Saturday 23rd April 2016

Friday

My original travel plans for the week had included a very late return to Heathrow; from there I would have to have got to central London then to Kent. At least a two hour trip, if not nearer three, meaning I would get home at midnight. So Jools decided it would be better to come and pick me up, and we would be home in 90 minutes. And then the meeting on Thursday got cancelled, and so changed my travel, hence I was home by teatime.

In order to be able to pick me up, she had booked a day off on Friday, and with it being a day off in DK, and having caught up with work, we might go out during the day, doing "stuff".

I woke up with Scully asleep on my feet, as is the usual way when am at home, it was twenty to seven, and there was brightness creeping round the edge of the curtains. I stretch then get up to feed the cats and make coffee. Soon the smell of brewing coffee spread through the house; it is a fine way to start the day, topping up the espresso with hot water. Jools has her instant coffee, that me being a coffee snob, shidders to make, but as she likes it like that, then who am I to argue?

I check mails, fire off some replies and update some project documents. In an hour I am done, and we then have to nip into Canterbury. It has come to pass that my photography has outgrown the EF-S format and in particular the Sigma 10-20mm lens. What with the trip to Japan coming up, I don't really want to lig two lenses around, so the thought was of trading in the camera and lens for a full frame wide angle zoom. Canterbury Cameras had what I wanted, and with Jools wanting to nip into the city centre, it gave me time to buy the lens, if it was still there of course.

We drive up the A2 to the city, park near St Augustine's Abbey, and from there it a short walk to the shop. I had been in communication with the shop during the week, so when I walk in the shop and ask about the lens, they say, "Are you Ian?". I am indeed. I try the lens, it is sharp as a razor blade, so I put it on my credit card and the lens is mine.

I go to wait in the car, and switch Radio 6 on as they are playing Prince tunes all day, and it is great stuff, even if the reason for them playing is not.

We are both hungry, it is nudging half eleven, which means it was nearly lunchtime, so the next question was where to eat? I had thought either Whickhambreaux or Ickham, and as there was no parking to be had at the former, the Duke William in Ickham it was.

There is a good menu: Jools chooses fish pie and I decide in fish and chips. Every time O have that, I think of a certain former Olympic Cyclist on the other side of the world, thinking he would love to be here waiting for lunch. Indeed, when it arrives, the fish is pure white showing how fresh it is, and the batter is so golden, so crispy; perfect. I sup a pint of Ripple Steam whilst I eat, then am tempted to have rhubarb and cold custard compote, which was very bitter-sweet, and perfect.

We drive home so I can check on work mails once more, then try the lens out at home, but I really need to go somewhere church-like to really put it through its paces.

I put my old Sigma lens and the 50D for sale, and right away have someone asking about it. We agree a fee and he will come by at seven to pick it up and pay me! No going back now. So, we make the deal.

On the radio, wall to wall Prince tunes plays on. What a dreadful year this has been for good talented people to be taken from us, why not the odd dictator or FIFA Official instead?

The bloke comes round at just before seven; tries the lens, is very happy and gives me a was of notes in exchange. Deal done.

The day fades out to dusk outside and a steady rain begins to fall. I have hope of sunshine in the morning so I can go orchid hunting, but we shall see. There is a good documentary on the Everly Brothers after The Don, but Jools eyes cannot stay open, so she takes to her bed at half nine. I am tempted by a Prince documentary after that, so am heading for bed late at quarter to eleven. But it is the weekend. So, hey!

Friday 22nd April 2016

Thursday

Due to the fact I have a mod-morning flight, I have the delight of another lay in, if I want. But as usual, the Scandinavian dawn had other ideas, with it getting light before half five and as I opened the curtains the sun showed over the rooftops of the town.

I put the computer on so I can listen to some more radio whilst laying in bed; now that is luxury. Outside, the world wakes up, and I yawn and close my eyes. Time ticks on.

I have a shower, get dressed and pack. I work out that I had to be at the airport two hours before my flight so I could check in my luggage, so after paying the bill, I have breakfast, and for the last time before the holibobs, load my gear into the hire car for the drive to the airport.

The glorious sunrise had given over to menacing low clouds, flying quickly from horizon to horizon. So, with little to snap, I take to the main road out of town, then take the road towards Billund, going in an almost straight line north over the low rolling countryside, interspersed with light woodland and small villages. There are no trucks around, so I put my foot down and power over the flat landscape, enjoying all the spare horses that the car had to offer. And this is work.

I arrive at the airport, drop the car off and walk to the terminal. Flying no BA meant a queue to get a boarding card, as the self-check in machine said, with no trace of irony, our records show you are traveling with an infant; is this correct. I am given the option of pressing either a yes no button. I press the no button, and the computer has a hissy fit and spews out a form which it informs me I have to present to a representative. When I do this, she says I am the twelfth to have had this that morning.

I get two boarding passes and say goodbye to my case which I am sure won't make the transfer in Amsterdam as I have only 55 minutes.

I check mails and try not to spend any money in the shops; although The Simpsons Kwik E Mart in the Lego shop looked good, but not at £235 good.

There is no boarder check, as my first hop is only to Amsterdam, so I settle into my aisle seat and wait for the engine start and the taxi to the runway. All the time I am looking at my watch imagining the seconds slipping by to me making the next flight.

We land, and as soon as the plane comes to a stop, I am up and waiting to get off. Last time I had what seemed like a four mile route march to the gate, I manage to get off fairly quickly, and find that despite being at gate D59, it was a two minute walk to immigration, and on the other side I could see gate D1, and I needed gate D7. It did not tkae much to work out that I was very close and could relax as I still have ten minutes before boarding started, and 40 before the flight left.

And I had a window seat, so could watch as we taxied apparently to the Belgian boarder before taking off for the hop over the Channel. There was tome for drinks and a slice of dake to be dished out to everyone. We were on final approach when the came to collect the trash. I couldn't see much with half the view of the ground being blocked by one of them engine thingys. Anyway, I try to work out where we are, only recognising the Thames as we turn onto final, getting lower and lower until we were down on the ground. Welcome to the Englands; please queue here!

There is a rush to get off, but I have an hour and a half to get to St Pancras, so I wait until there is a gap. I find we are at terminal 4, and we seem to be the only flight arrival, and so am through immigration and waiting for my bag, which I am sure is still in Amsterdam. It rolls down the carousel, I grab it and make for the exit, wanting to get to the station for what I knew was a shuttle to terminal 3.

A train had just left, so there was a moment when I had the platform to myself; so I take a shot of it.

The shuttle arrives, and takes us to the next terminal, where it actually meets with a train to Paddington, so step of one onto another train, take my seat on the left hand side so I could look at the Crossrail work under the Westway as we neared Paddington.

It was three, and after fielding a call from my boss, I make my way to the tube station for a direct train to St Pancras, and once there I have an hour to kill before my train to Folkestone, where Jools would be waiting for me after leaving work, thus meaning I don't rush for the next train, instead I make my way to the Betjeman Arms for a pint. Or two. And a Scotch Egg.

I sit at one of the tables with views of the train shed, filled as it was with Eurostars. And this is work. I tell myself again.

Half an hour to go before departure, I make my way to the Southeastern platforms, and my train was in, so we wait a while for the doors to open, then pile on, me grabbing a seat with a table and aligned with a large wndo on my favourite side of the train.

I suppose it is half full by the time we leave at 16:36, and even after Stratford there are still seats. I close my eyes.

Jools is indeed waiting for me, so we drive through the town, round the harbour and up to Capel to avoid the traffic on the A20, arriving home just after 6. And I am spent.

We celebrate the weekend by having a brew with a Tunnocks Caramel Finger, which is very British, no Scottish. Anyway, it feels great to be home, and home now until we go to Japan.

Jools looks at the internet, and on the BBC it has announced that Prince has died; just like that. I switch mine on to check Twitter, it is true.

Jools goes out for a Chinese, which we wash down with beer/cider. And we are both pooped. So pooped we go to bed at nine again, but Jools has the morrow off. So, should we make plans?

Thursday 21st April 2016

Wednesday

And with my next meeting not beginning until ten in the morning, I have the luxury of being able to lay in bed until what, seven, eight? Needless to say, the sun made an appearance sometime before six, and with my window facing east, it shone brightly through the thin curtains at the large picture window.

I switch the computer on, put on the latest Radcliffe and Maconie show and go back to bed for a stretch and just close my eyes and waste the glorious morning in an unproductive way. So, nothing new there then!

I get up at half seven, have a shower and get ready for the day, or morning ahead.

Downstairs the restaurant is not too busy, so I have breakfast alone with my thoughts, looking at my fellow diners, muching away, each having their own version of their country's traditional start to the day. After fruit, a bacon roll and a chocolate spread roll, I am done and ready for the drive to Varde, now that the rush hour was over.

I know the way to Varde so well, I don't need the sat nav, but anyway I set out half an hour early so not to panic, which meant I could take my time, admire the emerging spring in the Danish countryside, which was bathed in glorious sunshine. But needless to say, the wind was cool and keen. I am half an hour early, so sit in the car, listening to the radio and checking mails on my phone. It is the modern way.

It seems that no one was expecting a meeting, but then I am first to arrive, and shortly the rest turn up for the meeting. We have two hours, so, on your marks...

We wrap up, go for lunch before it is time for us to go our ways, and for me that leaves either going back to the hotel or to the office in Esbjerg. I take the latter option, taking 20 minutes or so to reach the gates to the harbour, then along to our cabins.

I have reports to write, people to catch up with, a good two hours then. And indeed, at half three, I am done, all caught up, at least for a day, so I can return to the hotel, relax and maybe go for a walk, seeing that spring is about 6 weeks behind up here to what I see back home.

Around the historic tower in Esbjerg are planted hundreds of daffodils, so although I snapped them 5 years ago, I thought I would do it again, and anyway, the walk was worth it, blowing away the cobwebs in my head that a day and a half of meetings can bring.

My feet take me in time to the Dronning Louise, were half of the town's ice hokey team are celebrating after winning the national league, or something. They are mostly all American, but very happy, as so are many of the other's in the bar too, toasting their success. Champagne corks popped, toasts were made. I ate chili burger and drank hopped spring beer made in the town. As you do.

Back in the hotel, I watch Barcelona demolish Depotivo 8-0 in another of them footballing lessons they like to do from to time.

I could never take the place of your man

I arrived home to the news that Prince had died after a short illness.

The only other musician I could compare to Bowie would be Prince. He was that good, maybe even better, but better whisper that.

I first saw a photo of him in Record Mirror in about 1980 or 81; he was almost naked and wearing leather briefs. Of course. I remembered him, and so when he had a hot with 1999 the first time I npticed it, but mainly for the fact it wasn't really dance music.

Within 18 months he was one of the biggest stars on the planet, what with a hit album, hit singles and a huge hit film. And the hits and genius just kept producing wonderful music for him, his backing band, his girlfriends, girlfriends bands, other people he knew and others he didn't.

Like all geniuses, he had little quality control; he thought all he did should be relased, and the sheer amount of what he put out was mindblowing, and it seemed to accelerate as the 80s went into the 90s. He recorded The Black Album, scrapped that and recorded Lovesexy in its place; an altogether more upbeat and likable record.

I saw Prince three times; the first time was the best; and I mean really the best, on the Lovesexy tour at Wembley Arena. I had a seat seven rows from the front, and his stagecraft and musicianship was world class. Nothing, no act or band has come close to that night. Not even Prince.

After that, he got into dance music, became more rhythm based, and I stopped buying his stuff. Once again there was so much of it, and the quality just wasn't there. Last time I saw him was in 1991 at Earls Court where he turned it into a massive echo chamber, with the bass bouncing off the walls. It wasn't good.

But then when he had set such high standards, his second best was often head and shoulders better than anyone else's.

He wrote the songs, words and lyrics, played almost all the instruments, arranged and produced them too. The designed the stage clothes and choreographed the shows too. He was everything.

The world will be a much darker place, but in heaven he and Bowie will be jamming.

Wednesday 20th April 2016

Tuesday

Let me say first of all, I left London at the height of spring, balmy warm days and cool nights, fanned by a breeze gentle enough to make macro work on orchids possible. Therefore, arriving in Denmark on Monday I was met my gale force winds, rain and temperatures hovering at 5 degrees. Like it was in England two months ago.

In truth, Tuesday was better in that it wasn’t raining, but it was very good and there was still a breeze blowing.

I met Manu for breakfast at half seven, I arrived first and attacked the pancakes, syrup and bacon with great gusto. We got through two pots of ciffee before we were done, and ready for the working day.

It is a short drive to the factory, and before the hordes arrived, there was time for some final preparation before the grand final dance began, and I could hear the rotund lady warming up! They arrive, and I take a deep breath, here goes…..

Seven hours later, it was all over and we part with smiles and handshakes, I have completed the obligations and with few problems; a cause for celebration.

It is bright outside, so I think instead of the familiar drive down to Esbjerg, I would take the road through the dunes, through Hvide Sande and may even stop off and investigate the dunes and beach beyond.

Which is what I do, with dark clouds hurrying across the sky, it was a race to get to a car park and out with the camera before the heavens opened. I drove along to Hvide Sande, through the other side and a few kilometres further on there was a sign pointing to a car park and the beach. I park up and grab the camera out of my bag, wrap up warm and set off up the dunes.

Looking back, there were many holiday homes, many thatched, nestling in the dunes, ready for the new holiday season, but for days warmer than today. To help to climb the dunes there was a rope ladder in the sand, which did make things easier, but how easy only became clear when the ladder ran out near the top.

And once I got to the top, I got a face full of wind-blown sand thanks to the strong westerly. I take a few shots, then turn round and go back to the car, turning the heater up a notch. I stop once more, at a group of fishermen’s huts I have been meaning to snap for a while, that done, I see how close I can get, or how far in truth, from Esbjerg before I resort to the sat nav.

It was ten minutes later, as I am driving down a shopping street in a town I had not been to before. But the sat nav said it was good, and keeping on that road, I end up in Varde and so from there it was just 20 minutes to the wonderful Scandic. It is OK, not in the top ten hotels in the world, but at least being on the 5th floor I have views of the red tiles on the roofs of the town stretching to the horizon.

It is my six year work anniversary, so I feel like celebrating, and it really is a coincidence that I arranged a team meal at Flammen in town. Although just one of the team, apart from me, turned up. But we make sure we celebrate well. Meat, meat and more meat. Really nice, and with a selection of salads to balance the meat out. Did I mention we had meat?

The day ends with me watching Citeh play Toon, and hoping Newcastle get thrashed, but get a deserved draw, making things even dodgier for Norwich. Such is the way. I am resigned to our fate now. Time for bed, anyway.

Tuesday 19th April 2016

Dad was born three months premature in the spring of 1939. He should not have survived, but he did. His Mother was already 39, so that she carried him that long, and he survived were double miracles. Dad was born very underweight, and all through life had a layer of skin too few. Apparently. But he did survive, their only child, and treasured. Survived the war, then made it through school, left handed and punished for that forced to write with his right, and profoundly dyslexic.

He first saw my Mum on the 3B bus, when she was barely 15 and he was nearly 20, and he was determined to marry her. Which he did three years later. Dad worked hard to provide for us, but it was hard. He went on strike, with the rest of the building industry in 1972 demanding a £20 week. He left in the end and went back to the shipyard, where he stayed until it went bust after being privatised in 1986, and so was back to square one.

Inbetween, he began to earn money, good money at times, and took us on a continental holiday in 1973, going to Paris, Amsterdam and Brussels. The years following were lean, and for two years we went to stay with friends in Essex, surviving on two quid a day. He hated it, that he had failed us.

But life improved, heck I even got a job, life became good for the family. But those days ran out when the shipyards were sold off, poorly run and he lost his job as being a union branch secretary. He found work, poor work, but made enough money to be comfortable, making doors in a factory. That is until that fateful day in April 1996, when his heart gave out.

I spoke to Mum on Sunday, but nothing was said by either of us, so, there were no arguments, no accusations, just the gentle passing of time before the 5 minutes were up and we ended the call. I worked in the garden, went hinting for orchids, and generally just got on with life. Which is what we do with the passing of time, move on but don’t really forget, just remember in different ways I suppose.

Monday

The alarm woke me up at quarter to five, with there being just a hint of light on the eastern horizon indicating where dawn would begin. I am packed, so just have to get ready and be out of the house before quarter to six, so we could get me to the station in Folkestone in time to catch the half six train to London.

I feed the cats, make coffee and breakfast, and so we are all set to go just two minutes behind schedule, but with the traffic so light, I am at the station at five past six and waiting on the platform by ten past, bathed in golden sunlight flooding the station from the east as the train pulled in quarter of an hour before departure, so I was able to claim a seat and check mails.

The train pulls out on time and calls in at the other Folkestone station and Ashford before speeding up and zooming up the high speed line to London. I make some calls and so feel in control of things, which is an odd feeling, bit is good, right?

There is chaos in London as one of the DLR lines is out, so people are making alternative travel plans, and our train is rammed. Through the old Olympic Park, and through all the places I know so well.

I am traveling on a different airline, so there is a different procedure, no choice of seats, and all much less panache.

Anyway, I drop my bag off, go through security and am the other side at eight, and hungry. So, I go for toast and coffee sat in a corner overlooking the flight line, almost like being in the RAF again, but with decent coffee and able to make choices!

In a change, another change, I have to go via Amsterdam, and have 90 minutes for the change, which is made difficult by being half an hour late leaving from London. And I have an aisle seat, so am unable to see out, and guess by what the plane and engines are doing as to where we were between London and Holland. I do have a seat in the 3rd row, which means I am one of the first off the plane, and I begin the ten mile hike to the centre of the terminal for the transfer to the other terminal, clear immigration. And then another ten mile walk. Or something like it.

I make it with ten minutes to spare, then watch the lemmings queue to board the plane to get their reserved seats; I am last on and slide into my window seat for the 40 minute hop to Billund.

We arrive at the same time as a flight from Portugal, so there is a mighty queue for the hire car, so I write more mails, make calls and so am in further control. I have a Toyota something hybrid crossover car thing. It is good, and an automatic, so I put my foot down and the car leaps away.

I am off to Ringkobing, I know the way but want to take the coast road, so I thought I set the sat nav right, but clearly it wanted to get me to the hotels quick, and we go the familiar way, but I only relaise before its too late to change. So I am at the hotel at four and presented with a voucher for a free beer if I order before 5. Which explains why I am sat at the bar sipping a cool beer and reading the information for Japan.

Manu arrives, we share more beers then arrange to meet for dinner at seven. Steak and fries and beer and cheese was the order of the day. But, I am shattered, as is Manu, so despite there being football on TV, I go to bed at half nine and try to get some decent sleep.

Monday 18th April 2016

Sunday

And in the east, in that time, the sun did rise, and strongly it did shine, and so illuminated the orchids that were yet open.

And for some reason, I decided to forgo the joy of watching MOTD, I think listening to the City game had been bad enough without having to sit through it, then be picked apart by Alan Shearer and Robbie Bloody Savage. So, breakfast, coffee, then on with the boots and to the orchid fields we go.

Samphire is a fine place, but they don't put out ropes to stop people walking on the tiny orchids, or their dogs from shitting on them either. I am still trying to work out why people would take their hounds to a place like that, let them shit and just leave it? Not quite as bad as those who walk the countryside, littering as they go. Drives me mad. I think when we wander around I will carry a sack to collect the rubbish, then I can make a little difference.

So anyway, to Samphire and the ESOs. Traffic from the port was very quiet, so we could go down Jubilee Way and along Townwall Street with no hold ups, accelerating up the A20 to the turn off for the Hoe, then onto the tranquil place between the cliffs and the sea, and arriving at the car park, there were just fishermen's cars parked, so I would have the orchids to myself.

I find several flowring spikes, including a double and a treble, a real surprise this early in the season. Many more spikes are showing, so there will be quite a show in a week or so. At first I find no spikes, pausing where I was sure there were spies last week. Then finally finding one, then another, and I can finally say that the season has arrived! I count over 15 spikes in flower, and many, many others n various stages of growth. However, what with the popularity of the Hoe, I might not go back this season, but instead go to some of the other quieter sites.

We have a chore to run, dropping a concrete slab, reinforced with steel, to the tip up Whitfield; it just about doubled the weight of the car, and bounced around in the boot as we drove through town to reach the tip. WHat a fine nation we are, queuing up to use the tip on a sunny Sunday morning, dumping garden waste, old toys and the such. What a strange nation we are.

From there it was a blast along the A2 to Barham, and then across the fields and through the woods to the bridleway, park up and look for the second flowering species of the day, the Early Purples.

Up the slope, looking between the trees until finally I saw some purple among the blue of the bluebells. THere was just a few spikes in flower, and some of those only just opening, but enough orchid action to satisfy me, I get my shots, closeups, distance ones, and all the other arty farty stuff I do.

Quickly back down the slope and to the other side to check on the later orchids; later by just a week or so, but the lady, Fly and Twayblades are racing along, some already have spikes pushing towards the sky, hoping to reach the sun before the leaves on the treetops blots its warming rays out. I take shots of various rosettes, but jsut a few for records, then make it back to the car to meet with Jools so we can drive home for an early lunch.

Back home the sun is high overhead, and it feels warm enough to sit in the garden to eat the pork pies. But sill me has to sit inside to review his shots from the morning, so that's what I do.

After eating, we both attack the long grass at the edges of the lawn, and around the bed before I get the mower out to trim the grass once again. I guess it takes just over an hour, and the result it looks fabulous, with the beds in full bloom. We sit on the patio looking at our little piece of England, I open a beer which erupts like a beery volcano, but I pour some of the froth into my mouth. It is rather wonderful to look out on the garden, with all three cats circling us, and see what we have done, whilst sipping silly strong Belgian beer.

On the radio, yet more football plays out; Leicester draw with West Ham and then Arsenal draw with Palace. I'm only half interested really.

At five I begin to cook dinner; steak, mushrooms and all the usual stuff. It is splendid, as usual. But even as we eat, daylight is fading, and my time at home draws to an end. Again. Tomorrow I am off to Jutland once more, one final trip before our far eastern adventure. And a two-legged flight which will mean the trip taking just about all day to get to Ringkobing.

Sees you on Friday!