IKB

I've never really been one for stately homes. At least not in England. I've been to a fair few abroad but - after a childhood where I was regularly dragged around National Trust properties - I've been to maybe two as a grown up, and they were both for weddings. 

I broke that duck in a big way this weekend. Blenheim Palace. The so-called greatest palace in the UK (which seems a bold statement) and jeepers creepers was it expensive? Do all stately homes cost that much? Holy moly. 

They lured me in with art, there were a lot of Yves Klein's blue bobbins scattered amongst the history. I enjoyed the juxtaposition plus wondering what you would have thought if you had just been there to see eighteenth century old stuff. 

Talking of juxtapositions, after exposure to the aristocracy we camped on a pig farm. The Pig Place had pigs, beer and bacon and generally was somewhere that suited me much more than the Woodstock estate. 

Also went to Oxford proper for a look at them there dreaming spires. I never knew Oxford had a castle - it's like I learned nothing from His Dark Materials.

Black Pudding

We did one of those dining in the dark things. You've heard of that, right? It's a pitch black room and you don't know what you're eating, so it means that you spend more time appreciating the flavours. Or not realising that you are spilling food down yourself. Or stealing Steve's wife's wine from the table next door, because she's just going to assume that it was Steve. That's a joke, Steve, you sounded like you were bigger than me...

It was pretty disconcerting, I'll tell you that for free. You get led to your table in an unsteady conga line and snake round the table shedding people as they get to the chairs, occasionally leaving people stranded in a solo abyss, hoping that their partner will be brought back.

Your table is carefully laid out so that things can be found again. Turns out, in the Country of the Blind, making a conscious effort to remember where you put things is essential.

The food was ace. Not certain that it was better for not being able to see it, but it was definitely weirder.

Winkle Up

I went to Hastings again, and again it was ace. Is there always a happening in town? Maybe. This time the happening was a Fringe Comedy festival. So a heap of Old Town venues had their back rooms overrun by London comedians, like a tiny, work-in-progress Edinburgh. 

Did some of the Hastings culture bits this time: Jerwood Gallery, Castle, Winkle Museum where they had a pressed heron and a story about the Queen's golden winkle. What more culture do you need?

Double Dutch

I've been a bit quiet of late. Turns out the New Normal takes a whole heap of readjustment. And a whole heap of time. 

A couple of things to mention:
Red was pretty good. Despite it being all about Rothko rather than a stage version of the Bruce Willis film - now that is something I would like to see. 

The Albert Hall is a venue - I saw Walk Off The Earth play there. Must be hard for a band when all anyone wants to hear is other bands' songs.

But mainly. I went to my first beach wedding. It was in The Netherlands. Beaches in The Netherlands? Who would have thought. Mighty fine beaches they were too. A beach wedding in The Hague, with twenty four hours in Amsterdam as dessert. That's not a bad weekend is it?

The People's Race

Continuing with the firsts from the last post. Here's another one. I went to the Grand National. That's a big tickbox item, right? Right?

I didn't understand it. I liked the sitting-on-a-hill part of it - that reminded me of a music festival. But that was kind of it. It was a festival where instead of watching music you just guessed the set list, which doesn't make for heaps of entertainment.

So that leaves you to get your festival kicks from fancy dress and day drinking. Neither of which it does that well. The fancy dress theme for this year was as glamorous as possible, which meant a lot of people were not dressed appropriately for sitting on a slightly-soggy grass bank. Wet bottoms a-go-go.

As for day drinking, the service was so bad it felt like it was designed to stop you drinking, which made it all the more impressive how drunk some of the crowd were. Credit where it's due...

Anyway. Grand National. Box ticked. Let's never talk of it again.

Snowdonia

Snowdonia. It's taken me a while. I've seen it twinkling in the distance but this is the first time I've properly mountained up. 

On the way North we got our first Welsh taster when we stopped for a walk in a place with an eleven-letter-long name, but which contained no vowels. Well Welsh.

First Number One: Snowdon. The second of my Three Peaks and something that I probably should have done twenty years ago. Still box ticked now. The weather had been rubbish the week before so it looked like it might not happen, but happen it did. Yomped up the Pyg track, which was really pretty but unpleasantly full of people. Snuck down by the Rhyd Ddu track, which - after the ridge at the top - was a lot less pretty but felt less like a queue.

First Number Two: puffins. Went out on a boat from Beaumaris to see a lighthouse and some seals. Managed to see a handful of puffins despite it being early in puffin season - I say handful, you would need pretty big hands, even though they were about two thirds of the size I expected. 

Beaumaris had its own chilli shop (what castle isn't complemented by a chilli shop?). Which was where I found out how spicy Carolina Reapers actually are. When they broke me last Summer they were officially the spiciest chilli in town. If I'd known that at the time I would have afforded them more respect. 

What else? Stayed in Bethesda, where a casual run is a little bit more hilly than Essex. Stopped at Llanfair PG for obligatory station pic. Visited the Devil's Kitchen (complete with full Welsh rain) and the Anglesey Sea Zoo which I last visited in the early nineties - my gut feel is it hadn't changed too much, still who doesn't want to see cuttlefish?

We had a break at Ironbridge on the way South. The bridge had put its pyjamas on, which added an element of ridiculous to the nostalgic detour.

Oh and there was a third first I'm keeping for myself. That one isn't for you internet. Hashtag new normal.

The Room Where It Happens

I just don't get opera. I've tried and I tried and I just keep trying but I don't get it. It was La Traviata this time - I recognised tunes and everything. But didn't get it. I'm not certain why. I mean I like music but I don't appreciate classical music on any intellectual level. So that just leaves the narrative.

I've been raised on a diet of films which have complex narrative arcs and intertwined sub plots. You just don't seem to get that in opera. In my limited experience the story seems to be simplistic to the point where it's almost incidental. And I just don't find that that satisfying.

Plus I do like lyrics. And lyrics to the opera tend to be a bizarre mix of repeated nonsense and everyday speech. They don't rhyme "panicky" with "anarchy". In short, I guess what I'm trying to say is that I much preferred Hamilton to La Traviata.