consisting of stews and boiled vegetables and even worse semolina pudding that we called “frogs’ eyes” as the semolina popped in the custard.

My time at Whinney Banks was short as I was about to face my next educational hurdle, the “11 plus exam”. Success here would open opportunity to enter grammar school and eventually could lead to university. Failure meant attending secondary school and picking up a trade to follow.

Terminal observations

 GATWICK AIRPORT

You see humanity at its best and worst at airports in holiday times. Gatwick is such a place in August. Queues for everything but the stolid English acceptance of crowdiness means patience is needed. No shouting, jumping queues even when they exceed the tramlines put down for such an event. No, all nationalities seem to take on that English attitude of of resignation as they join those neverending queues.

All nationalities are here and in all shapes and sizes as I found out when a rather large lady sat down on one of those linked seating arrangements. All though she was three seats from me I was catapultged into the air and returned with a thud. Good job I was not drinking tea!

Another thing, everyone is using their mobiles. With faces glued to their minature screens they provide translations, directions and even security clearance and boarding tickets  for aircraft and trains. Thank goodness I bought an "eticket" for the  train and avoided a somewhat long physical queue for paper tickets.

READING TRAIN STATION

Sat down to wait with a "Starbucks" coffee. Opposite were a young couple. The girl, dressed in a beige "jumpsuit" had red nails, long eyelashes and never stopped looking at herself in, yes you guessed it, her mobile. Reckon she is one of those "influencers" who try to advise us on everything under the sun and for which they earn a commission! Suddenly, she started to make a video with her mobile with all sorts of different facial expressions. Weird! Then she reached into her jumpsuit pocket extracted something and put it to her mouth and then exhaled and a stream of smoke issued from her nostrils! Must have been "vaping", the modern form of smoking. Alongside was an expensive set of suitcases adorned by a large teddy bear. All of this oblivious of things around her.

In contrast, a lone females backpacker looking dishevelled, tired and muddy smiles at me as she sits down at the next table, extracts her mobile and has a telephone conversation.

What a contrast.

Suddenly an employee of Starbucks tells an abusive customer to leave and such is the explosive nature of it that I spill my latte down my shirt!

A mother with two young girls in straw hats with roses in them pick up sandwiches  and drinks "to go". A tired looking grandmother tags on behind. Wonder where they are going as Reading station is a crossover for many lines. Cardiff, Camarthon, Penzance, Bristol, Birmingham, Cheltenhap Spa. Who knows.

Two elderly sisters in white summer dresses eat chocolate biscuits wrapped in gold wrappers whilst intermittently chatting and checking their mobiles.

Have we lost the art of non digital communication!

The Doctor's surgery waiting room

In the old days when you were unwell or sick you rang the doctor, and he came to your home. He was called the family doctor and everyone in the family used the same doctor. There was close bond between the family and this single doctor. He might prescribe medication or recommend specialist examination or a trip to the hospital. Medication required a prescription that he wrote out on the spot in handwriting. A trip to the chemist was required to get the medicine or pills.

Today that has all changed. If you feel unwell you must make a journey to the doctor’s surgery unless it is an emergency and then an ambulance will come and take charge.

A doctor’s surgery today is more like a small treatment centre with nurses, laboratories, and a host of specialist doctors. You have your own personal doctor that you choose and who remains your doctor over time.

To see the doctor you must first book online through the national health service. This requires passwords and security checks before you come your doctor’s calendar where you choose a free fifteen-minute slot. Yes, a fifteen-minute slot is the initial planned contact time that can change on circumstances. This is important as the schedule slips throughout the day. It is therefore wise to book a slot early in the day unless you are prepared to wait up until one hour after the planned time and pay extra parking fees for your car. So today, the responsibility is yours to get into the doctor’s surgery at your own costs. After that your national health plan should cover your requirements.

You enter the reception area where a notice informs you that if you already have an appointment, you can go directly and sit outside your doctor’s office. The problem is with reduced seating because of covid this is not as easy as it seems.

Once seated and your mobile is in vibration mode it is time t look around. After all a doctor’s waiting room is a window on humanity.

There is an anxious elderly couple opposite holding hands. Hope they get some good news. Next to me is a young mother with a sick baby who cries and cries and cries. We all smile and make gurgling sounds in an attempt to be friendly and perhaps a little helpful.

Down the waiting room is a worker with his hand covered in a bandage talking to a colleague in a foreign language, possibly Polish.

There is a quite different atmosphere here, it is palpable, people are anxious over concern for their wellbeing.

Suddenly a door opens a nurse shouts a name and waits for a response. No response so the door closes, and we subside into a state of anticipation, what next. The same door opens again, and another name is shouted down the corridor. Here, shouts a young women dressed in very fashionable clothes with a Gucci bag over her shoulder, and she disappears into the room and the door marked “laboratory” closes. What happens in the laboratory, I wonder? Five minutes later I have an answer. A man comes out in shirtsleeves clutching a plaster in his elbow crook. Blood tests is what happens in the laboratory.

It constantly amazes me what is learnt from an analysis of our blood. A few days after a blood test an email arrives with a cryptic comment from the doctor. ”All OK for your age”! This accompanied with a technical sheet with values for undecipherable symbols and the normal expected range for that condition. After a search on the Internet you learn what the symbols mean!

Technology is at the heart of our health system. You can login and check the status of medication and even renew it online. Messages from the doctor are there and expiry dates of current medication.

A trip to the chemists to pick up what the doctor has prescribed only needs you to show you ID foe the chemist to check what is available for you.

So much has changed but the doctor’s surgery remains that place you might fear most, perhaps after the dentist!

The supermarket run

For pensioners

As pensioners we constantly adapt to keep up with daily life. Such is the case with supermarkets. No longer is it easy to find a friendly local butcher, greengrocer, or baker. We shop in a giant warehouse, often out of town, that they call either a shopping centre or a supermarket. This requires different strategies to successfully complete our purchases that fit our needs and pocket.

Timing is also important. Avoid the commuter rush and especially the “after work” peak to the supermarket. Late morning, early afternoon is best, there is more parking space!

Parking is the next challenge. Do I need to find an automat, have I got the right app or is it all done automatically by cameras. Getting it right is important to avoid a heavy fine.

Is this a big shop requiring a trolley or a small shop where a basket is enough. The result of the decision determines whether you can use the “self-checkout” or not. No trollies in self-checkout. Today it is a basket shop.

The one-way system for walking in the shopping centre has been abolished now covid is no longer a threat and we do not need to wear masks anymore, good job really as I have forgotten mine.

Am I ready for this expedition? Yes, mobile in left pocket, glasses in the right pocket and wallet with shopping list in the back pocket, car keys in my jacket pocket. Time to enter the fray!

Push through the entry gate narrowly avoiding a determined lady pushing her empty trolly aggressively into the narrow entrance. Time to “gird my loins” and prepare for battle. Not sure where I got that phrase from, but it seems appropriate to this challenge.

Get a clean basket without paper advertisements in it and step outside of the mainstream of people to plan my route through the supermarket. The best place to do this is by the bread shelves. OK, best to start with our meal today as often there are queues around the meat and fish counters and especially the cooked foods. There is not a queue but a lot of people pushing against the long counter trying to attract the attention of a counter person! Not sure that is the right term for someone behind the fish counter, but it will do. Next, shouts one of these persons and I raise my hand but to no avail as the young upwardly mobile lady with sunglasses perched on the top of her head behind me shouts “me” and pushes in front. So the battle has started. Shall I complain? No, not worth it let her go and then perhaps I can get the fresh fish wok in front of me. First item on the list completed so retire to plan the next move. As it is a basket on my arm it is important to leave the heavy objects until the last so it will be “pålegg”, the things you put on your bread or Ryvita. Today we need ham and cheese. Problem is ham is in one location and cheese in another! There are hundreds of hams in plastic wrappers, not only ham but turkey, beef, chicken, and some of indeterminate origin. What to choose? Should I use price as a guide or not. Impulsively I grab the nearest packet of slices of ham and quickly vacate the space as a “browser” nudges me with his trolley, a clear sign I am in his way.

Having been here before I have a good navigation plan in my head, first fruit, then vegetables and finally milk and juice, the heavy items. Wait a minute there are two other items, mango chutney and desiccated coconut. Where on earth are they? Those overhead signs are no good either as they are so general. Will mango chutney be in “Asian foods” or spices and herbs” and desiccated coconut in “baking” or “spices” wherever that is. Must ask for assistance. Now there is a challenge. I have often found myself addressing a customer rather than an employee by mistake! Must look for the uniform. Start scouting around the aisles and find someone stacking goods on shelves. Just as I reach them and wait patiently for him to finish and turn around, one of those military type pensioners with moustache and chequered shirt over a worn jacket shouts “you there, where is the butter section”? The reply is interesting. Try section 8 over there the employee shrugs and responds. No thank you from the military type just a shrug of the shoulders and some unheard comment as he stalks off. The employee turns to me and asks, “How can I help you? Follow me he responds to my question and takes me to both sites I had visited earlier and points out the products! I felt such an idiot not spotting them before but there are so many bottles and packages to scrutinise.

Shopping list completed and basket now heavy I navigate towards self-checkout. I head into a free station and plop my basket down on. I never know which side I should place the basket as someone once told me they weigh the basket and contents and compare it with what you move over to the other side. However, I am not sure this is true as I had bread from the bread shop and I did not get a red light, a warning or intervention by a watchful supervisor. Relatively easily go through the basket followed by beeps as each product is identified and priced. Then the dreaded moment, the bar code cannot be read, and the identifying digital code underneath the product is too small and unreadable. Press the help button, and an overhead flashing red summons the supervisor and makes me somewhat conspicuous and feeling like an idgit. With quick movements through the online menu my product is found and registered. That only leaves those fruit and vegetables without bar codes. Problem is there are many banana items, and I cannot identify the loose ones I chose. Click for the first one, hoping it is right and move on. Time to pay and respond that I need one plastic bag feeling a little guilty that I did not choose paper bags or that I forgot to bring a bag from home. Payment with Google pay, and my mobile is so much simpler than dragging out credit cards and scanning them. Pick up my bag and receipt and us it to exit the supermarket exhausted. What I need now is a large flat white coffee and a sticky bun!

 

 

Surviving entry into a foreign country

 

Surviving entry into a foreign country

The plane came to a stop and the seatbelt signed pinged and switched off. It was if it signalled the start of a race or the commencement of a rugby scrum! People pushed and shoved, climbed over seated persons to reach the aisle, and establish a place in a queue for a cabin door that was not even open! Overhead bin doors flew open and without any regard to people below dragged out their luggage and forced a place in the queue for it. If their baggage was not adjacent to their seat, they pushed past with the determination of a scrum forward without apology or concern for others. What is it in us that brings out this behaviour?

Having checked in baggage I knew there was no need to rush so sat back and enjoyed the debacle of sensible people reduced to a rabble in their urge to leave the plane.

The door opened and the pushing started but also a sense of decency returned as people waited for others to rise and exit their seats. Soon the pace of exit reduced to a trickle, and we rose, collected our bags, checked we had not left anything in the seat pockets and left, thanking the air hostesses for their service.

Outside the aircraft there were a couple of guys just watching us as we went up the ramp. They were in civilian clothes, and it looked as though they were customs or immigration checking us out!

Came to the top of the ramp and then came the information overload. Signs for everything in all directions! Stopped, got bumped by passengers behind me as they raced for the exit but finally deciphered the two most important signs we needed, baggage reclaims and toilets! Then started a long walk with escalators and left and right turns until we came to a large sign that read “You are now entering the UK border control area! More intimidating than welcoming. More signs separating Europeans from non-Europeans, so we chose the queue for Europeans and prepared ourselves for the automatic electronic scan system with my passport. Chose my UK passport and stepped onto the yellow footprints on the floor, removed my cap and inserted my passport into the scanner. No response as I waited and waited. Reread the instructions and began to panic thinking of all the people behind me in the queue getting impatient. Still no response from the machine. In desperation I turned the passport upside down and bingo it worked, and a picture of my face was taken and the gate to the UK opened.

One down 2 to go.

The baggage hall was enormous, and an overhead screen announced that our baggage would arrive on belt two. Dutifully checked the belt signs and walked down the hall. The belt was stationery and the overhead sign said last bag on the belt for passengers from Stockholm. A guy removed all the last remaining bags and there began the scrum to be nearest to the chute ejecting the bags onto the belt. Never mind the yellow safety lines just get close to the belt seemed to be the objective. Having learnt the folly of such a move I went to the other end of the belt were there were less people. Suddenly a light came on over the belt and a bell sounded and everyone became agitated, the bags are coming and so they did. Everything from large well wrapped packages to rucksacks and suitcases that had not survived the baggage handlers and were disgorging their contents on the belt!

Round and round went the bags, saw that red one last time round, where is my small black suitcase with a red address label? There it is, so excused myself and got to the front and extracted the suitcase.

Now for the next hurdle, customs. Choose the green channel passing two nonchalant customs officers leaning against the wall with their eyes everywhere. I wonder what they are looking for. Passed by the inspection area and could not help a peep into it and sure enough there was a family with large suitcases having to unpack them for inspection.

A sliding door opened, and we had entered the UK and it was complete chaos. People lined up against a barrier with name tags or just searching for faces, happy reunions and business people being rushed away to their booked transport.

Again information overload and we scanned for car rentals and followed the signs. More confusion as we must take a lift down to the next level. Remembered where the car rental office was and headed for it only to find it was a building site and we were redirected to the multistorey carpark second level.

There we were met by a friendly attendant who led us to our little Fiat 500 and after checking it for damage we were off or were we. How do we get out of this place!