Canoe believe it?!

Canoeing at the Hollybush Inn

A few months back a friend discovered a belter of a deal on Groupon, a day's canoeing plus a night at a B&B for £20, flippin' bargain. So Sinéad Nua and her seven accomplices ventured off to the Hollybush Inn at Hay On Wye for a canoeing trip to the Twilight Zone. We arrived late (my lack of navigational skills found us on the right road, however in the wrong direction) to meet a very displeased lady called Barbara who was already in the middle of her safety briefing. She was talking as if we were going to be out there on our tod....oh wait, we were actually going to out there on our tod, oh dear, should've been listening and not planning picnic. Panic panic panic! But the mention of a mooring point near a pub perked me right up and I thought, right that's my final destination on this trip! I could taste the ale and the salt'n'vinegar crisps already.

So we got ourselves kitted out in life jackets, canoes and oars and set about getting the lot on the water, a feat in itself for 8 city lasses. I was in a boat of three, the 'steerer' in the back and the 'navigator' in front (I've made up my own terms as I wasn't paying attention). It seemed my duty was to stay the hell out of the way, having demonstrated that my lack of navigational skills didn't just apply to the road. I felt like a lady of leisure, except instead of delicately holding an afternoon tea I was clutching onto an oar for dear life, cold water and jeans doth not a good day make. Despite our naughty lack of attention to the safety briefing, we negotiated the canoe through the valley admiring the views and taking in the fresh air. Easy peasy...but we got cocky. Approaching a bit of fast moving water we hatched a plan to get us through.  But our confidence was shot down by the sensation of a shakey boat and the onslaught of water, all of which landed on my seat leaving me with a soggy rear for the remainder of the day, classy. We decided from then on to let the water take us where it may and keep the oars the hell out of the way as we ascertained that this uneducated, panicky engagement may have caused the water to become angry with us and we wanted the water on our side.  Having spent half an hour with nature I was starting to believe it had a consciousness.

Four hours later I had worked up a wicked thirst only to find the haven of The Boat Inn with it's halo of light around it and the sound of angels serenading us in. I have since heard that nobody else witnessed the halo or the angels so I'm wondering if this hallucination was thirst related... We pulled the boat out of the water with great stealth and strength (it's amazing what you can achieve when 100 yards from a pint of Otter) and made our way to the bar. Once our thirst was quenched and we had enjoyed the afternoon sunshine in the beer garden we phoned Barbara for our promised lift back to base. We arrived back, excited from the mixture of fresh air and beer, to be checked into our rooms at the Hollybush. I must add in here, we were eternally grateful to have been given actual rooms after hearing a report from another guest who, following a booking confusion, was given a teepee to sleep in. How quirky I hear you say! Not so much, the camping at the Hollybush is basic (and that's a compliment) so without a proper bed they were uncomfortable and freezing. With a stroke of luck, we were given four of their five bedrooms, all very different in style but with one common denominator - lovely comfy beds!  One even had a free standing bath tub in the middle of the room, a highly impractical novelty for the two friends sharing this room (I later found out that they took turns in bathing while the other averted her eyes!)

We gathered in the garden and shared accounts of our near misses over a few beers (my jeans had dried by this stage), served to us by the perpetually chatty Betty. Following a quick freshen up we met back in the pub where we had a table booked for dinner. We ate wonderful home cooked food and listened to the very 'eclectic' array of live music they had on. I had the mutton pudding which was made from one of the Inn's own sheep, you can't get cuisine more local than that! Barbara had chilled way down to no longer being angry at our tardiness but poor Betty was so run off her feet I thought her head was going to spin off. So busy was this pub and so understaffed the team got stuck into wherever they were needed, even the chef morphed into a waiter. 

I went to bed full and tipsy, and slept like a log in my plush bed (probably should have spared a thought for the poor buggers in the teepees). Breakfast the following morning was another new experience. Having been ignored several times, while I sat hungrily and in dire need of coffee, I resorted to popping my head through the kitchen door to ask if I could actually HAVE a breakfast. My order was taken in exchange for a spot of waitressing when I had to ask some fellow guests if they wanted tea or coffee (as Barbara had forgotten to ask them herself).  Fair enough I suppose, I had only paid £20, I guess there had to be a catch right?! My breakfast arrived like an apparition and was delicious, as was the coffee. Happy to be caffeinated and full I made my way to my room to pack my belongings and head back to normality.

Despite the quirkiness of this place, ie if you ask for a cup of tea don't expect it to arrive

at all and if it does then good times, the Hollybush Inn has an intimate charm. Leave your customer service expectations at the door (wait, stay with me for a minute) and you'll open yourself up to experiencing something rare and spontaneous....and unmissable.  Just make sure you book a ROOM!

http://www.hollybushcamping.co.uk/page8.htm

A Fling In One

Disc Golf

 

 

Before you think I've taken leave of my senses and just started making stuff up to blog about, pop 'Disc Golf' into Google and have a slice of 'Itoldyouso'. The modern version of the sport started in the 60s but it's thought that the game was invented as early as the turn of the 20th century. It's now played worldwide and has it's own associations and tournaments. Admittedly my initial reaction was "Disc wha'? You're havin' a laugh!" but, once I digested my own slice of 'Itoldyouso', I decided to give it a whack.

 

I met Matt, the creator of Ashton Court Disc Golf Course, for a round. He explained that Disc Golf was very similar to regular golf except it uses frisbees and baskets. Prompted by my blank expression (I know nowt about golf) he went on to explain that, at each 'hole', you throw a frisbee at a target (a metal frame comprising of a basket with dangly bits of chain that direct the frisbee down into it) and the object of the game is to reach the target in as little throws as possible. Simple right? Wrong, I was utterly useless at it. I had to take a crash course in 'throwing', my instructor was quite encouraging (in other words, a massive liar).

 

A few holes in and I was marginally less dreadful at throwing but was picking up a technique quite useful for a beginner, ie letting go of the frisbee at a more opportune moment so it doesn't fly off and decapitate a pigeon. Along the way I witnessed some proper disc golfers at play and, man, can they throw! At one stage I could even hear the whirring of a frisbee soaring over my head. The more skilled players have collections of discs that are chosen, much like a golfer would choose a club, to reach the target more effectively. Discs can be different weights, depending on speed and control required. I learned that how you hold & angle the disc can manipulate it's direction as they curve in flight. An experienced disc golfer will have their own throwing style and technique for any given situation, including a 'run up' to give the disc added momentum. Mind you, I was still coming to terms with throwing it in the general direction I needed it to go, manipulating the direction is lesson 2 I guess...

 

The course at Ashton Court has been designed to challenge the players with targets hidden within wooded areas and over hills out of view. One target is next to a pond and, having been told that frisbees don't float, I felt the pressure not to land mine in the mucky water, it was cold and I wasn't wearing proper attire for wading. Luckily it landed

just short of the target on terra firma, phew! Many times it landed amongst nettles, in muck, within two feet of where I was standing (particularly shameful) but, gosh darn it, it always ended up in the target. My worst record was roughly 7 throws at one hole. My learned instructor's was 2 and his starting points were further away from the target than mine (to preserve my ego we didn't keep score). I learned that the average number of 'holes in one' are far higher than that of it's club and ball counterpart however I think I'd be happy with a hole in 6 at this stage...oh, and keeping it out of the nettles.

 

So if you're wandering about in Ashton Court and you see a metal frame with chains, it's not a deer feeder, it's a Disc Golf target. Go on, give it a whirl. Did mention that it's free?!

 

https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Ashton-Court-Disc-Golf-Course/454458561264157

Blow me down

Glass blowing at Bristol Blue Glass

 

Another creative venture for ya, I tell ya I'm oozing so much creativity at the moment I need a sit down. This time I was at the Bristol Blue Glass factory where I tried my hand, or rather my lungs, at a spot of glass blowing. I was impressed to see that this company still makes all their products by hand, er lung...you get my drift... Each piece, although made to spec, is completely unique in that it's not made from a mould but blown into shape by a glassblower's own lungs. This ancient art form dates back as early as the 1st century BC, and I was pleased to see it's still alive and well. 

 

The molten glass is kept in an extremely hot furnace, over 1,000°C, that's almost hotter than a mouthful of scotch bonnets. I was shown a long pipe, called...well, a blowpipe, innit obvious?? A blob is 'gathered' on the tip of the blowpipe and, employing skilled techniques in turning and blowing, said blob is shaped into your chalice/paperweight/vase/delete as approriate, various hand tools being used to maintain this shape. Intermittently, to keep the glass at the correct temperature it's poked through what's called a 'glory hole' (hehehe). I avidly watched the glassblower checking for impressive burns but to no avail, these guys must be extremely careful working with temperatures like this. I can burn myself pretty spectacularly cooking pizza at 200°C so was a bit cautious of not getting too close to glory holes and the like.

 

When I got the opportunity to make my creation, I stood at the end of the blowpipe and summoned forth the air from my lungs. I blew my blob into a round ball which was rotated and moulded by the skilled glassblower into a giant blue bauble. It was then transferred to another furnace for cooling - still at a temperature of about 400°C it needed 24 hours to reduce down to a less skin melting temperature. It now dangles proudly from my patio door collecting the daylight and reflecting it in hues of blue, how pretty! ...And I am first degree burn free (until my next pizza).

 

 

 

http://bristol-glass.co.uk

Image: Sinéad Millea

Going potty

Pottery Lesson at The Village Pottery

 

Well hello there stranger! Sinead Nua has been on a go slow this year but is picking things up with great speed and is ready with some new additions to the experience bank. I'll start the ball rolling with a couple of creative ventures, and you thought I was all food food food! I spotted an opportunity to fling some clay in a supervised environment, aka pottery class, so I popped along to The Village Pottery in Clifton where I met my instructor, Jen. I started off with a nice cappuccino and a browse amongst the pots, bowls, dishes and jugs on display and wondered what I might CREATE (read with dramatic tone and hand in air gesture). I was starting to feel all artistic and wistful, but less like Francis Bacon, more like Brian from Spaced.

 

I was shown through to the potter's wheel, which looked pretty impressive compared to the plastic battery operated yoke I had as a kid. I made stumps of clay on it, they were post modern comments on society - at 11 I was way ahead of my time creatively, I'll probably be famous when I'm dead. I was invited to sit at it as one would sit upon a motorcycle, but was assured it would not accelerate and throw me to the floor as my brother's Honda Hornet had threatened to do (he said he was going 10mph but I swear it felt like 70).

 

 Anyway, back to the potters wheel...I was given a lump of clay to fling into the centre. SPLAT and off I go. I was instructed to mould it into what I considered quite a fallic shape and then, thankfully before my blushing became obvious, with step by step guidance on moulding and shaping my lump morphed into a bowl right before my eyes, a pretty awesome bowl even if I do say so myself. It was finished off with a glaze, I chose a green to match my country kitchen in the dream house in my head (it's by the sea and has a country kitchen, that's all I have so far - am waiting for Sarah Beeny to advise of the rest but she doesn't do head calls..) My bowl was then transferred to a shelf and queued up for the kiln. I could hardly wait the three weeks it would take to set and for the glaze to shine up a lovely country kitchen shade of green. I got the call to pick it up and ran like Charlie with his golden ticket all the way to the village. My bowl now sits on my window holding lavender, a very noble post reserved for handmade creations.

 

 

 

Jen offers lessons like this, plus introductory lessons (the above without the kiln bit) and large group lessons. To find out more check the link below.

 

http://www.thevillagepottery.co.uk/lessons

Image: Sinéad Millea

Clifton Rocks

Clifton Rocks Railway

I’ve been slacking off, sorry about that.  But you see I had no idea anyone was even reading this stuff.  Well it seems you are so Sinead Nua has decided to get cracking on another set of adventures, starting with a visit to Clifton Rocks Railway. 

This funicular railway, built in 1893, served nineteenth century Bristolians with transport between Hotwells and Clifton before being drafted as a war hero to protect the many evacuees during the air raids of the early twentieth century.  It is now sadly in a pretty shabby state, and having been transformed during the war it is difficult to know what to do with this place that houses such different slices of Bristolian history.  Aswell as the railway & the bomb shelter this became a safe base for the BBC during the war and it also contained a dance hall where many a Brizzle couple courted.  With the permission of current owner, the Avon Gorge Hotel, an eager group of volunteers from the Bristol Industrial Archaeological Society visit it to restore and cheer it up.  And a mighty job they’re doing too, they’ve already uncovered some fantastic relics including the turnstiles that passengers would pass through in order to ride the railway and some household items left behind by evacuees once it was safe to venture out again.

The volunteers open the gates of the site for public tours at a small fee which goes towards restoration.  On the top level, where the tour starts, one can see the turnstile that was unearthed by the bare hands of these volunteers and look out onto the railway tracks that stretch down into the side of the Avon Gorge.  Donning a high vis vest and a hard hat, feeling very ‘builder’, I was guided down the concrete stairs, deep into the memories the walls hold.  Shortly into the tour it’s impossible not to feel the passage of time around you, stories of Victorian railway passengers meld into accounts of evacuees piling into the custom built air raid shelters.  I could almost hear the voices of Mums ushering their kids along and sushing them to sleep on the concrete slabs while chaos ensued outside the thick walls.  Some tealights placed along the lower parts of the walls fast forwarded us to the seventies where it was reported that teenagers used to break into the shelters and have parties.  A nostalgic air filled the huge rooms while the mixed ages of the tour group watched and imagined the various stages of history that linger in this dark musty place.

At the bottom of the stairs we were led to a hole in the wall where we climbed through to a secret room, as I shimmied through, I conjured up visions of Alice in Wonderland - although slightly less graceful as I tumbled through the gap in the wall.  On the other side was the now empty haven used by the BBC to broadcast from during WW2 with it’s thick brick walls offering protection from bomb blasts.  Further on, the entrance where Clifton bound railway passengers would arrive echoed reminders of the original railway now hidden and locked in by a metal gate, the other side of which leads back to the hustle and bustle of the twenty-first century.  Talk about time travel!

http://www.cliftonrocksrailway.org.uk/

Images: Sinéad Millea.

Hash and Beer

Bristol Hash House Harriers

 

 

Hey stranger, it's been a while! I've been a busy bee so far in 2012. So much to do, so little time. But there is one thing I wanted to tell you about...

A few months back, whilst researching for new ventures to try my hand at, a friend sent me a link on Facebook for a hashing club. Yes, that's right, hashing. I was appalled I tell you, ap-paaaaalled...until I looked it up and realised what it actually is - cross country running (not the other thing, lets just forget about that). This particular club however describe themselves as a "drinking club with a running problem", hmm how intriguing. I dropped the 'Grand Master' an e-mail to introduce myself. He politely responded offering an invite to their next run and signed off as Massive (o...k...). Shortly after a text came through offering me a lift to the start point which, typically being a drinking club, is a pub. She signed off as Wet Wipe (should I ask?....maybe not).

I met WW on a sunny, dry (thanksbetojesus) Sunday morning, having had an early & booze free Saturday night. As we drove to Belluton, in Somerset, she filled me in on the hashing nitty gritty. The club run on a weekly basis through the countryside, usually for about 4 - 6 miles. They follow a trail, comprising of blobs of flour, left by team members called 'hares' who plot the route earlier that morning. Every half mile or so there are 'checks', which are circles of flour left on the ground, and these signal a change in direction. Runners (oh yeah, here's the best bit - you don't even have to run, you can choose to walk!) can either go off and find the next blob of flour dictating new direction or take a rest and wait for someone to call "On On" which means they've found it for you! 

I was a bit nervous of the prospect of getting lost in the middle of a field, under the illusion that the club members would be off like a shot, so I began running to keep up. Turns out most of them had been out drinking the night before and were doing this as a hangover cure....have any of these people heard of Alka Seltzer?? Despite their throbbing heads they were pretty fit, even the ones I was eyeing up for a date with my Nana... I had huge respect for them, one glass of wine on Saturday evening and I'd have wimped out but after a mile or so I got their thinking, what better way to clear a bleary head than the beautiful English countryside, fresh air and sunshine? Of course, there's that aforementioned pub to look forward to and that rewarding pint of ale awaiting them. They do this in all weathers too, I'm not sure whether it's a dedication to running or to drinking but they're pretty committed!

The run looped through a cute little village of stone buildings, bridges over streams, mucky fields & woodland and circled back to the pub, with it's door open and it's beer pumps at the ready, welcoming us back like prodigal sons.  Marvelling at my honey coloured beer and my mucky running shoes I smugly grinned to myself knowing that most of my friends are probably now reaching for the remote control because the Eastenders Omnibus is just too darn complicated for their delicate hungover states (remember, I admitted to being smug). 

Following a beer and a chat we were led outside to the beer garden by the 'Masters' for the 'Downdowns'. These are the forfeit ceremonies that take place after each run. Several members of the club are given a half pint to down as a penalty for crimes committed on the morning's hash - one man got punished simply for having a pink hanky on his person! And speaking of forfeits and punishments, the peculiar names the club members introduced themselves with were nicknames given to them by their fellow members, inspired by an observation from their early hash runs - Wet Wipe simply because she cleaned her hands with wet wipes after a mucky run, I didn't ask Massive where his came from... If you do take part in a hashing club be careful of what you do or say, it may haunt you for the rest of your hash career!

...but enough about me, how are you?

http://www.bristolhash.org.uk/bh3intro.php

Image: Sinéad Millea