But, not on myspace, as you can tell. I have no excuses or mitigating circumstances, its just the way it is. Today, being a typical day in the working week of a Jolly Jack Tar on shore leave, I am still sitting in my underwear, getting the enthusiasm for a shower, and maybe actually getting dressed before lunch.
Or maybe not.
Its just the kind of crazy lifestyle I lead these days. In fact, yesterday was a rather special day, in that it was one year ago I got the sack, or downsized, from the chemical company and found myself once again one of the great unwashed. Sometimes, it does help in thinking back to a year ago and realising how much life has changed, and all for the better it has to be said. I won't go into the ways, as they really speak for themselves. Suffice to say that life is still rather wonderful, the only cloud on the horizon is that I will be getting a call from the office soon and wanting me to go back to sea. Oh well, we have to earn money, even if I kid myself that maybe Gardline would like to pay me for just staying at home.
Anyway, I have seen a very nice lens for the camera, and being rather expensive, I will have to head out to sea; but judging from the shipping forecast, it will mean a stream of port calls wherever in the North Sea where I may end up.
Last week we were away, and what a fantastic time we had.
Jools got off work at about two on Monday afternoon, and then we had to head off to Cardiff, which in itself is not too bad, but to get there we had to get round the M25 and then the M4; neither of which is really pleasant, and it was with some relief when we finally saw the lights of Newport across the Bristol Channel; less welcome was finding out that it cost £5 to cross the bridge, which really does not make much sense as the Thames bridge at Dartford is just a pound. We had little choice and stumped up the cash and we were in the land where each sign is written twice, once in English and underneath written in the rarer letters from a scrabble bag.
Thanks to the magic box on the dash we found our way to the hotel we were to stay out; a Toby Inn, which main selling point is that they do a carvery every day. After unpacking, we decided to partake in the carvery, and I have to say, very good it was. As cooking a Sunday roast is generally more trouble than its worth, and certainly more washing up that anyone thought possible, the roast beef was most welcome. Anyway, once stuffed like an expensive cushion, we headed up to the room and wait for sleep or indigestion; or whichever of them came first.
The next morning we woke to a bright dawn, and balmy temperatures. Could this be Wales in October, or had we been moved about 1500 miles south? It was still Wales.
Although they did try to confuse us with a 'continental' breakfast, which was more welcome than a traditional fry up if the truth be known. Looking at the map I saw that there was a transporter bridge in Newport, and never having seen one let alone having been on one, I headed off, not telling Jools where we were going. 
Once at the bridge, towering over the Newport skyline, we found the bridge actually closed. But the azure blue skies make for some striking pictures. 
We had then decided to head to the hills and the place known as Big Pit, now a museum of what was once the thriving coal mining industry. We had decided that we did not trust the Sat Nav, and so after ignoring it for half an hour we realised it really did know the way as we joined up with the road it had been trying to steer us along.Blaenavon, where the pit was, was also the home of a huge iron works, closed due to the BBC filming there all winter. We made our way to the pit, Big Pit, will seemed a little small to live up to it's name.
After going through the entrance, we queued up for the underground tour. Down in the rickety cage lift, down about 100 metres. Each on of us had a hard hat on, and each hat with a lamp. The mine no longer is working, as most of the coal has been mined, but seeing what it is like now, gives one the impression what it must have been like when it was working; low ceilings, wooden pit props and always on the lookout for gas. What was missing was the noise of the machinery and the dust in the air, or what would have passed for air down there. The mine now exists to rind future generations as to what life was once like in South Wales, and how men, and at one time, women and children, used to earn their daily crust; if they saw the day out. Never has daylight been a more welcome sight. That is not true, the tour was very good and informative, taken by an ex-miner, full of tales and information.
The drive back down the Cardiff, down the valley back to Cardiff was wonderful. All along the valley there were trees, all golden in the afternoon autumnal sunshine. Above us looked like hills, but a closer look revealed them to be grass covered slag heaps, a reminder how at one time this place must have looked like the gates of hell, with the iron works working 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. 
That night we headed to the CIA, that’s the Cardiff International Arena, to see Canadian art rockers The Arcade Fire in concert. They had been my favourite band for the past three years after the release of their first two records, Funeral and this years Neon Bible. 
The CIA is a soulless place, and most of the audience has to make to with standing, whilst a narrow balcony houses those lucky enough to get tickets for there. It was a long wait for the main act, the two support acts were not too bad, but their names for the time being escapes me. And so once the second act had made their way off, the roadies busied around to make the stage ready for the dozen or so members of the Fire. They began at a high intensity, and if anything built up from there. It was a wonderful night, and certainly one of the best gigs I have seen, there were so many highlights, but the rousing encore of Lies was just stunning. I would go as far as to call them the most important band in the world; a brave claim for sure, but one I am willing to stand by. And a truly wonderful band to see live. Nest time they tour I would imagine they will be playing outdoor arenas, as there are few places in Britain big enough to contain their shows, or following.
The next morning, we got in the car and headed north to Yorkshire, to the North Yorkshire Moors where we were to rent a cottage for a few days. We drove up though the Wye Valley again, past Ross and always through autumnal trees laden with golden leaves, and increasingly bathed in milky sunshine; not quite the clear blue skies of the day before.
The North Yorks Moors are an incredible place, rising heather and gorse covered from the surrounding farmland to the sea at Whitby and north to Teesside. Our cottage was in a small village called Lockton, just before the main road climbs to the summit at the Hole of Horcum. 
After dropping of the luggage we headed to Whitby where had been told the best fish and chip shop in the country is; a brave claim to be sure. Anyway, we were hungry so that even an average one would have done. The one we ended up was good enough, nothing quite like cod and chips, bread and butter and a cup of tea. Something about the film of grease it leaves in the mouth I guess. 
Afterwards, we went for a constitutional around the town, and out along the pier to marvel at the now clear blue skies and the golden rays of the setting sun. The light was wonderful, and great for photography, and I would not feel right had I not have taken full advantage of it. To my horror, I saw that I was running out of space on the memory card in the camera, and so a frantic search for a camera shop begun. 
On the way back we came across a steam powered bus; I paused for a picture, only for the miserable drive to stand in the way and suggest in strong terms that we should ride on the bus rather than just take its picture. Whitby is a glorious mix of the gothic and the cheesy seaside. Along the river is the usual mix of cheap, or not so cheap now, amusements and candy floss stalls; as well as pickled seafood stalls. It does not matter, there is no way I will try winkles, just the thought is shudder inducing.
In the end we found a camera shop, and bought just about the last card they had; by then the sun was setting and so we made our way back to the car via a supermarket as there were no pubs in the village, and so we would be cooking for ourselves; which is no hardship.
We spent the evening, as we usually do, listening to the radio and Radcliffe and Maconie show. Being rock and roll, we headed to bed at nine.
The day before, whilst driving back from Whitby, I noticed road signs to Robin Hoods Bay. Robin Hoods Bay I had seen on a TV show; it's a stunningly beautiful village built in a narrow valley on the cliffs facing the North Sea. Jools had said it would be a good place to go to watch the sun rise one morning; and tentative plans were made to go the next morning. Whether it was the thought of that, or the ridiculously thick duvet on the bed that made me not sleep; whichever it was, I was awake before 5 in the morning; and made the time pass with several cups of tea and the early morning news on the radio. I woke up Jools at six and after more hot drinks we headed out across the moors to Whitby and then south to Robin Hoods Bay.
The Streets of the village are very narrow, and you are encouraged to park on the cliffs and walk in; which is what we did. The road down into the village is very steep something like 1:3, and I am sure would have been fun in a car. Being so early, we had the village to ourselves and this made for great pictures. Once down at the slipway we were greeted of the sight of the sun just rising, and joined another photographer already waiting. Access to most houses was via narrow alleyways and paths, and being November 1st, there were a few scattered pumpkins which further added to my pictures. Once can only imagine how crowded the marrow streets get in summer, and we felt really blessed in having the village to ourselves.
After a late breakfast we headed out in the car to York. York was about an hour away, and the trip was pleasant enough; plenty more milky sunshine and the plentiful trees still having most of their golden leaves on, even this far north. It has to be said that some towns and cities are not meant for the 21st century; the 20th century even. 
And York is such a place; thankfully I knew of a place to park and so we made our way there, and after being shocked to discover that we were to be charged £8 for the pleasure or parking for the day: that’s $17! We walked across the river and headed for the main station and to the National Railways Museum which was our goal. Most of our industrial heritage is now just a museum, and so with the NRM: but it is a wonderful place to go, and packed full of railway related things; which I hasten to add that Jools wanted to go to as much as I did. 
After a couple of hours we decided to head into York to see something of this fine city. We were hungry, and soon enough came across a place called the Gourmet Burger Co. Now, maybe we were seduced by the word gourmet, but what swung it for me is that they sold what is probably the best beer in the world, Warsteiner. So, we had two burgers, two portions of fries and three beers between us, and somehow this cost £27. I wish I could say the burgers we made from the flesh of corn fed Appis Bulls and encased in gold encrusted buns, the fries peeled by hummingbirds and carried to our table by cherubs. But no doubt the burgers were fresh beef, they were ok, and fries are fries, or chips. 
Lessons to be learnt I feel. We wandered the narrow streets of York, looking for the narrowest shopping street in Britain, the Shambles, which we found after following the crowds as it was not marked on any tourist signs. We went to the Minister, but as seems usual, it was something like£6 each to get in, and I'm guessing more to climb the tower for fine views. We made do with more pictures, a bag of hot chestnuts and a bottle of wine to take home. And as black clouds were thickening, we decided to head home while it was still light.
Our last day in Yorkshire was to be spent travelling on the North Yorkshire Railway, which was hosting a gala weekend to raise money for the Severn Valley Railway, which suffered so badly during the floods in the summer. 
We were awake at dawn again, and when we threw open the curtains we saw it was misty. I went out with my camera to take a few shots from the back garden. As I left the bedroom Jools had said that she was going to go back to sleep; and I took her at her word. I thought that maybe the view from the moors would be good, and so i jumped in the car and roared off. In the meantime Jools came downstairs to find that I had gone without her. Up on the moors, the view was indeed wonderful, as the mist rolled into the valley below, and then caught by the rays of the rising sun. Once again words do not do nature justice to the scene, but I hope my pictures do.
Once back at the cottage and having eaten, we headed off to Pickering to get on the first train of the day. The NYMR goes through the valley that runs through the moors, and offers spectacular views of heather covered hillsides and golden woods and forests. Once at the other end we waited while the most stunning of locomotives, The Sir Nigel Grelsey, was made ready for the return journey. 
Can a train be said to be beautiful? Well, I think so, this streamlined train once hauled a full train at 112mph, and it sister loco, Mallard still holds the all time steam hauled record at 126mph. Anyway, I could wax about this for ages, the power and beauty of this train, and the noise it made when venting steam, and how everyone else had huge smiles as they climbed on board. We got off at Goathland, home of the British TV show Heartbeat, but I won't hold that against it, and is also the station used as Hogwarts in the Harry Potter films. 
What cannot be denied is that is a pretty, if not beautiful station, and a short walk away is the pub used in the afore mentioned TV show, where they do sell fine beer and home cooked meals. We partook in both, and got back in time to see the next two trains go through the station and for me to take more pictures. We caught a train back to Pickering just as the sun was getting low in the sky, and relaxed in the carriage wallowing on the thoughts of a fine day. Looking at the timetable I saw that SNG was going to be the last train of the day, and one of the stations was within two miles of the cottage; so we headed there in the car just in time to see the train go steaming through as the shadows had lengthened and darkened almost to black. 
It had been a late decision to go north from Yorkshire for a 5 five hours travelling to just see a bridge. Even if it meant getting back home very late the next day. I had made that choice, and Jools really did not have a large say in it. But, she said she enjoyed it; but the trip back down on Sunday was longer than I had thought. The roads to Newcastle are very good, but north of there they quickly go two a simple two lane blacktop, and the miles get slower.
We were heading north to Queensferry, to see the famous bridge, or one of the most famous bridges in Britain; the Forth Rail Bridge. Quite possibly the pinnacle of Victorian engineering, and a monument to its achievements. To get there was going to take some time, but we were not in a hurry. After the disappointment of the transporter bridge in Newport, we headed to a more famous version in Middlesbrough.
After finding our way in, we saw the bridge and headed in a roundabout way until we were on the approach road. The gates barring our way meant that this bridge was also closed. So, we turned round and headed to the hills. Our road of choice was not the Great North Road, the A1, but one that wanders across the border moors that mark the boundary between England and Scotland.
That road is the A68, and as it climbs into the hills, as it travels along the path of a Roman Road dead straight. In two places there are a series of blind summits, all prewarned about the dangers and to slow down, etc. The first three are like a large hump backed bridge, and nothing too stomach turning. 
The second series, however, has a hill with slopes of 1:5 on wither side, and a quite sharp summit. We took it at 55 the first time; cue screams and whoops of delight. Shall we do it again, I asked Jools. Not waiting for the answer, I found a place to turn round and took them at 65mph. The front wheels lifted off the road this time. Whilst looking for a place to turn around again, we noticed that we had not passed another car going the other way, and so we had a clear road. This time I put my foot to the floor and we hit it at nearly 80, which is really quite some over the speed limit, and not really that safe. But, it was wonderful, even in our little Polo.The Scottish border is marked by a car park and a carved stone with a lonely greasy spoon. We passed it and into Scotland. First town we came to was Jedburgh. We parked up and went to find a bank as we had no cash. We got a handfull of Scottish notes that we knew we would have trouble spending back in England tomorrow. But, now laden with cash we went to find a place to get a coffee. Finding one we had a nice Americano complete with fresh shortbread; well, we were in Scotland after all.
Further on we passed through seemingly endless woods and forests of golden trees, once again beneath wonderful blue skies. It was a shock to reach the Edinburgh ring road and its traffic after dozens of miles of driving along deserted moor land roads.
But still the signs were clear, and the road broad. The excitement built; well, for me. As we turned off the A720, I could see the tops of the bridge, but when I tried to point it to Jools some tree or building got in the way. So, her first view of the bridge was as we approached the road bridge. And what a sight, the three piered bridge, in its familiar dark red. How wonderful it looked. We had been advised to head to North Queensferry, to the jetty there, right under the very shadows of the bridge.
I had already worked out this would be the best place for pictures, at that time of day anyway, and so after finding a parking space, I did the photographer thing. There was a fine looking hotel just to the side, and being dinner time I thought we should partake in some food and for me to try some good Scottish ale. Suitably refreshed, we headed back to the south shore and to the other Queensferry, to where our hotel was.
Our room, a small double, had the best views of the forth and the rail bridge; it was perfect. I we lay on the bed, and cricked our necks at a ridiculous angle we could just about see the bridge from the bed: but it was not comfortable. We could hear any train approaching the bridge, and in all honesty we did not get bored with just looking. Minute by minute the light changed. We decided it would be an idea to actually go over it, and so we walked through leafy avenues to the station and after a short wait got on the next train northwards. It seemed very odd to be on a train so high above the water, and looking down on houses far below as we crossed back onto land.That evening, we ventured out again with camera and with tripod for some night-time shots. On the way back we went for the now traditional British meal; a curry. As usual, there were crowds of waiters and others to tend our every need.
Once again, we did the rock and roll thing and went to bed early before nine. We were woken up occasionally by the bar below emptying bottles into a bin. After all, not everyone was as rock and roll as us.
We woke up once again at dawn on Sunday. Looking outside the soft dawn colours were reflected in the water of the firth. We had a long wait for breakfast, and had toyed with the idea of leaving before then as we had so many miles to do. Maybe we should have done.
Breakfast was at nine, and we were the only guests in the hotel. So, once fed up, we packed the car and headed south. We decided to use the A1 to go south, as it had at least some dual carriageway along its length. South of Edinburgh, towns became rare, and it became clear that we would not have enough fuel to get us to Berwick. So, why not use the Sat Nav to find a petrol station, right? Well, it seems like a good idea, but all the ones it found were behind us, some further away than the hotel we stayed in.
We decided to press on, and in a few miles we passed a small village that had to one station with one pump. The dour guy behind the tills indicated that business was bad with everyone using Tesco’s and the like. The fact he did not take cards meant that we were checking every nook and cranny in our wallets and various compartments in the car for cash to fill up as much as possible.
We passed one unfortunately named town on the way down, Shitbottle: yes, Shitbottle. One can only imagine how it came to be called thus. I had to have a double take when I saw it on a road sign.
(note: seems like the village was Shilbottle, but local youths liven up their spare hours turning the "l" on all the town sights into a "t". As you would.
It was another glorious day, whilst still in Scotland we had great views of the coast and sea, and south of Berwick views across to Lindisfarne and Holy Island; all very wonderful it looked with its Abbey on a headland. Also, at many places castles in various states of dereliction; certainly a beautiful part of the country.
North of Newcastle, the road improved, and we began to make better time, and the traffic also got heavier. As we went south, we ticked off the landmarks to show our progress south: The River Tweed, The River Tyne, The Angel of the North, and so on. The reality of the night in Scotland struck home as we clocked up the miles.
Once back south of Lincoln, the traffic got heavier and heavier, and had me yearning for the empty roads of the north. Once on the M25, the traffic was of rush hour levels, as it always seems to be, and it is always hectic to get across the Thames at Dartford. Soon enough we were back in Kent, and the empty road meant that we could get some great speeds up, and managed to make Dover in under and hour, which strictly speaking was not sticking to the speed limit. Passing Leeds Castle we got a great view of the climax of its Firework display; wonderful it was too. It seems that Sunday was the night of choice for bonfire parties, and all around bonfires of various sizes could be seen.
Once back in Dover we called in to get one of the cats from Jools's father. She had been increasingly happy there rather than the cattery. And it is almost possible to believe she was happy to see us.
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