Jelly doesn’t London

Don’t panic – I’m not fleeing our great capital; I am merely appreciating more of the south in a holiday type style. Apparently people, from time to time, take a week off work and go and visit other places. An unusual concept I’m sure you’ll agree but when The Boy explained the theory – and explained that the world wasn’t going to come to an end nor would burning clumps of sky fall in on me – I agreed to one of these ‘holidays’.

We borrowed a tent, bought a miniature kettle (with a deceptive capacity – I grew rather fond of tardis kettle) and some lanterns to burn candles in, packed the car so full that we couldn’t see behind us and were bumped on the back of the head every time we braked sharply, and set off for the wilderness. Being the impatient sort we’d decided to set off in the evening for the south coast rather than waiting until morning, so by the time we reached Lulworth Cove it was very late, very dark and we had no idea where we’d find somewhere to pitch our tent – or how to do so in the dark. We parked beide the heritage centre, took a moonlit walk to the little beach and decided that we’d simply sleep in the back of the car, an adventure for our first night.
We piled everything into the front seats and made a nest in the back of the car, The Boy cooked us some food – standing in the rain to do so – which, by the time it was cooked in the wind and the rain, neither of us could eat. Snuggling down we talked about everything we’d planned to do on our holiday and tried to gee ourselves back into the enthusiasm we’d felt before we set off. Before we nodded off The Boy took advantage of the sheltered spot and marked his territory, which the following day he took great delight in watching the local wildlife marvel over. The approximate dimensions, should you be so curious, were that of half a brick or, as The Boy put it, a poobix cube. I don’t like to think about how he managed to make it square. I’m also unsure whether the little pellets surrounding it are his work or whether local rabbits were so enthused by his contribution that they defecated in solidarity…

I know that including this photo is a little vulgar, but The Boy was so proud of his achievement that he insisted on taking a photo and does refer to it as the best photo he’s ever taken. I couldn’t possibly make a photo blog and not include his best work now could I.

Around six in the morning neither of us could pretend to sleep any more, the sun had come up and we were so stiff and uncomfortable that we just had to get out of the car. For the sake of our holiday neither of us would admit to the other how ill and cramped and unenthusiastic we felt, and we chivvied each other into taking a walk back down to the beach.
Suddenly, the enthusiasm came back. It was breath taking. We collected some shells, (I stalked a little boy around the beach to find the good spots) grinned inanely at one another then headed back to the car with hunger monsters clawing at our bellies.

Whilst The Boy mastered the camping stoves (one small gas one that almost got hot, one petrol one that always seemed eager to explode) I took up the challenge of creating our camp blankets. Camp blankets are a genius idea given to me by The Boy. Take one blanket (I know, fairly basic instruction, but you never know what kind of riff raff things such as this might attract) find roughly the centre and cut a slit you can fit your head through then hem it so it doesn’t stretch (this is funnier if you make it a fraction too small so you can watch someone trying really hard to push their face through and get stuck half way…)

You then take this blanket with you every time you go away and at each location you buy a fabric badge or patch and sew it on, thus creating a multi textured map of memories. The differences between The Boy and myself become apparent upon closer inspection of our camp blankets; his, a vivid salmon pink, has badges sewn eclectically and randomly so, as he puts it, you can put it on any way around and see one. Mine, a sensible, servicable brown, has the badges sewn with regimental regularity along one edge, the plan being to entirely border the camp blanket as we rack up more of these here holiday events. Every evening while you’re camping you put on your camp blanket and voila, you’re warm, sheltered and still have the use of your arms to do things like make hot chocolate and read horror stories. This is one of the laws of camping.

By lunch time the weather was leaning towards showers and the tourists had descended by the bus load so we re packed the back of the car, with the addition of a glass dragonfly and a bag full of shells, and set off for Dartmoor.

We saw a sign telling us that our plan to camp at the roadside on the moors was illegal so decided, quite rightly, to go right ahead and do it anyway, simply setting our tent up behind a clump of bushes thus cleverly avoiding detection from any casual passer by or enthusiastic park worker/nazi.

Once we were all set up and cosy it, of course, started raining so we, appropriately attired, settled in for a cosy night and the aforementioned horror story telling began. Unfortunately, with the clouds obscuring the stars and no civilisation for miles in any direction, The Boy chose this moment to tell me that there was a prison on Dartmoor – a fact I was previously unaware of – and that he remembered his Dad telling him about the day, wearing his most fashionable donkey jacket proudly purchased with his first pay packet, he’d been stopped and questioned by the police for looking, dressed as he was, so like the prisoner who’d just escaped. “Would you like to go and visit the prison?” The Boy asked “They have a gift shop…”

“What on earth would you buy that prisoners had made?” I countered.
“I don’t know. Shanks…a nice toothbrush with a razor blade melted into the end?”
Not particularly reassuring. All this talk of escaped loonies didn’t do much for either of us getting a restful night’s sleep, both convinced that the tiny noises we could hear were an axe murderer trying to unzip the tent. Instead of sleeping we stayed up and by candlelight (the batteries in the torch needed replacing; this is a detail we’ll be checking *before* we go camping next time…) writing a story about a couple who go camping on the moors and never return (dum dum duuuuuummmmmmm…insert mysterious music here.) Yes. We are morbid.

We’d planned to leave after that first sleepless night but the next day it continued to drizzle, putting us off leaving our cosy tent nest, and after all how often would you be able to look from your bed to this view…

So instead of moving on we didn’t bother getting dressed, or out of bed, and simply read the day away, enjoying the peace and quiet. Then got freaked out all over again once darkness fell and wished we weren’t such bums. Live and learn!

We did some trawling about, looking for ponies, and found some, then climbed some rocks. You know. Like you do…when there’s rocks…

And The Boy took photos of me taking photos…he’s been practicing the art of taking pictures of people without them realising. I think I’m a bad influence.

From Dartmoor we headed to Cornwall (mmmmmmmm cream….) and spent the next few days touring around looking at beautiful beaches, eating pasties (parsties if you pronounce it like a local) and found a real live actual camp site to set up on where every other occupant seemed disinterested in anything other than assisting the owner with the installation of a large, egg shaped water feature. Never mind all those views and the lovely sun, let’s stay here and plant a giant concrete egg.

There are a lot more pictures, but we, being the organised sort that we are, have misplaced the charger for the good camera and all the pictures are trapped on there waiting for us to dig it out, so you can wait patiently for those.

More highlights of our holiday were;

Driving through an eerie, abandoned looking part of the world and seeing dozens of danger signs warning us about explosions, firing ranges, tanks erupting from the bushes, and wondering if we perhaps *should* have taken a right three miles back rather than happening into the army training grounds and becoming afraid for our lives.

Finding an old book stand in Kingsand, just a small table outside someone’s house with a note asking you to push donations for any books you took through the letter box, and selecting a fantastic old children’s book about a fox. We pushed our money through the door, which was immediately opened by a haggard, wild haired old lady and, terrified we were going to be chastised for our less than generous donation, we scarpered across the road to a pie shop where we were vastly overcharged for a rather bland pasty each…
We had the book with us when we popped into a shop and the very friendly lady behind the counter asked if she could take a look and fell in love with it, asking where we’d got it. When we explained about the little table she said “Oh, was it Doreen’s house?” as if we’d know…yes, good old Doreen.

We were sitting in the car trying to decide where to go next when a police car pulled in behind us – behind us illegally parked – and we thought we were in for a right rollocking; instead the bobby got out, gave us a wink, and strolled down the street with a cheerful whistle, 6 inch truncheon in one hand, evidence bag casually swinging in the other…we took our leave.

We spent some time on a beach making sandcastles (to jump on and destroy) and a sand octopus (which The Boy took great delight in decapitating with a rock)

and had been crab fishing with some very smelly dried fish in a net bag. This net bag was beside us whilst we played in the sand and a nice man walked by with his three dogs, shouting a cheerful hello. We ended up having more of a chat with him once his dog grabbed our fishing equipment and did a swift runner with it all trailing from his mouth. Once we’d caught him and regained posession of the contraband we stood about laughing uncomfortably at his cheek then the man toddled off; only then did we realise that only one of the net bags containing vile dried fish remained. The other had, apparently, been swallowed whole by the joyous dalmation. I hope that it came out as easily as it went in…

We went for a meal (bargain price, giant portions, fresh that day seafood, Cornwall is magic) and spent the whole time laughing; the locals are so friendly – “Was it sparkling water you asked for?” said the barman “Yes” – “Good, because that’s what I poured and I’m not wasting it!” then banter between the regulars and the identikit buxom barmaids, who took it all in their stride and gave as good as they got. All that was amusing, but nothing could top the two old sailers at the next table. It was like something from the twilight zone; both were telling stories of when they were young and sailed the world, both were getting more outrageous as the ale flowed and they were trying to out do each other. Both looked like something from The League of Gentlemen, giant whiskers, leathered faces, gnarled hands…in thick Cornwall accents they were talking of their days before navigation equipment;
“When I could see that hill on one side and this hill on the other side I knew I was in the middle” (???!)
“We were going about 20 knots and there was no light but the starboard lamp but we made it into port”
“We sailed a force nine gale that night and the only damage was when the cabin boy dropped a mug”
Then they, minute for minute, in real time, recounted journeys they’d made; such magical, mysterious journeys as Plymouth to Folkstone; “So I went due north plus five, 12 knots, for twenty minutes. I recounted course to due North plus six at ten knots….” these details were apparently enough for the other to chuckle, shaking their head in a knowing manner. Blissful.

Unfortunately our week came to an end and we had to return home; luckily the sand *still* hasn’t washed out of all our bedding or The Boy’s trainers, so from time to time we still get a little of that holiday feeling. Happy, happy, joy, joy, chafe.