Boat Blog!

Hi all,

well, quite a lot has happened in the last couple of months....I've been working for a few weeks, have been to Cambridge, to Yorkshire and finally pottering around on the high seas...

I've been asked to write a blog for the company with whom I did the tour of the Outer Hebrides. I've cut and pasted the blog to this site - so I don't have to write it twice - lazy!

Here it is:

Outer Hebrides and St. Kilda trip, Monday 29th Aug – Wednesday 7^th Sept 2011

Thursday 8^th September 2011, 8am; our trip on the Halmar Bjorge to St Kilda and the Outer Hebrides has ended. I wake up and momentarily wonder why my bed is stationary. A little disgruntled, I realise I’m not in a bunk but in my own bed, the usual (but not always) gentle rocking which has accompanied my sleep for the past ten days is no more. I sniff the air. Nothing. No bacon smells waft past my nostrils, no sausages are frying. Dragging myself out of bed I wander to the kitchen. Forced to make my own coffee I look ruefully at the empty table. I miss the crew.

In an uncharacteristic display of impulsive and slightly mad behaviour the man we have come to think of as ‘our’ Captain, Mark (Aye, aye) has asked a group of guests to write a blog. Following a convivial evening and some discussion about ‘Favourite bits to mention’ the task of producing said blog falls to one member of the group. Me.

So where to start? Well, I suppose to begin at the beginning always seems a good place, although ‘Just point at the person who is in the water and repeat “Man Overboard” until I turn the boat around and pick them up’ Is not exactly what you are hoping to hear when you first step on board and head out towards one of the more remote parts of the British Isles. Luckily we managed to avoid needing to use the point and shout technique, though Mark’s seasickness talk was certainly a necessary introduction to our fifteen hour chug to St Kilda on day one. The issue was the good old British weather (which never lets you down with its constant changeability). ‘The North Wind doth blow…’ says the nursery rhyme. Well,  so does the West, the South-West, the East and the North-East and sometimes they seem to be doing it all at the same time causing – for a few poor souls – nausea of terrible hideousness.

But just when it gets too much, a small pod of common dolphins will be attracted by the movement of the boat in the water. Twice we had groups bow-riding the Halmar  Bjorge, playing in the waves, breaching the water, spinning below the surface and getting close enough for us to see their ‘smiling’ mouths, their mammalian eyes, their scratched and scarred skin. Suddenly, you forget the sickness and are fascinated by their pirouetting agility. We learned that the scratches are caused by other dolphins, either during arguments or courtship. Incidentally, the crew not only have a profound respect for the environment, but are incredibly knowledgeable and happy to share information with guests. Thanks to their eagle eyes (and with the help of the lovely Eva) we spotted eagles (sea and golden), otters, fulmars, gannets, seals, dolphins (bottlenose and common), to name a few.

The islands of St Kilda are beautiful, remote and appear barren and inhospitable even in benign weather. That Hirta, the largest island, managed to support a small community of people who survived by climbing cliffs to capture birds is awe inspiring. Evacuated in 1930, the community’s modest dwellings were left to decay; today some have been renovated and are open to the public. We had the chance to spend a day there, a stroke of luck because getting there is a challenge and isn’t always guaranteed. The next day we circled the islands and saw the nesting sites from close quarters before we headed back on a calmer – and shorter – route to the Outer Hebrides.

With the seasickness dealt with we had a chance to settle into boat life. Being gathered in a relatively small space with people you’ve never met before could prove problematic. However, the Halmar Bjorge employs a secret weapon to counteract this. Who was it who said ‘I defy you to agitate a man on a full stomach’? That person had presumably met someone like Marky Mark, aka Cookie.

 It’s hard to believe that  a big bloke in a small galley can create such delicious and innovative dishes. The food was amazing: lobster, mussels, soups, lasagne, duck in plum and orange sauce, banoffee pie, nut free dishes, fruit cake, scallops (dived for by Cap’n Mark, now there’s service), homemade bread, veggie options, chicken in honey and lemon and bread and butter pudding were some of the outrageously scrumptious things which were offered. The mind boggling thing was that Cookie Mark managed to do all this whilst acting as first mate, throwing ropes, jumping onto jetties, spotting dolphins  and tending the seasick. Any man who can do all this whilst producing pancakes with bacon and syrup should either be despatched forthwith to sort out hospital food for the NHS or, perhaps just allowed to lie down in a darkened room for a while. And yes folks, those flapjacks are officially the best in the world!  

Fishing was Cookie’s pastime. An early morning mackerel became a lunchtime dish, despite the fact it had startled Joan by flapping past her window at 7am. Deep Sea Fisherman Bill (all the way from South Africa with wife Ann) got into fishing mode. Unfortunately, over-eagerness and a left handed grip on a right handed rod caused Bill to break Cookie’s rod, but not before he had managed to catch a very small specimen. Approaching Cookie, Bill apologetically held the broken rod in one hand and the fish in the other.

Bill:  Cookie, what do you call this fish?

Cookie:  Pollocks.

Bill:  I’m sorry about the rod.       (Pause)       What do you call this fish?

Leverburgh, a port on Harris, was the stop after St Kilda. Low slung houses were distributed about an inlet. Its unimaginative (though philanthropic) creation causing Carolyn to suggest they employ an architect and a bulldozer and start again. Leverburgh was characterised by a nearby medieval church, some greylag geese and plenty of sheep. The ferry came and went as did we. 

The trip progressed south down the west side of the Uists towards Loch Boisdale. On the way Loch Euphort produced some fabulous otter sightings. That evening guests and crew were regaled by boating legends, Tony and Ben. They had spent about ten post-retirement years sailing around the world, ‘off and on, you know’. With some badgering we managed to coax sailing stories out of them, the one about eluding pirates particularly sticks in the mind, ‘We kept the boat under sail, started the motor and made small turns of 5 degrees to port until they got fed up’ typically understated their adventure.

Then we were on to Eriskay, Canna and Mull in successive days. All gave opportunities for fantastic walks and scenery. Ship’s dog Seven had never walked so much in her life! We also experienced two magnificent sunsets – you could tell how impressive they were by the fact that we stopped eating to look and take photos.    

The trip was drawing to an end so we headed to Tobermorey, on Mull. A shared bay on the pontoon was available into which Mark steered the Halmar Bjorge much to the blatantly impressed stares of a number of on-lookers. The arrival at mooring caused Phil (with just a hint of envy) to say, ‘Exemplary seamanship and boat handling, as always.’ We considered that only a man who would take his grandmother on a speedy motorbike ride as a gift for her 70^th birthday would have the skill and confidence to carry out such an assured manoeuvre.

By now Heather had gained her sea legs and was hanging off the bow to take photos, going up to the top deck and supplementing rations with chocolate biscuits (the ship’s unspoken motto was clearly ‘never knowingly underfed’).  Alan became the BBC – Breakfast Bar Champion when he managed to polish off seconds on the last morning, leaving wife Aline to wonder if she’d have to roll him home.

Hats were also a feature of the holiday. Sometimes for practical reasons; warm clothing was a must for standing on the top deck. Sian found a rather fetching green hard hat on board which she modelled one evening. This started a spate of ‘dressing for dinner’ with hats being offered on a daily basis by guests and crew, she managed trial quite a few.

We weren’t very lucky terms of seeing lots of different cetaceans but there were some amazing highlights:

• Visiting the different islands
• The sunset in Eriskay, closely followed by the one on Canna
• The heather in the hills on Canna and Rhum
• Fabulous scenery and photo opportunities (far to many to list)
• Dolphins on the bow wave
• Seabirds galore – no puffins as they had left their breeding grounds  but gannets, razorbills, guillemots, fulmars aplenty
• The fact that the midges didn’t pose  a problem except on the jetty at Canna one evening (we could see Phil flapping half a mile away)

But the trip was much more than a list of events, it was a fun, fascinating foray to places  which aren’t easy to reach  with an experienced team . Actually, here crew member Gordon deserves a special mention for his wry and quirky take on life the universe and everything. Rarely can one man reduce fourteen people to such bellyaching giggles with such regularity.

And so the trip is over, I sit here -smiling inanely-  as I finish my elongated blog (though I feel I’d never be forgiven if I cut it short and didn’t do justice to the fantastic time we had).

Also, I’m trying to analyse the strange feeling which is washing over me. Hmm. Then realisation dawns - I’m hungry! Haven’t felt like this in a while….now I begin to wonder… would Cookie give me his recipe for crème brulee if I asked him nicely…?

Its the Final Countdown - da da daa da, da da da da daa, da da daa da, da da da da da da daa, da da daa...

Helloooooo, helllloooo,

Writing this whilst The Apprentice is on in the background; what a pointless load of self promotion and mutual ego-bashing. As Henry Robinson used to tell me, 'Self praise is no praise at all', being an intellectual and incredibly modest individual I understand where he's coming from.

Anyway, what news do I have for you? What gems (or duds?) for you delectation and delight?

Not much, truth be told.

So, what's occurin?

Well...

I've covered about 110 miles in the last three days - not sure exactly how many because my mileometer is slightly lame, only registering approximately 2/3 of what I'm actually cycling.

Lanquished in Lichfield then left last Lundi (Top Alliteration as Mr H would say) and, basically, have cycled down to a lovely little place in the Cotswolds called Ewan. Lots of people say the Cotswolds are beautiful, that's because they are; quaint, pretty, picturesque. Lots to see and quite a bit to do and if you can manage to dodge the coach loads of mature, camera laden tourists then you're laughing.

I could bore you with prosaic descriptions, but I'll leave that to someone else. Why reinvent the wheel?

This part of the trip has proved no surprise, however, what was a shocker was my meander through Brum.

What I should explain is that I followed National Cycle Route 5 (Thank you Sustrans) from Lichfield to somewhere above Stow-on-the-Wold, the cycle route invariably takes the pretty, little country roads which are three times as long as the direct routes. The great thing about taking these roads is that you get to visit places you would never see otherwise. Take, for example, my trip through the sprawling metropolis of The Midlands. (Take it, go on.) I went through some of the most densely populated areas in the British Isles. This is what I saw:

Lichfield

Burntwood

Dead centre of Walsall

More Walsall

West Bromwich

Smethwick

'Gold Fingers' - Birmingham

So you see, I barely noticed the city.

Arrived in Redditch on day two of my wanderings, thought I'd stop for a coffee. No cafe, so I chose a pub. Landlady refused to charge me because she felt guilty about not having enough milk. Whilst sitting in the beer garden (where I could keep an eye on bike) a group of morning drinkers asked why I wasn't doing my rounds ??? Confusion. With my neon vest and panniers, (and probably due to their consumption - beer, not the disease) they thought I was the post mistress.... I moved on.

Arrived in the Cotswolds yesterday afternoon. Stayed in Moreton-in-Marsh, a lovely place. If you ever come to the Cotswolds don't go to the much publicised places, go to the less well known ones - fewer coaches, fewer tourists, quainter. Also (much to my chagrin I didn't discover this til I left) Moreton is the home of the Firefighter's Training School. Sigh.

Another little known fact about the Cotswolds is the Fields In Bloom, Balanced Equity Rotation. Which basically means that, in order to preserve the beauty of the area, each farmer has to ensure his/her lands follow a strict colour scheme.

Red field

Blue field

Green field

Brown field

And so on. I also saw yellow (rapeseed) Golden (wheat) and purple (heather) but they were viewed as I was going uphill and I can only do photos on the downs.

Also seen today:
A stoat. I have never seen one in the flesh before. Did you know that stoat is smaller than its habitual prey of rabbit? It manages to catch them, however, by doing this funny leapy dance which captivates the rabbit's attention so that it forgets to run away until...POUNCE!
A deer. It was a female roe deer, an indigenous type, which died out in the 18th C and was re-introduced.
A buzzard. I know nothing about these birds, except it swooped down about a meter away from my face and it was big.

One thing I have realised about this blog is that I cannot share sounds and smells with you (obviously). The Isle Of Man was one of the most enjoyably smelly places I have ever been to. I don't know if its the wind (it being an island), the plants, the density of the plants...whatever it is it ponged beautifully; firs, pines, cut grass, hay, sea, flowers, herbs all mingled together to create a smellevision I can't begin to share.

In the Cotswolds its noises:

On Monday night I fell asleep to this (click here)

Tuesday morning sounded like this..

Wednesday morning was...

Tonight I've got this       ...and this at the same time..

I won't subject you to Tuesday evening's offering though - painful karaoke.

Who knows what it'll be tomorrow? More goats? The weather? As long as it's not dreadful (or any) karaoke, I'll be fine.

Work starts Friday, only one more day of freedom before I have four weeks of 'rest'. Bit nervous, but
then I always am with a new job. Thirty miles and one more B & B to go.

I'll keep you posted.

I had a bonk today, and I didn't even know it...

...And before anyone gets excited, starts spreading salacious gossip or calling my mother, a bonk is the term (us) bike enthusiasts use for when you get tired and a bit shaky because blood sugar is low or you haven't drunk enough (water).

Woke up ready and raring to go.
Sun was out.
Weather was good.
Bike was geared up.
Small breakfast was eaten.
Route was straightforward.

Left the B and B with only 17 miles to go.
Cycled 12 miles, felt happy and full of beans.

Do you ever (or is this just me?) get struck by how brilliantly your body works? I mean, look at your hands, think about your legs, your eyes, your ears, your heart, your lungs, your skin. It's AMAZING! All the things we can do, can understand, can think, can create.

So, there was me whizzing along feeling thankful for having a body that works really well which means I can have all this fun on my bike when I got another puncture. Back wheel again...hmm.. curiouser and curiouser, said Alice.

Yesterday I bought a new inner tube and puncture kit, so I was armed (and dangerous?). Thing was, I didn't want to make a hole in my new inner tube if there was some glass still stuck in the tyre. Had a look inside and out, couldn't find anything, decided to just keep going with my (slow) puncture and to keep pumping it up every mile or so. Occupied myself with thoughts of getting a new tyre. Carried on.

It was then that I got my bonk. Thing was, I hadn't planned, or bought, anything for lunch, thinking that I'd get to my friends at a reasonable hour. So suddenly I went a bit wobbly, bit woozy, bit weak and pathetic. Stopped to pump up the tyre and ate some snack supplies of nuts and big, fat raisins.

That sorted me out. Bonk over. Slow puncture under control I pootled into Lichfield.

Puncture too.

Yesterday I pumped out 40 miles, today it was 27, tomorrow I've only got 20 to sunny Lichfield.

Plan:

• Stay with friends this wkend
• Cycle to work near Bath, (140 ish miles)
• Start work next Friday

Heading southwards today I was aware there were a number of helicopters (max four) shadowing me as I pedalled along. Hmm, did they know someting I didn't? Had I offended someone by placing my towels in the bath that morning? Were they waiting for something to happen?

Something did happen - puncture.

This time, however, the road was pretty quiet and the helicopter folk didn't seem inclined to pull up (down?) and offer support. Puncture no 2, like no 1, was in the back wheel, it was also a small slit. Hmm. Suspicions raised I decided to investigate fully and, probing Kev(lar) found a wicked but tiny glass shard embedded in the tyre. I'm not actually sure if this is what caused the last puncture and if I'd been lugging it around, or if it was a new shard. It was really deeply embedded though, hard to find and needed pushing out with my Top Peak top tool. I finished filthy and perspiring, but with a fixed tyre and a rejected shard.

On a completely different note, B & Bs. If you want to get away and find cheap accommodation come to Staffordshire: £20 quid a night all in, get in! Not much else to say, no photos taken, no sights seen, no strange occurrences. Dim byd, de nada, de rien, zilch, chuff all, diddly squat.

Watching a programme on polar bears now, did you know they have 50% body fat and that polar bear milk contains 30% fat? (In contrast human milk has 4% fat and seals - P.B's favourite food - a whopping 60% fat.)

Their skin is black and their hair colourless. Well I never.

Wierdly, while the Inuit's diet consists mostly of seal, whale and polar bear meat and very few fruit and vegetables (in an isolated village shop one leek costs £3), despite this the average 70-year-old Inuit with a traditional diet has arteries as elastic as those of a 20-year-old Danish resident.

Well I never never.

Here endeth the lesson.

...Some time later...
Man on tv now squeezing polar bear poo from lower intestine into a tube to study the fat content.... Gillian Mckeith would have a field day!

Bored!

Wednesday 29th June 2011.

Cycled from Queensferry to Market Drayton. Didn't blog because I couldn't think of anything to write. Wasn't inspired by the farms or cows of Cheshire. Usually I occupy cycling time with ridiculous thoughts of stuff. Not today, think I bored myself.

Park and Ride...

Rode to the local park last Friday (23rd) am from friend Nic's house where I spent the night.
Met Mum and the other dog walking park ladies. I'll let you into a little secret...if you want to know anything about anything...go to the park.... FBI, M15, Betty Turpin, they know nothing compared to the park ladies. Wanna know who's given birth, having an affair, dead, alive, unemployed? Go to the park. Thing is, you won't get any info by asking, oh no. There is (seriously) no gossip here. No, you just have to hang around. Maybe drop in a name or two, intimate you know all about 'that funny business' and out it comes!

Top quote came from Ann.

Ann: You know Mary?
All: Mary?
Ann: Yes, Mary. She died.
All: Which Mary?
Ann: She goes to bingo.
Pause.
Ann: You know her, she's got white hair.

Hmmm.

Not as good as the Father. Park Ladies are acquainted with an (Irish, Catholic) Father. What a lovely man. Shame my mother can't get his name right, she calls him Father Duvet, when his name is Father Divan but when did the Catholic Church let a few letters get in the way?

Anyway, Father Duvet came over for a chat, I'd never met him before I was on my bike and got introduced as the daughter.
'Oh', says Father (imagine Southern Irish accent) 'and ders you, with a nice fancy bike, all smart and shiny.'
I smiled and bored him with some shiny bike details.
Father: 'Knew a man once, he went off for a cycle, hadn't gone ten miles up the road there when he had a heart attack, he died, straight off. ....Where've you been today?'
Explained that I had just come from my friends, where I had spent a lovely social evening.
Father: I knew a man once, invited his friends over for the night. Said good night to them, shut the door, had an aneurism, was dead in two minutes flat. Aorta blew up like a balloon. Burst. Dead. How's that dog?'
Mother explains dog is well, thank you.
Father: 'Knew a dog one time in Mayo. Lovely dog, very friendly. When I saw him I'd always put my hand out, give him a stroke. Like this though, you know.' (indicates moving hand carefully with closed fist and back of hand towards dog's mouth). 'Man came up to him one day. Holds his hand out, but not careful like and what does the dog do? He bites him! Poor ole fella, they had him put down.'

Apart from that my week was spent catching up with friends, chilling out, doing stuff.

Just look up...

Do you ever wonder what everyone else is up to in the world?

If Yes: Move your eyes up the page to the little line that says:
Share  /   Report abuse  /   Next blog'   . . Click 'next blog'
Oh my goodness, there is a world of people and things to wonder at!


If No: Go back to bed.

David Attenborough strikes....

As this is the Year Of The Holiday I have a few planned. In August I am going on a girly walking holiday with...well, some girlies. We have been having email chats with regards to how we are going to manage the cooking. This prompted some talk of inviting Jamie (Oliver) and Gordon (Ramsey) (Chefs famous in the UK) on the holiday so they can cook for us. The subject was under discussion when D (he who previously has laboured under the label of 'The Divine') bravely stepped into the feminine fold with the following offering:

 

 

You can do as female mantids do - have both the male AND the meal.

A male mantid attracted by a female, creeps up behind her and when close enough leaps onto her, secures a perfect grip on her body, and copulates. No courtship. He has behaved “appropriately” for a male mantid. Yet if a male doesn’t behave appropriately, he may incite trouble. Positioning is everything.




A male that approaches a female from the front may meet immediate death by decapitation. If he sneaks up behind her but is just a little off on his grip, the female might bite off his head and dine on her brainless suitor as he continues to pass sperm into her body. Sometimes the impetuous female partially eats the male before he even mounts her. In this case, the headless wonder swings his legs around until his body touches hers, climbs onto her back, and copulates as though nothing were amiss.

 

 

Headless sex? Yes it's true! Copulatory movements in mantids are controlled by masses of nerve tissue in the abdomen rather than the brain. Males of some mantid species mate MORE EFFECTIVELY when decapitated. That's because a nerve centre in the male’s head inhibits mating until a female is clasped. If this nerve is removed (such as when the female bites off the male’s head!) all control is lost and the result is repeated copulation.

 

 

Sometimes the female devours her mate under circumstances outside the male’s control. If the pair is disturbed and the temperamental female becomes frightened, her immediate reaction is to whip around, snatch the male’s head in her greedy mandibles, and gnaw it off. In some species, a female’s propensity to consume her mate is unrelated to the male’s behavior or outside disturbance. It’s simply part of the mating ritual. And because she's a cow.

 

 

 

Does this help with your decision whether to allow males into the kitchen?

Lost in (a familiar) space.

Tuesday 21st June.

Cycled from Hawarden to Mold then headed for Ruthin but ended up in....Mold. Big fat two hour circle.

Set off at half nine, following a lovely eve with the Family-B, great chinwag with Mrs B and half a bottle o wine.

Anyway. Tues am the weather was grand, bike was ready and raring and I was dressed... best I can say for myself. I'd had a couple of late nights, had some booze (I am a light weight) and had sore knees. Set off though, with my Cyclestreets map directions clutched in my grubby mitt.

Cyclestreets are an online mapping service for cyclists. They give you a choice of three routes, busy, less busy and quiet (red, amber, green), will plan any journey in the UK and have a great logo.

I left Mrs B's. Oh, what a sap I was that morning. The wind was against me, my legs didn't want to work. Everything felt heavy: me, bike, panniers. I was pathetic!

In a nutshell (I won't draw it out) Cyclestreets sent me on a back road route around Mold towards Ruthin. I went down some very pretty, quiet areas which I had never seen before. Places I'd never been to in my life, despite the fact its only about 15 miles from where I grew up!

Following Cyclestreets, I got to the top of a hill outside Mold when the rain and mist descended. Couldn't see a thing, but I carried on following the directions. Two hours later I found myself in.....Mold.

Quite exasperating. Hmm.

No punctures though!

Not really had much time over the last couple of days to write blog, been catching up with family and friends. Hopefully will get more down this week. In the meantime, post Isle of Man visit I have added a link to a great song about motorcycles.

Enjoy!

Motorcycle song - Arlo Guthrie

Punctures - the new speed dating!

Monday - got the early morning ferry from the Isla Man and decided to cycle to Mrs B's in Hawarden.

Didn't want to cycle all the way aroouuunnnnnd the Mersey or under it so I got another ferry to Seacombe. £3.70 one way - bargain! Not as much of a bargain as the 1 euro crossing from Lisbon to t'other side, but hey. So, on we got - me and bike - and off we got on the other side.

Met a man in lycra and an illuminous top on the boat. Another nutter doing the Land's End to John o Groats. He was 'between contracts' and had decided to cycle North to South. We had a good chat about puctures and routes, luggage and blogs, visibility and sun glasses. It's amazing how many people are actually not working, redundant, between jobs or post-studies are cycling around the country. Next time you see someone on a bicycle take a careful look. They could be an out of work subversive!

Had a good cycle from Seacombe, all was going well until I put the brakes on and my back end started wiggling around. Puncture! My first real puncture of the trip - not too bad to have one in five weeks - so I set about fixing it. Grumpily (I couldn't be bothered) I grunted at bike and half heartedly aim a pathetic exploratory kick at the tyre.

'Are you ok?' A voice asked. I looked up to see blokeonabike.
'Yeah, puncture' I grumbled.

Blokeonabike leapt into action. Was I ok, did I have a pump, could I manage, did I have an inner tube, did I want help?????
'Bravely' (ha) I replied that yes, yes, yes, yes and no...I would be ok, thank you.

What a kind thing to do, I thought. He cycled on, I loosened the back brakes, flipped bike over and started.

'Are you ok?' A voice asked. I looked up to see Blokeonanbike2.
Same conversation, same drill.

I continued.

'Are you ok?' A voice asked. I looked up to see Blokeonabike too!

By the time I had finished no less than five kind blokesonbikes had stopped to offer help. So there you go ladies, if you're considering speed dating, forget it. All you need to do is stand next to an upside down bicyclette with a pump in your hand and men will be drawn to you. Instantly!

What's in a name?

Went to the cinema last night to see the TT (motorbike race) film 'Closer to the (h)Edge'. Have to say, I don't think I could quite beat them on the speed front. Though bike gives its all, its never going to top 200mph. It was a mad film, good though. In honesty I thought it'd be all about bikes, engines and mph - it wasn't. The human interest stuff was well intertwined with monologues from the hilariously honest Guy Martin, "I hate the word unbelieveable. I mean, what is unbelieveable? I mean, if I saw a bloke eating his own head I'd say, 'now that's unbelieveable'..." 

Watch the trailer... click here... go on!

Woke up this am to more rain. The heavy stuff. Being a fair-weather cyclist I wasn't about to go out in it so Sparky-Bro and I went off in the van, to the bike shop - next best thing?

On the way I took photographs to illustrate blog and demonstrate conditions...

View through windscreen, left.

View through windscreen, right.

View through windscreen, centre.

Got to the bike shop, Bike Style, where I managed to look a div by calling the owner Gary, Simon. I mean, it wasn't as if his real name 'Gary Burgers' wasn't memorable. Ok, ok so Gary Burgers is not his real name. Made me feel at home though, it's kind of a Welsh thing to have a post-name tag. John Cae Groes (denotes where he lives); Mick the meat (he's a butcher); Dai the leg (limps); Wayne Pig (I'll leave you to figure that one out, think worst case scenario).

Luckily Burgers (?) had already tweaked temperamental gears AND tightened head set on bike before I insulted him so all good. While that was being done I tried on some shorts with a -get this - detachable lycra padded inner pant bit, HA! I liked them so purchased I them.

Wet road.

 Then we were off to collect Super Sis from the airport. On the way I got me camera out.

Dave the Bike ?

Meanwhile, we 'spotted' roads where the TT took place, roads and had seen in last night's film.

Bit of the TT section wooooooo.

This man was not an entrant in the TT.

Then it was back home for curry and another film. Life on the edge!!

Train spotting type facts. Hate history? Look away NOW...

Went on a little circular cycle ride consisting of 27 slightly hilly miles around Douglas today. The roads were mostly quiet and the scenery pretty, there isn't much else to say about that.

Was looking for a bit of a story or theme which I could write about. The one thing I noticed regularly were churches: Methodist, Wesleyan, Catholic, C of E, Baptist. And each one had a grave yard. After passing at least ten churches and almost upon arriving back at the house I thought I'd stop at one for a nosey round Kirk Braddon. Mostly on account of their signage...   

Authorised burials ONLY? What's going on there?
Are the Manxcunians slipping them in unannounced?

View of the cemetary.

A photo.

I know this may sound a bit mawdling... I started to read the older graves around the church.


What startled me was the number of graves from the late 1800's which had three or four (one had five) infants listed on the stones. I started to wonder if the number of churches were a reaction to the number of deaths, and maybe lack of heath care on the Isla Man at that time. It must have been very isolated, probably without (m)any trained doctors on the island and possibly with generally high mortality rate.


If you think about it the late 1800's were only two hundred years ago. If you know someone who is in their 80's it could be around the time of their grandparents youth. Curiosity roused, I decided to investigate....

So, when I got back to the house I got online and searched infant mortality on the Isla Man during the 1800's.....


Here's the history lesson.... I found this:


(Bear with me, this gets better)


Economic, Social and Medical Background

The Manx Economy - Read more here - woo hoo!

Conditions on the Isle of Man in 1878 were deplorable. Just how bad they were was disclosed by a commission which began to sit in October of that year.


The Commission found a community of some 50,000, half urban, half rural, without a compulsory poor rate, so that the indigent and sick, many of them malnourished and alcoholic, had to depend on private charity for relief; an island where there was one small hospital in a dwelling adapted for the purpose in 1850 and capable of accommodating comfortably only 14 patients (although during the smallpox epidemic of the previous winter as many as 23 patients had been crowded into it, there being no fever

hospital); an island where the only nurse who had had any formal training was the hospital matron; and where, as Dr Ring reported to the Commission: "I am afraid that many deaths have occurred in Douglas from want of a lying-in hospital, and especially from the want of proper food.

This is what I call 'starvation'-the blood is starved. I have known cases of women who have been confined, dying from want of accommodation and proper food for them at such a time." (Dr Ring's evidence must not be taken to imply that the women were worse off than the men.)

In 1878 the inhabitants of the Isle of Man were beginning to recover from a hundred years of impoverishment: between 1765 and 1866 the United Kingdom Parliament had retained the duty paid on goods entering the Island. During this period "the Island was, in fact, without an insular revenue, without an annual budget, and without resources for development".

In 1866 the Lieutenant Governor persuaded the UK government to adopt an arrangement whereby the Island was allowed to keep most of the Customs' revenue. Thereafter began the capital expenditure needed to build up the tourist trade on which the prosperity of the Island so largely depended until well into the second half of the twentieth century.

The Quality of Obstetric Care, 1882-1926

Registration by the General Medical Council was not obligatory for a doctor wishing to practise on the Isle of Man until 1899. Of the 57 maternal deaths recorded in the Registers of Death... 1881 10 were registered by "some person present at the death, or in attendance during the last illness" and not certified by a doctor.

During this time many women could not afford to pay a doctor to attend them and, without motor cars, the number of parturient women doctors could reach was limited. Doctors, however, were called in when catastrophe threatened, for it was they who signed most of the death certificates.Thus the majority of deliveries were at first in the hands of untrained midwives and handywomen living near by. This practice would have been all the more likely because many of the Islanders spoke only Manx and when ill they tended to turn to their own folkdoctors.

Dr Clague, himself a native Manx speaker, called these doctors 'charmers' because they relied heavily on the recitation of charms to effect their cures. "It [the charm]was a secret [silent] prayer to God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, or to the angels,or saints, to heal the man. They believed that God would do it if it was His wish, and it was indeed faith-healing."

(HENCE ALL THE CHURCHES?)

The numbers of trained nurses and of midwives on the Island grew only slowly. In 1884 it was arranged that a nurse from the Hospital should visit patients in their homes in Douglas. In 1892 it was stipulated that the nurse should be "skilled". By this time the patients had been moved into a hospital of 42 beds built by a prominent businessman, Mr Noble.

Although there were Manx bone-setters, the Islanders were averse to anything amounting to an operative procedure. In the year ending 30 June 1896 no operation more severe than a tracheotomy was performed at the Hospital and the only major operations performed before then were the amputation of shattered limbs.

Dr Clague recounts how a man was brought to him by a folk-doctor who had failed to stem the flow of blood from a wound by the repeated recitation of a charm, reputedly effective on such an occasion. Dr Clague asked the charmer to repeat the charm and he did so, several times, but the bleeding did not stop. "A bandage properly put on stopped it at once."

Well then, that explains a lot. Further reading revealed many more facts, the mortality rates were just for starters. I then got on to Manx laws and historical information about marriage...
That the Manx married young was noted by many writers - one observant comment is that by Hannah Bullock (1816):

I do not, indeed, consider the Isle of Man as the abode of Cupid; in general, the marriages contracted by the natives, (though they take place at rather an early age) are founded on prudential calculations, no man, however youthful, marries merely for love; yet, as soon as any one is established in business or housekeeping, he naturally looks out for a wife as a necessary appendage to his domestic economy, and in his choice is influenced by parity of circumstances, by early associations, or some such motives, independent of the tender passion: in general, the same quietude of sentiments actuates both sides, yet are these marriages, in most instances, fortunate in their results; a couple thus united live together on the best terms, they co-operate in their pursuits, habit soon gives them an undeviating conformity, and permits their lives to pass

" A clear united stream."

Waldron gives a description of a wedding feast in the 1720's:

Having spoken of the Manks frugality, or rather sordidness, in the way of eating, I must not omit making an exception to this rules at three several times, which are their weddings, their christenings, and their funerals.     

As to the first, twenty pounds is a good portion for a mountaineer's daughter, and they are so exact in the marriage bargain, that I have known many, who have called themselves hot lovers, break off for the sake of a sow or a pig being refused in the articles. Yet, notwithstanding this, a stranger cannot be invited to one of these nuptial feasts, without believing himself in a land of the utmost plenty and hospitality.


The match is no sooner concluded, than besides the bands of matrimony, being publickly asked in the church three Sundays, notice is given to all the friends and relations on both sides, tho' they live ever so far distant. Not one of these, unless detained by sickness, fail coming, and bring something towards the feast; the nearest of kin, if they are able, commonly contribute most, so that they have vast quantities of fowls of all sorts. I have seen a dozen of capons in one platter, and six or eight fat geese in another; sheep and hogs roasted whole, and oxen divided but into quarters.    

They have bride-men and bride-maids who lead the young couple, as in England, only with this difference, that the former have ozier wands in their hands as an emblem of superiority: they are proceeded by musick, who play all the while before them the tune, the Black and the Grey, and no other is ever used at weddings. When they arrive at the church-yard, they walk three times round the church before they enter it. The ceremony being performed, they return home, and sit down to the feast; after which they dance in the Manks fashion, and between that and drinking pass the remainder of the day.

I love that! 'I have known many, who have called themselves hot lovers, break off for the sake of a sow or a pig being refused'

The article continues with a very long list of laws on who one cannot marry. I can only assume these lists are born of necessity.

	A Man may not marry his
1	GRANDMOTHER,
2	Grandfather's Wife,
3	Wife's Grandmother.
4	Father's Sister,
5	Mother's Sister,
6	Father's Brother's Wife.
7	Mother's Brother's Wife,
8	Wife's Father's Sister,
9	Wife's Mother's Sister.
10	Mother,
11	Step-Mother,
12	Wife's Mother.
13	Daughter,
14	Wife's Daughter,
15	Son's Wife.
16	Sister,
17	Wife's Sister,
18	Brother's Wife.
19	Son's Daughter,
20	Daughter's Daughter,
21	Son's Son's Wife.
22	Daughter's Son's Wife,
23	Wife's Son's Daughter,
24	Wife's Daughter's Daughter.
25	Brother's Daughter,
26	Sister's Daughter,
27	Brother's Son's Wife.
28	Sister's Son's Wife,
29	Wife's Brother's Daughter,
30	Wife's Sister's Daughter

A woman may not marry her:                                                                    

1	GRANDFATHER,
2	Grandmother's Husband,
3	Husband's Grandfather.
4	Father's Brother,
5	Mother's Brother,
6	Father's Sister's Husband.
7	Mother's Sister's Husband,
8	Husband's Father's Brother,
9	Husband's Mother's Brother.
10	Father,
11	Step-Father,
12	Husband's Father.
13	Son,
14	Husband's Son,
15	Daughter's Husband.
16	Brother,
17	Husband's Brother,
I S	Sister's Husband.
19	Son's Son,
20	Daughter's Son,
21	Son's Daughter's Husband.
22	Daughter's Daughter's Husband,
23	Husband's Son's Son,
24	Husband's Daughter's Son.
25	Brother's Son,
26	Sister's Son,
27	Brother's Daughter's Husband.
28	Sister's Daughter's Husband,
29	Husband's Brother's Son,
30	Husband's Sister's Son.

HA! So, there you have it. Manx laws and history in some detail. Tonight I am off with Sparky Bro and Glam girlfriend to see a film about a motorbike racer called Guy Martin. The film is called 'Closer To The Edge'. I think someone should make a film about my cycle travels and call it 'Closer To The Hedge' any takers?

Injure not this stone!

Made it to the Isla Man without a hitch. Train from Lichfield to Liverpool was painless, ditto the ferry across, though it was a bit strange wheeling bike below to car bit. Have to say, people are generally super friendly and helpful, from man at Stafford train station who helped lift the panniered back end of bike, to immaculatly coiffered and faintly orange ferry team in Liverpool.

Sparky brother met me on his chopper and we cycled to his together. As the TT happened only a week ago he jazzed up the 20 minute cycle back to his by pointing out the numerous scenes of serious accidents. Jolly.

Got woken up early this morning by Sparky bro who gave me a work-related lift to Laxey. The plan was for me to cycle a 'leisurely' 26 miles to Douglas. So I did.

Started by going up the painful Laxey Hill. Eurgh. Ten days off the bike have reduce my professionally athletic muscles to mere blobs. Luckily, I spotted a sign which presented me with a suitable reason (excuse) to stop, wander and take photographs. Three cheers for King Orry. Hip hip!

Am travelling to the Outer Hebrides at the end of the summer, so I shall keep King Orry in reserve, in case I encounter any tricky hills once I'm there and need an excuse to stop and make like I've investigating the scenery.

Sign details secret tunnel - oooohhhh

King Orry's stone.

Once I got that out of the way it was plain sailing....for a bit....I made it to Romsey through leafy glens and country roads. Bliss :-) Thought I'd reward myself with a mid-morning snack: Pate, croissant, chocolate, pineapple and nuts. After I'd popped to the Co-op I tried to find a well-placed bench where I could sit and stuff my face. DISCOVERY: The Isla Man has a serious deficiency when it comes to thoughtfully placed benches. I decided to sit on the verge of a river. Grassy, leafy, 'it'll do me' I thought. It did. Whilst I was sitting there an older man came up and admired bike (who wouldn't?). We got chatting, turns out he hails from (my small North Walian home town of) Ruthin. Small, small world.

Frank and wife Clare gave me directions for a not very short but scenic cut and I was off once more. If you are looking for a good place for a little walking, cycling holiday with a difference, you could do a lot worse than the Isla Man. It has decent scenery:

Scenery - Selby Cloddagh campsite.

Quiet routes - provided you don't go at the beginning of June when the motorbike TT races are on.

This is an A road on the Isla Man - honestly! The A14.

It has quirky things to see:

May pole in June.

 More quirk:

Yurt.

Life sized woman carved in wood.

Quality quirk:

Wizard

Bizarre quirk:

Six metre high 'collage man' made of stuff.

I cycled on. The road was long and steep. It was punctuated with smile-worthy snippets - such as the aptly named 'Windy Corner', but mostly it was long and steep. After I'd spent an age going up I was able to come down again and - basically - arrived home.

On the way I encountered the dire warnings:

I don't want to do it down but the 'ancient monument in question was a stone. Plain and simple, no frills or flounces. A stone.

Once I had proved that I was worthy (I did not injure the stone). I was allowed to graduate up the monument checklist:

More exciting! Rampart AND ditch...

And finally, got a shot of the wildlife...

Why did the chicken cross the road?

So that's it, basically. Turning in now at 27 miles planned tmw and, as you well know, my body is a temple. Pffft.