Something To Write Home About

Cycling in the New Forest

2011-08-15T19:59:00.001+01:00

Here we are in the New Forest: Amanda with pony, me with St Leonard's barn. Piglets were sadly absent.

Mega-arachnoid

2011-08-15T19:54:00.001+01:00

Um, should this be in England?

Morris dancing in Gloucestershire

2011-07-10T11:45:00.001+01:00

While camping in Gloucestershire, Amanda danced with a morris team. She was so good that they asked her to join them.

A drink at the Orange Tree

2011-04-16T17:03:00.001+01:00

Well, one must reward oneself after a six mile bike ride, non?

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The Great Ocean Road

2011-01-12T19:08:00.004Z

When a man is tired of Melbourne, there are happily a number of options for lovers of the outdoors. We couldn't find our hiking boots so we went for a drive down the Great Ocean Road.

First, we caught the ferry from Sorrento, a lovely seaside town where property makes London look good value, to the other side of Port Phillip Bay. Here, Amanda puts a brave face on the failure of the dolphins to turn up to send us on our way.

We were heading for Apollo Bay, for no particular reason except that we had a booking at a nearby guesthouse. We stopped at this beach on the way. By now I had discovered Victoria's dirty little secret. It looks a lovely, warm summer scene doesn't it - but the water's absolutely freezing.

With a dip in the freezing Southern Ocean not an option, I found a piece of giant kelp to play with.

After a night in Apollo Bay, and a meeting with a genuine wild koala, we headed to the Twelve Apostles, first stopping at a genuine Aussie roadhouse complete with rusty iron roof.

At last, the Twelve Apostles. Aussies love their geological formations.

The rain in Wales falls mostly all the time

2010-08-31T22:23:00.014+01:00

As we crossed the Severn bridge and paid £5 for the privilege of entering Wales, it started pouring with rain. Luckily the warm glow of Jerome and Tor's hospitality proved an excellent substitute for the absent summer sun. Later, we sampled a Saturday night out in Cardiff for which Jerome dressed up:

The next day we went to Brecon for a short walk on the Montgomery Canal, where an incredibly tanned Simon and Lara made their debut as a married couple following a fortnight in Cuba:

Tabitha and Jerome appeared concerned. No doubt that it might rain.

Apparently they had to close part of the Leeds-Liverpool canal this month because of drought. No such worries in Wales:

Poppy was there too:

Later we went to the pub for lunch.

Inside, Tabitha was eating beer mats. Grandpa had better keep his collection locked away.

No trip to Caerphilly would be complete without a trip to the castle - the biggest in the whole of Britain. Or Wales. It's quite big anyway. Largely because the Earl of Bute, the richest man in the entire world, rebuilt it in the 1920s. Still, looks quite authentic...

Amanda contemplates the three moats and SIX portcullises a Welsh peasant would have had to negotiate to mount a succesful attack on the castle in the 13th century. And attempts to contain her excitement at the promise of a night of Transformers 2 in high definition at Jerome and Tor's.

Cycling the Dollis Valley Green Walk

2010-08-14T17:04:00.006+01:00

We went cycling.

Amanda and her bike.

Me and my bike

Amanda showing off on Totteridge Green

On the way home.

Westerham ho!

2010-07-26T23:19:00.010+01:00

We went for a walk near Westerham, a village in Kent where Winston Churchill once lived.

But first, we continue our occasional series, Danger: Amanda.

No.3 - Danger: Stairs

No. 4 - Danger: death

At last, the walk. Here is a picture of a stile, if not of style.

More stile:

Penny and me in the woods.

Amanda in a field. Don't eat the ragwort!

At the bottom of the garden...

2010-07-19T19:24:00.009+01:00

This summer, the garden has seen all sorts of entertainment, characters and tropes.

Corn flower power...

A wrecker...

Braai (NB. meat first, asparagus last)...

Sunbathing...

The front...

My favourite plant, the echinacea...

More sunbathing...

Stalking...

Naughty Polish puppy...

And rock!

Ruins, beaches and cats of Santorini

2010-06-25T19:51:00.022+01:00

Santorini of the Cyclades was the venue for our summer holiday - and it was hot hot hot. Consistently over 30C, to be more precise. We were staying in Akrotiri, which was just as well, since it is the quietest part of an island overrun with tourists.

Akrotiri is famous for its Minoan ruins (around 1,500BC), which are out of bounds to tourists due to the fact that a roof they built over it about ten years ago collapsed. Ironic, in a way. As we stood at the padlocked gates of ancient Akrotiri pondering the wisdom of a repeat of our attempted illicit Spanish neolithic ruins tour, an archaeologist walked up to us and told us they had hoped to have it open within a year - five years ago.

Apparently it will be open sometime this summer.

So we had to make do with a walk around modern Akrotiri, which ought to be famous for its cats - a generally languid and very skinny community. There certainly weren't any humans, except this one, in her evening dress:

This cat was taking a break from chasing lizards before we interrupted him.

Here, Amanda enjoys the view from a fort sacked by the Ottomans.

Santorini - or Thera, as it was called before the Venetians colonised the island - consists of the remains of the caldera of an ancient volcano which blew itself up around 1,500BC. You can imagine our excitement when we heard the volcano was still active and that we could go and visit it. So we set sail for a rocky islet in the middle of the caldera, where the temperature was at least 45C. It reminded me a bit of a 1960s episode of Star Trek, in the days when a desert could double as another planet.

We returned to the ship, which was called Odysseas 31, which people in their early 30s may find amusing since it is the Greek version of the name of the 1980s children cartoon classic Ulysses 31. Luckily we had fewer problems getting home. (That's enough geek references - Amanda)

The casual visitor to Santorini may be forgiven for believing that all the island has to offer is sunsets and rip-off restaurants with sunset views. Actually there is one very impressive set of ruins called Ancient Thera on top of a hill. Here we see one of the highlights of the city, some carvings made by an eccentric chap called Artemidorus around 300BC. On the left, a lion of Apollo and on the right, an eagle of Zeus Olympias. There was also a dolphin of Poseidon, but you'll have to come to our house to see that.

Among the ruins were statues, a theatre and some homes. But Amanda's favourite bit of Ancient Thera? The cistern:

Most of the remainder of our stay on Santorini was spent lazing around on beaches. We were told we had to go to the Red Beach, because its cliffs are made of a brownish volcanic rock. Unfortunately what the guide books fail to point out is that the Red Beach is repressively hot due to radiation from the darkish cliffs. It is also highly popular with American and Japanese tourists. Here is a quick snap taken in the 10 mins or so we could bear to remain on the infernal strand.

But after a tour of the red, black and white beaches, we decided to settle on the Caldera Beach, a short walk down some cliffs from our hotel. Here is Amanda frolicking in the surf.

Meanwhile, I jumped off a cliff, in a wreckless aping of the perennial tombstoning craze.

And a lizard was exploring my flip-flop:

At last, we got round to watching a couple of Santorini sunsets. The first was fine, but suffered from a disappointing finish. It was best viewed through sunglasses:

Our second attempt was much more pleasing. Kalispera and kalinikta!

ASH-AGEDDON FROM ICELAND!

2010-04-15T20:15:00.002+01:00

Worst chaos since the Second World War! Screamed the free Evening Standard. Lavender sunset over London! It added. Wrong again: it was more golden, really:

Mike, Jo and a warning

2010-04-05T20:49:00.003+01:00

Number 2 in an occasional series:

Warning: Inebriation

Later that night, we met Mike and Jo at the Market Porter. It was Very Good News. Ladies:

Gents:

One year ago today...

2010-03-28T12:23:00.002+01:00

We got married. To celebrate, we went to Odette's for dinner. Since it was our 'paper' wedding anniversary, we went dressed as Odette's wallpaper. Amanda was more convincing:

My consolation prize? A glass of port.

Suffolk bunch

2010-02-27T15:46:00.020Z

One Friday afternoon, Tom, Roz, Amanda and I packed up the car and headed due northeast: to Suffolk. Here we stayed in a beautiful cottage complete with a roaring fire

Sadly no pictures of the cottage remain, but on the Saturday, we fulfilled a 10-year-old promise to visit the St Peter's Brewery, near Bungay. The ecclesiastical ambience is down to its origins as an abbey. St Peter's probably has more different varieties of beer than most breweries, which made for an entertaining tasting session. As did the man from Johnny Walker with the gammy leg.

In high spirits, we headed for lunch at the Ship in Dunwich, formerly the largest port in the entire world! Or almost. It was quite big, and now it's virtually a hamlet, due to the ravages of the sea. Next, we went for a walk along the foreshore and marshes. Here is the only photo of all four of us:

Meanwhile, here is a photo of three of us:

All the best walks have a frisson of danger. This walk had more than its fair share. First of all, there was Sizewell B.

Let's hope it doesn't suffer the same fate as most of Dunwich. Then, there was a section of footpath through the marshes that we weren't allowed to be on. Unfortunately, we were forced to choose between obeying Environment Agency killjoys or walking back the same way we came.

The EA lost out. Here, Amanda mocks the 'elf and safety' implications of what we have just done. The Daily Mail would be proud.

The bleak landscape meant moody shots were the order of the day. Roz, contemplating sticklebacks in the marshes. Maybe:

While Amanda poses for a Sunday newspaper fashion spread:

And, completing our masterclass of photographic styles, the MOR album shot.

Tom took our photo too.

On the last day it rained, but we managed a walk around Framlingham Castle and a discussion on the merits of the new Observer over Sunday lunch.

Norfolk pole

2010-02-12T13:22:00.003Z

The Landmark Trust specialises in preserving buildings for posterity by renting them out to holidaymakers.

A worthy aim, I'm sure you will agree, but if, like us, you plan to avail yourself of their hospitality, you should be aware that one of the methods of preservation they like to use on their properties is freezing.

This one in Norfolk, for instance, is beautiful. But that lovely thatch allows a howling, chilling gale through. Happily, we were two of a group of eight, which meant lashings of shared bodily warmth. The warmth of Ted, Clare, Jon, Nancy, Fiona and Mike. That adds up to about 800 watts of warmth in total (according to some odd fact Juliet once revealed), which surprisingly needed to be supplemented by two open fires.

On our first morning, we were mildly snowed in so we strode out across England's flattest county, braving snow blindness and a chill wind:

Happily, even the birds were on our side and they pointed us in the correct direction:

A breakaway group formed. Someone must have told them there was a pub at the other end of the walk:

Our reward was a lovely hostelry with a table by a roaring fire. The romance was only heightened by the presence of a gypsy with her whippet.

Following a couple of games of pool, our return was a race against the setting sun:

As twilight fell, a strange woollen man fell in behind us:

The following day we went for another walk in the environs of Eye. There was a nice church and guildhall complex. Here, Jonathan admires the latter.

There were two cats who looked exactly like this. After two days of cajoling, Ted finally persuaded one of them to come inside and let us give it some chicken, which we considered a very generous gesture on the part of the feline.

Time to go. My de-icing was deemed insufficient, so Amanda took over and did a proper job:

Go here for a significantly more thorough examination of our time in Norfolk.

Brittany: a retrospective

2010-02-11T13:02:00.000Z

During the short, damp days of winter, it is depressing to recall our sunny summer holiday, which we spent in Brittany. But here we go anyway. Portsmouth, blue skies, the clear sea air. A glorious start to a two week holiday to Brittany and an 8-hour voyage.

We were staying on a smallholding near, um, nowhere really.

Melrand was the closest village. There was a large and welcoming feline population, which is always a good start. And there is nothing more delightful than to go to bed at night, having met about four cats, and then walk in on yet another cat who you hadn't met yet lying in your room.

Meet Sasha:

Meet Beckster:

Amanda and Beckster had one thing in common:

Meanwhile, Jasper, the largest and most presumptious of the kitties, was staging a sit-in on our car:

The others, who we shall call Basement Cat and Ceiling Cat on account of their coloration, were more elusive. We suspect they slept in our bedroom when we were out on day trips. The cast of animals did not end there. Here are most of the chickens - in our doorway.

And here is an overly friendly coleopterid, which I chased around the grounds of the smallholding with a spatula. Well, actually, it was Amanda who I chased around with a spatula. The poor beetle was attached to her - probably scared stiff by the screams. In Amanda's defence, its antennae were about the same length as its body, which was about the length of a child's hand.

Then there were the bats. The whole place was infested with them. When we weren't chasing animals or being inconvenienced by them, we pottered around the environs on our bicyclettes. Here Amanda picknicks lilke a native:

We also explored the ancient sites of Brittany, which, malheureusement, put those of southwest England to shame.

One particular area, called Kerzehro, was particularly impressive. We took a 10km walk through a wooded area dotted with menhirs, dolmens and stone circles. But French bronze agers seemed mostly interested in making row upon row of stones, called alignements, and stone squares, called cromlechs. Here is me in an alignement:

And here is Amanda with two of the Giants of Kerzehro, which is a group of four menhirs:

We picknicked in privacy in a stone circle, except for one nosy deer, before continuing to Mané-Braz:

While I sat in Caesar's chair:

Amanda took a break from hugging trees to hug a stone instead:

Another tumulus:

And the Dolmen de Crucuno, which was next to yet another square stone circle.

For the next two days we were in bed with E Coli, thanks to a dreadful restaurant in the tourist trap that is Carnac. We took the opportunity to lose about two stone between us and also to catch up on Mad Men, which is a very good series.

Eventually, we got back to sightseeing duties. First up was an arts and crafts fair, where people dressed in heavy black outfits on possibly the hottest day of the year. Us? We sat and ate crepes in the shade:

Next, we went to the Ile Gavrinis, where bronze age people built a big barrow. Unlike British barrows, this one had carvings in it, which we weren't allowed to photograph. So Amanda instead photographed the poor sap who accidentally purchased the entire town's supply of fruits de mer:

Amanda still had a delicate stomach, so made do with a sundae:

The Ile aux Moines was next. Moines are monks. Apparently, this stone looks like one:

And this is where our photographs must end, since it was at this point that we jointly dropped the camera in wet sand on the beach. Merde.

The frozen north of London

2010-01-06T23:48:00.008Z

According to the BBC, which decided to clear its schedules to bring us a six hour Snow Special!!1!, it snowed today. I am happy to confirm with this fact - at least with respect to the north London area - with these photographs taken earlier today.

Tally Ho! With the Baptist church in the foreground.

Obi, the car who is yet to let us down. Luckily, we have nowhere to go...

...because we're working from home. This is always easier, because I have an intern to help:

Finally, our road, which evidently doesn't qualify for grit:

Sundon Hills to Sharpenhoe Clappers

2009-12-30T16:33:00.008Z

A beautiful view of south Bedfordshire, spoilt by me. This is the beginning of a 5.5 mile walk in the Chilterns between the Sundon Hills and Sharpenhoe Clappers, considered by one left-leaning national newspaper as the best south of the Peak District.

It isn't, but Amanda and I would do it again: high praise indeed.

We started in a field of sheep in Sundon Hills Country Park on the border of Bedfordshire and Herts, walking along a ridge which afforded the aforementioned view. Presently, we plunged into dense beech forest, tottering along the edge of a vertiginous drop into Bedfordshire. Here, Amanda balances above the precipice like a veritable mountain goat:

Sharpenhoe Clappers, which was a settlement for Iron Age folk, marked the halfway point. Below is the view from the bottom - taken after a lunch at the Lynmore 'Country Pub'. I will let you draw your own conclusions about a hostelry which feels the need to write 'Country Pub' on its pub sign.

But please don't allow your conclusions to be coloured by the fact that I had to tell them that both their ales were off and had to settle for a bottle of Speckled Hen in the end. Quick review: Food okay, service good, view of Sharpenhoe Clappers good.

After lunch we headed back to complete our circle. Along the side of the road, we set up this laborious visual joke for naturalists:

(The plant is Old Man's Beard)

Visibility was poor, but it did at least make for a nice photo:

As we walked back up into the Sundon Hills, we crossed the snow line once more:

And as night fell, I tracked a muntjac deer through the mud while Amanda snapped haystacks.

You shall know our velocipedes

2009-10-18T22:05:00.006+01:00

On the evidence of today's excursion, there is no better way to enjoy the Autumn colour than from the saddle of one's bicycle. We took a spin along the Dollis brook up to Barnet. Amanda is finding her pedalling feet again, so the brook babbled along almost as slowly as us - but in the opposite direction. Here it is, meandering behind her:

I was scouting ahead for that Autumn colour:

On the outskirts of Barnet, we left the brook and rode up the hill to Totteridge Common.

Here there is a pub called the Orange Tree with a pond. The moorhens were enjoying playing with the empty bottles that some thoughtful people had thrown in for them. We thought the scene was nice enough to merit a frothy ale and a red wine while our trusty steeds rested:

Cat/walk

2009-10-07T23:51:00.004+01:00

Kent, the soi-disant Garden of England. That is open to debate; what is not is that Penny lives there - with a kitteh called Toffee.

Ah! The impetuousness of youth. If only he knew there were less dangerous ways to quench one's thirst.

Our other reason for being in Kent is the lovely walking to be had. We made for Shoreham in the North Downs. Here, Amanda and Penny yomp through a freshly ploughed field.

Soon we were in the woods, where Penny tossed her hair and I posed shamelessly.

At the top of a steep hill, I found a lovely old oak in need of a hug.

Meanwhile, Amanda had deployed her skinny jeans and bovver boots to great effect in the nearby understory.

Next, we were forced to walk around that curse of the home counties rambler: the golf course. I have been on three walks near London this summer - one in Hertfordshire, one in Bedfordshire and one in Kent - and all three were marred by golf courses. This one appeared to take up the entire Darent Valley - and there was yet another golf course on the other side of Shoreham. I'm packing weedkiller on our next walk.

So, eventually we found some more woods and another hill. Some kind person had even put steps in.

Meanwhile, back at Penny's place, a stalker:

El honeymoon

2009-05-05T23:16:00.011+01:00

At the end of March we were married; April found us on our honeymoon in the foothills of the Cantabrian mountains - Asturias, to be a little more precise. Our home for a week was to be a cottage on an organic farm, and the locals lost no time in introducing themselves. This one was called Luna. Although Spanish, she was not a fan of chorizo; however, ella gusto del queso.

The routine was pretty much: wake up, start fire, read, go for lunch in pretty fishing village, go for walk on beach/ in hills, rekindle fire, drink cava/ rioja. It was a life I for one could learn to love. Here, I break thick twigs for that crucial stage of firemaking between kindling and big logs.

Cudillero was one of the pretty fishing villages - and apparently something of a tourist trap. But not this time of year:

Amanda took advantage and snapped this tourist brochure photo of skate wings hung up to dry along with pantaloons.

As tourists, we were treated to the tradition of making flat cider fizzy. After the initial thrill, it is a tiresome custom: they only pour you one mouthful which you have to down immediately and then wait for about 20 minutes for the next time you can catch your waiter's eye and ask him to pour you another mouthful. It also results in a lot of wastage, even when performed by the pros:

Another thing Asturias specialises in is lighthouses. And funny foreign names:

Meanwhile, back in the mountains, the weather was brooding. Here is a view from our bedroom:

Castro Coana is a hillfort notable on a number of scores. It's in a state of exceedingly good repair, and although it was built before the Romans came along, it was equipped with a sauna. But the best thing is that for the entry price of free you get your own personal guide to take you around the village and answer all your questions. Ours was called Roberto. He came to visit us a couple of weeks ago and I gave him a guided tour of Hampstead in return.

Anyway, here I stand in the forum, which was situated across the Roman road from the sauna. On the left, you can see a pre-Roman house because they liked curved walls. Apparently Romans liked to square their homes off. You could see their homes, too.

The beaches are very inviting and mostly empty in Asturias, particularly in April. This one really took my fancy.

On our final full day, we went up a mountain. The path was treacherous, but we negotiated it with alacrity.

Not all the mountain's denizens were so sprightly...

North Finchley snow dump

2009-02-02T22:42:00.007Z

February had barely blinked into existence before an entire foot of snow was dumped on London overnight. Transport for London obligingly suspended all bus services, plus our branch of the Northern Line, rendering us - for the first time in our lives - 'snowed in'.

Sadly this is the internet age and I would be required to work from home - but not before Amanda had joined me for an hour-long 'commute' to Friary Park and the allotments. Here we add our own images to the news media's inevitable flurry of 'London under snow' photo-essays. Click on the pics for big versions.

First, a spot of early-morning trompe l'oeil: an icicle appears to hang brazenly from the inside of our window-frame. Our bedroom isn't quite that cold, though.

Outside, Amanda is happy, I think. Do you think she's happy?

Moving on, I am subject to a fusillade of snowy projectiles.

At last: Friary Park!

Unfortunately, it was so early that the multitude of children had not yet compressed the snow enough for a decent toboggan run. Here, Amanda finds a small run of compacted snow. Ah, but see how quickly the delight turns to sullenness.

Meanwhile, deeper inside the park, someone had been up early and sculpted a fine statue. Sadly a latecomer had felt the urge to deface it. Tsk.

Up above, the sky cleared.

Onto the allotments. This is our one. We've done quite a lot of work to it over the winter months, as you can't see. The garlic's coming on very nicely.

Time to move on. To stand still is lethal in these conditions.

Oops - just can't get the hang of focussing.

Mo' dignity

2008-12-02T15:19:00.000Z

I went to the Lake District this weekend, and this is all I have to show for it.

Summer holidays - Loire de dah

2008-10-08T12:27:00.000+01:00

Here's one I should have posted a couple of months ago...

Following last year's cautionary tale, in which we learnt never to book a holiday whilst a little under the weather, I am pleased to present another traveller's journal with a message.

This year's vacation was to be a spot of camping in the Lakes. Until the weather turned and it began to look a little wintry up north. A quick look at the BBC's utterly useless five-day weather forecast revealed that the whole of England would be under storm clouds for the next week, while Bordeaux would be basking in sunshine.

And so a last-minute change of plan - to Dover:

Once across the Channel, we happened upon a lovely farm in rural Picardy, La Ferme du Colombier, whose bucolic charm was in no way diminished by its dovecote.

Since there was no room in the aviary, we slept in the stables, and very comfortable they were too. That evening, we discovered the delights of the 'table d'hote', a system under which the hungry traveller joins the B&B proprietor for dinner and a bottomless carafe of wine. In this particular case, the farmer's wife also provided a little farmhouse cider. In the snatches of conversation we understood, the French guests appeared to be insulting the Belgian guests, who appeared to be taking it all very well. Later, a one-eyed farmer joined us.

The next day we began our epic journey to Bordeaux. Owing to a bad map, we got lost in Rouen. At lunchtime we were still in Normandy and beginning to suspect that France was a little larger than hitherto realised.

By the evening we had made it to the Loire, where the French traditionally allege that the sunshine starts. We spent the night in a campsite by a lake in Angers. Bordeaux was another five hours away. We finally accepted we weren't going to make it and settled down to enjoy our holiday in the Loire Valley. And just in case you didn't believe our 12-year-old Ford Fiesta had a trip to the Continent in her:

The Loire Valley is famous for its chateaux, which appear to be mostly Norman castles unsympathetically converted into family homes in the 16th-17th centuries by addition of slightly larger windows and some spires on top of the turrets.

Here's one called Chateau de Brissac, visited by such luminaries as Jeremy Irons, Gerard Depardieu, and now us. Such exquisite Flemish tapestries, but sadly their wine was dismissed as 'a little earthy' by Amanda:

And so to a woodland campsite near Saumur. Here, chickens bravely gambolled among campers enjoying evening barbecues:

Saumur was a lovely town with a chateau that was sadly closed for repairs. It is safe to assume that inside, its walls were adorned with beautiful Flemish tapestries.

A couple of nights later we began the long journey back via another chateau, the Chateau du Plessis-Bourre. Here we enjoyed a tour given entirely in French by a drunk, gesticulating guide, who we suspected might be the owner. Lovely Flemish tapestries, incidentally:

And so north, following what we took to be the distinct odour of ripe Camembert to Normandy via the low road. Here we stopped at a B&B near Alencon in order to enjoy the rolling hills of Normandy Maine.

Although peaceful, the B&B had a melancholy air, the source of which was the subject of much gossip around the table d'hote in the evenings. However, as I have discovered in relation to a previous post on petanque in Primrose Hill, this is a public blog. It is safe to tell you that we had a delightful evening with Joe Swift, the allotment gardener from Gardeners' World, and his delightful family. I take back all I have said about him and can only assume that his producer must hate him.

The next day we went to Saint-Céneri-le-Gerei. It has a nice eponymous church, a bridge and a Citroen 2CV:

On the way home we chanced upon a field of sunflowers. Can you spot Amanda?

Back at the B&B, we availed ourselves of the petanque pitch.

The next day we headed back to Calais. On the advice of my mate Joe's wife, we went to a lovely restaurant in Le Touquet for moules and a glass of rosé before stocking up on cheap wine.

And, like the final scene in some kind of Hollywood coming-of-age road trip movie, we finally made it to the seaside. Being a beach on the busiest shipping lane in the world, however, the waters of Le Touquet weren't as inviting as I imagined those of Aquitaine would have been. The pooches were well pampered, though.

Primrose Hill petanque

2008-09-29T20:51:00.006+01:00

The first weekend of autumn turned out to be the summer we never had. The Lansdowne, a lovely pub in Primrose Hill, beached itself, like a big boozy porpoise, on three tonnes of sand. The aim, it transpired, was to hold a petanque tournament. A number of Frenchmen had been invited, in a bid for authenticity – and to ensure no Englishman would walk away with the trophy. A warm equinoctial sun gatecrashed the event, and since we were all too polite to ask it to leave, it bathed the petanqeurs in its energetic golden photons. Here, Amanda and Martin, the organiser of the event, enjoy a cocktail.

After a shoddy first game, in which we were bested by a South African and his American girlfriend ("What's this game called?"), we were granted the honour of playing the hosts, Martin and Paul.

Incidentally, Martin will also be the host of our wedding party, all being well.

The game was close. At 12-7, we needed one point to win. Martin's individually engraved boule lay on one side of the cochonnet; ours seemingly equidistant on the other. I attempted to wield the measuring string...

... but really only an independent judge could be trusted to call such an important point. He duly declared us the victors - probably the upset of the tournament, since we weren't wearing berets or indeed silk scarves.

At length we were beaten by another pair of novices. I'm blaming the potholes in the road. Meanwhile, Pete and a stickler in Crocs were sweeping all before them. Here, the ten thousandth time Pete had to watch Mr Stickler measure some boules. Shortly after I was branded an interfering spectator and ushered away.

With a mediocre record of Won 1 Lost 2 to brood on, we made for Primrose Hill and the obligatory lying on the ground in front of the BT tower photo.

Update-fest

2008-07-13T17:18:00.001+01:00

After a period of neglect, this blog is back. Here are a few updates to get back into the swing of things, so keep scrolling and click on any images that take your fancy for giganto-size, detailed picures.

In April we went to Bristol. Amanda had to do a herb course at Bristol Uni's botanical gardens (which, it turns out, she got a commendation for). Here is a view from our B&B over Clifton and into town.

We also took a stroll over Avon Gorge into Leigh Woods. Here is a picture of purest West Country cheese: on the right the Clifton Suspension Bridge, on the left, the observatory.

The next day Poppy was baptised. She's my goddaughter. I gave her a bottle of port.

On the way home, we detoured via the Avebury stone circle:

Beach/bums

2008-07-13T16:32:00.000+01:00

Bums:

And beach:

This is Calshot beach in the New Forest, across the bay from Southampton, possibly the windiest place on earth after North Finchley.

A lick of paint

2008-07-13T16:25:00.000+01:00

Back in December we decided to repaint the house. The previous owner had a passion for military hues. Being civilians, we prefer our yellows. Behold: Sunshine yellow (click on images for larger pix)

Lemon yellow

We also like apricots:

And the faintest hint of pink:

Our study/spare room is apple green, but only visitors get to see that.

An English city garden

2008-07-13T16:10:00.001+01:00

The back garden's looking pretty pretty. Here it is in April (click on photo for v. large and detailed image):

And here it is today, the 13th of July:

Meanwhile, out front:

And for context:

Hammer time

2008-04-21T22:30:00.005+01:00

When we first moved in to our house, the backyard was under a 6ft pile of builders' waste. At last, we are ready to reveal a garden fit for a north London suburb.

First, a month ago, when Ted dropped off a sledgehammer, and we decided to barbecue rather than pulverise concrete:

Stop: hammer time!

Finally, 30 bags of naturally smoothed gravel later (who needs a Ford Transit when you have a tough little Fiesta?)

Cheers!

And once more cheers!

Easter wonderland

2008-04-06T21:22:00.007+01:00

It is a time on Saturday morning I am not used to seeing, and at last we are the grateful recipients of our first dump of useful snow of the winter, even though it is officially spring.

Oh joy!

Oh great.

It isn't long before our friend Cedric joins us.

As we have seen, snow can be a force for peace and creativity. Amanda will now introduce us to the darker side of the medium:

And with her new-found skills: Ambush!

Our First Barbie (of 2008)

2008-03-24T19:10:00.004Z

The spring equinox is upon us and as the life-giving sun favours the northern hemisphere once more, the mad March hare yelps 'hurrah!' and the TiMandy household trundles out the barbie for 2008's first braai. Clare and Ted are at a loss as to how I am planning to set fire to a barbecue in gale force winds.

Amanda was happy... Why?

Because the snags are nearly done! (Note, our cunning plan to protect the flames from the tornado and blizzard.) Behold, a heart of sausages:

Holly will be more impressed once the chicken thighs are on.

The next day revealed a snowbound braaivleis and the true extent of our achievement in barbecuing in March.

A bubbly New Year to you

2008-01-08T18:00:00.000Z

The final hours of 2007 resounded with the serial pop and glug of different types of fizz. We ended the year with a quality Australian sparkling wine and champagne, and bookended the New Year with prosecco. The hangover was legendary and is - hopefully - unlikely to be repeated before this year is gone.

The Lord Stanley stands at the crossroads of Camden, Kentish Town, Holloway and Caledonian Road. What follows is a harrowing reportage on the debilitating effects binge drinking is having on the flower of British youth.

I say, where's the party at?

It is here, say Amanda, Dovile and Pete.

No way, says Ted; it's down there. Mike merely chuckles politely.

Meanwhile the ghostly apparition of a Matt Lucas-alike menaces Clare and Jo. Clare holds one of the few helium balloons not to have been inhaled for the purposes of comedy voices. (Or indeed, to detract credibility from their statements.)

Happy New Year! Midnight strikes and these delightful newlyweds enter their first married new year together. By the way, did you know Amanda and I getting married next year?

A few feet above them, the dancing continues on the tables and bar.

And so goodbye. The phone tells me this photo (of Clare, Jo, Stu Mike and Ted) was taken at 2.06am. Never fear: Ted and Clare were off to drink Port with Mike and Jo. And don't they look like they needed it?

Meanwhile, the table creaked under the dancing shoes of Amanda, Sara and Dovile:

Christmas g'day

2007-12-13T19:34:00.000Z

Hello all. Here's a little ripper Christmas greeting for you all.

(Press the play button bottom left, Carole.)

Garden warming

2007-12-10T20:09:00.000Z

Welcome back to London, Ted & Clare.

Ted and Clare came back to London, only to find their back garden was an absolute yawn. A few calls and the promise of food and drink later and we all descended upon their house early one Saturday morning to sort it out. Highlight of the day was our tree surgery. Here, Dr Ted bestrides his troublesome ash, which cheekily sowed itself 20 odd years ago.

Nurse Jon gave him a hand; this was one of the less compromising positions the pair were caught in:

Later, Clare mistook my cameraphone for a gun. Sara joined us after lunchtime pie.

Meanwhile, back home: hey, Holly, what have you been up to today?

Totteridge sunset

2007-11-26T17:38:00.000Z

The advantage of being late risers are particularly apparent come the winter months, when walks are invariably taken against the orangey pallette of sunset. The other week we went to discover the countryside that google maps tells us is a mere five minutes away, but that we have had great difficulty finding. This time, armed with our A-Z, we headed up to Totteridge, made famous by the Northern Line station, Totteridge & Whetstone. Here we found farms, a country-ish pub and a duck pond:

Later we found this spreading oak tree:

Meanwhile, Amanda had been picking conifers and holly trees with an eye to Christmas decorations. In November, would you believe it! Here she is crossing a babbling brook with an armful of branches.

The walk opened out onto fields.

Sadly, the farmers round here are no friendlier than anywhere else and it was time to turn around.

I was commandeered for branch-carrying duty for the return journey...

...while Amanda took over sunset photographing duty.

Watch out for our Christmas greeting video, coming soon!

A weekend in Suffolk

2007-11-19T19:45:00.000Z

Lavenham, in Suffolk, is the most ridiculously pretty little Medieval village in the entire world. And it takes about an hour to get to in the car from London. I highly recommend it. The churchyard boasts some excellent topiary which this photo hardly does justice to.

And the houses are all falling over themselves.

This one was our hotel. Of course all rooms are equipped with a four-poster bed:

Amanda and I went for a walk along an old railway. There were a million birds and no one about, which meant we got this one-in-a-million snap of a little robin red breast.

Ah, a medieval church and autumn colour:

Chez Nous

2007-10-08T19:07:00.000+01:00

Welcome to our new home in northmost North London. A particular welcome to our Australian friends, who couldn't make it to either of our housewarmings and who could also probably do with something to take their mind off the weekend's rugby disappointment.

The house is accessed through a front door, which is next to our front garden. We planted a little Japanese Maple tree (for Ruth) and some flowers, and Amanda's window boxes and pots are still blooming. Two unknown strangers have already commented on how much they like it - we seem to have heightened the tone of the neighbourhood already.

Once inside the front door, you can go into the drawing room. The exposed plasterwork is not a style statement, but rather the unsightly aftermath of damp-proofing works.

Next door to the lounge is the second bedroom/study/box room. We hope it will become less of a box room as the weeks go by and that we will be able to show a picture.

Here is the kitchen, where Amanda is prematurely removing a bottle of champagne from the fridge. It is a great improvement on our previous kitchen, in that you can fit two people in it at any one time.

Next comes the bathroom. Note the jacuzzi and gold tiles; the previous owner was a woman of taste.

Through to the bedroom, which overlooks the back garden.

Here, Holly can be found of a morning, enjoying the eastern aspect.

And finally, the back garden, complete with petanque pit. The most recent addition is a fernery and bird bath. Future additions will hopefully include grass and a patio.

The look of fear

2007-07-28T11:30:00.000+01:00

There is an old yarn in Edwards family folklore in which Mum and Dad come to London with tickets to go up the London Eye. Mum is tired and decides to give her ticket to Jerome, who promises that next time she comes to London he would take her to the London Eye. This was about ten years ago.

Being the good brother that I am, I decided to make good on Jerome's promise. It soon transpired that the true reason for my mother's reluctance to go on the London Eye that distant day was her utter, primal fear of heights.

I will call this composition The Despondency of Fear:

Earlier in the day were happier times for mother. After a walk on the Heath with swans and cygnets, we went for lunch at the Spaniards.

The autumn/winter 07/08 collection

2007-07-28T08:59:00.000+01:00

Welcome to Amanda's woollens boutique. This winter, everyone will be wearing outsize hats with pom-poms.*

Brown and cream scarfs really accentuate last decade's red leather look. Note the innovative use of 'Greek key' detail.

Diagonal stripes are raunchy.

This is a woollen vest top in progress.

A baby hat of more modest proportions.

The artisan at work

And finally - where does all that wool come from?

*This was actually Amanda's first attempt at a baby hat.

Ted and Clare's wedding

2007-07-16T00:28:00.000+01:00

Ted and Clare got married in Brussels. I'm not sure who was more stressed about it; Ted or me. But Clare seemed quite happy about the whole thing.

Ted wore a top hat, but unfortunately he did not carry a cane. Here he is with his best man in the hotel reception. About 10 minutes later I would be hopping off the bus, running back down the street into the hotel reception and scrabbling for my passport which I forgot I would need to be Ted's witness, in classic wedding style. The woollen suits were not ideal in the sultry 30-degree heat.

The ceremony was at the Forest Commune. Although it sounds like a hippy retreat, it is in fact a neo-fascist masterpiece of civic architecture. Here are Mr and Ms Sandling and their guests.

Meanwhile, outside, Juliet was sharing her French jokes with the other ladies. Sample: What do you call a Belgian in sandals? Phillippe Flop. (Left-right: Amanda, Sara, Lucy and Juliet).

The blessing was given by Clare's mum, who is a Methodist minister, in the grounds of nearby Chateau Ruisbroek.

In Brussels, they have this thing called the sun. See how nice it makes the photos look? There was a moat with ducklings as well.

Enjoying champagne during the photographs:

The thing about this photo is that I appear to be somewhat under the weather, even though I am the most sober one there, owing to the impending speech. Left-right: Dave, Jon, Ted, Stu, Me, Mikee.

The speeches over, Ted and Clare enjoyed the first dance - a Stereolab number - and about their fiftieth kiss of the day.

The Prodigy soon took the wedding dance to another dimension. Pay close attention to this video:

Here, Amanda takes a rest from the Prodigy dance-off.

Fat cigars and cocktails were enjoyed on the terrace, although not for long, since Ted showed great tenacity in shepherding people onto the dance floor to enjoy classics of yesteryear.

After sharing a hip-flask of whiskey on the bus, cheering as Ted bundled Clare over the threshold of their lovely house and stumbling back to the hotel, the sun rose on another boiling hot day. Ted and Clare invited us to cake and Pimms on the terrace of their house.

Cake:
That's not a knife...

That's a knife...

Pimms:

Incidentally, a personal account from the groom and Ted en Clare in de echt verbonden.

Cripes! It's the White Stripes

2007-06-15T14:26:00.000+01:00

We went to see the White Stripes at the Wireless Festival in Hyde Park. They had only one weird beer on sale whose name I shan't mention as it would be playing into their money-grubbing capitalist hands. You weren't allowed to bring your own booze in, although here's a tip: if you mixed vodka and coke in plastic bottles under 500ml , you'd be sorted. In answer to Ted's droll question, there were a surprising number of wires present. But there weren't many people. Whether this was because torrential downpours seemed likely or because the Kaiser Chiefs on Sunday evening was getting all the ticket sales, I don't know. Anyway, it didn't rain and look how good they are. And this is on a mobile phone. Imagine if you'd actually been there! I've not seen Amanda dance like that since, er, the last time we went to a gig.

And the finale. Not much to them, my eye:

And the evening's brand-athon would not have been complete without Marble Arch's tribute to the headliners.

What we did on our holidays

2007-06-11T22:44:00.000+01:00

Ikaria is a little island in the Aegean. Mythological claims to fame include its being the birthplace of Dionysius and the crash-landing site of that paragon of hapless youth, Icarus. At last, a new mythic hero can be added to the roll call - myself.

Amanda and I booked this holiday whilst drunk, which for us unfortunately meant a 24-hour journey there and back, including flights to Athens and Samos, and a ferry ride to Ikaria. We were happy to board the rickety old bucket of bolts 'Spirit of Samos', because it was the first place since we left home where we could sleep undisturbed.

We arrived at our hotel only to be given a room with a view of a wall. Clearly they hadn't realised that we were British citizens. Once this little misunderstanding had been cleared up, the view from our room was somewhat improved. The town on the hillside is Armenistis, the tourist trap of Ikaria, but really it's a bit like a Cornish fishing village, only with fewer souvenir shops and more Germans.

Ikaria is blessed with some outstanding beaches. Here's Mesakhti, the big one.

Seychelles, the one they accidentally created a few years back while dynamiting a tunnel. You can only get there by driving along a half-finished road and then scrambling down a boulder-strewn slope. We had it to ourselves. Look at those gigantic rocks on the left. Pillow lava, that is, where an ancient lava flow met an ancient sea. And can you spot the sunbathing Amanda?

Nas, one for the nudists and the hippies. Quite unsavoury.

And Livadi, the windy one.

Nas beach also boasts the ruins of the temple of Artemis, the goddess of the moon, which seems somehow appropriate. They've not really looked after it, in all honesty.

Meanwhile, Amanda was falling in love with the locals. She untangled this little goatie from a bush and for the following two weeks held regular conversations with her.

Unfortunately, the fate of most of the island's goats is to end up boiled and carved up at one of their festivals. We went to the All Saints Day festival where we met a man called Dionysius. He had a bottle of the local organic home brew wine, a kilo of wild goat, a Greek salad and a loaf of bread all to himself. I shared Dionysius's 'goat juice' while he made some wild claims about the things it could do for a man. Meanwhile, the Greeks danced.

It got a little rowdier later when the home brew kicked in.

Hikers on Ikaria will find a recurring theme: rocky, pine-covered hillsides, canyons with streams and idyllic pools, and nowhere to eat lunch, because only English people are mad enough to be up at midday.

The pine forests look particularly pretty when the mist rolls in. This is Christos Rachon which is up a mountain and supposedly the beating heart of Ikaria's nightlife, if you can be bothered to stay up until 4am.

There's also a desert, but when we got there it was raining. We were ill-prepared and once Amanda's beach towel got wet we had little choice but to turn back.

The restaurants are big on sea and sunset views. We have several thousand such photos, but this one of a church in the nearby fishing village of Gialiskari will have to do for now:

And so I leave you with a final photo from our balcony prior to our stupidly circuitous return journey, which incidentally took in a hazardous mountain drive through a pea-souper, a litter of ridiculously sweet harbour kittens, an irate ship's purser and a running dwarf in a nightshirt. Sadly the camera was not to hand, so I give you these fine goats, doubtless soon for the pot. May they rest in peace.

Water off a stag's back

2007-05-20T17:14:00.000+01:00

Following the hottest, driest spring ever, and one week after a particularly Mediterranean May Day bank holiday, there was something inevitable about the driving rain which was the main feature of Ted's 'stag do'.

Someone thought it would be a good idea to hire a boat and cruise down the Kennet and Avon Canal from Hilperton to Bath, which is how these fine young fellows found themselves standing on the bow of a 22 ton narrowboat at Bradford-on-Avon lock. Meet Paul, Alistair, Ted, Jon and Stu.

Our first lock: these are not the smiles of men who expect it to rain solidly for the next 48 hours.

The following morning, after a quiet evening at the Bunch of Grapes in Bradford-on-Avon. And these are not the confident waddles of ducks who expect it to be sunny for a great deal longer.

The stag, of course, came well-prepared for a wet weekend on a boat. Unfortunately the local yokels didn't take kindly to Ted's style, but with nine strapping fellows to back him up, he could be carefree and gay.

Dan and myself share a moment on the roof.

Despite his exalted status, Ted was not afraid to muck in.

The parking was not always up to scratch. But perhaps our faculties were not always in the best condition over the weekend. The morning after a highly civilised barbecue, Jon faces walking the plank with good humour, probably because he couldn't really get any wetter.

More stag japes at Ted's blog.

A barbecue and recital

2007-04-14T21:59:00.000+01:00

Amanda and I went to Hampshire to visit the family. We went to the woods where, to show his admiration for his favourite uncle, Che sang us a song whilst twirling a 'T'-shaped branch. That's my boy:

Lucy, Che and Amanda in the woods:

Back chez Edwards, we sparked up the braai - or barbie, for our Australian readers. Che gave his Uncle T the benefit of his puff to get the fire going:

Meanwhile, Monty looking cute, in a rare moment when he wasn't bouncing like one of those Mexican beans before they get refried. Will mother bring some discipline to bear on her new charge?

An inconvenient truth concerning spring bulbs

2007-03-19T23:04:00.000Z

Last weekend, egged on by the appearance of a bluebell in the front garden, we decided to take the free train to Kew Gardens.

This riot of vernal colour should have set the alarm bells ringing, but we pressed on, convinced that global warming would have the bluebells blooming a full month before they really ought to have done.

The pagoda looked particularly pretty, helped in no small part by the presence of blossom. Twee, non?

The bruised and threatening sky had passed, and the sun was shining; it was almost shirt-sleeves weather. Amanda and I were anticipating a woodland glade bedecked in blue. Something like this, in fact:

What we actually saw was this. (For those of you not au fait with the wonders of Photoshop, that last one was a fake) Global warming, my eye:

What a let-down. I have felt similarly disappointed on discovering our local convenience store had run out of Birds Eye potato waffles of a Saturday morning. Practise has made it easy to take - this was the seventh year in a row I have failed to see the spring bluebells at Kew. The only thing that could make up for that would be seeing a peacock proudly exposing himself on the roof of the Ladies' conveniences:

On we strolled, past many inferior blue flower species. Until we stumbled upon an orchard of magnolia. I got in the way of the first photo, but Amanda managed to snap one without me in eventually.

Anyone still with us? We're almost at the pub. But first, a blue hyacinth. A close relative of the bluebell, but no cigar.

We repaired to the Rose and Crown for a well-deserved Beacon ale/Rose. Cheers!

A cultural city break

2007-03-08T19:42:00.000Z

We didn't go to Grenada; we went to Granada - a fact reflected in the weather. The locals were very friendly, though: the ones that wanted a tin of tuna, anyway:

It soon transpired that we were holidaying in Spain's foremost tourist trap. Well, the biggest tourist trap not populated by British lager-swilling, tattooed scallies. Their Tower of London is the Alhambra, which was built by Moorish types back in the day. It's a lovely place, full of Spanish schoolchildren.

It turns out the Moors were particularly keen on water features, archways and tiles.

Here, Amanda and I pose in the Nazrid palace.

But only I had the gall to make myself at home:

Intricate, yes, but dare I say someone's been making plaster casts:

You wouldn't believe it form these photos, but did I say the place was crawling with tourists. We made a break for it once we had seen enough intricate arabesque geometry inscription work and managed to see some of the palace alone. Here, Amanda shows off her topiary garden.

And here are almond blossom and oranges.

After the Alhambra, there wasn't much to do besides eat tapas and drink sangria. This proved a chore as our Spanish is non-existent and only the obviously touristy places had English menus. If only we had known the Spanish for 'anything without eyes' (sin ojos, apparently). Or perhaps 'gutted'. I soon discovered that it's amazing what you will eat when you're starving.

And on the last day, the sun came out:

A total eclipse of the moon

2007-03-05T08:37:00.000Z

As Portents Of Doom go, it was a bit small, really.

Half-eclipse:

Total eclipse:

Foxy

2007-02-26T23:27:00.000Z

We have a fox problem. They are all over the place. And they spend a lot of time having 'parties' during which they scream very loudly. Here we are visited by a hung-over fox following an evening of festivities. She is on our garage roof, displaying herself in all her languid glory. Excuse the pan pipes soundtrack - Amanda couldn't help herself.

Chamon-heath

2007-02-09T09:40:00.000Z

Forgive me for the clunking pun, but I think you'll agree it was worth it. We had More snow - and this time it was usable. Amanda ventured out into the blizzard to bring us these photos, while I lazed about at work. (Happily they didn't get much snow in Kensington, much to the chagrin of the many Chelsea Tractor drivers.)

Here Amanda catches a rare glimpse of the endangered great tit *oo-er*.

Amanda's first ever snowman, the happiest I have ever seen, despite not having a carrot, scarf, coal buttons or a pipe. The moral of the story is that material possessions are superfluous to a healthy joie de vivre.

I bunked off work early and persuaded Amanda to accompany me to Parliament Hill for a sledge. Imagine my disappointment when I found that the little scamps who'd skived school had reduced Hampstead's 'black run' to mud. And not even very icy mud at that. Amanda and I went for a snowball fight in a more powdery area.

We decided that if we were to find a decent sledge run we would have to go off-piste. At the Viaduct Pond, popular with rabbits in the summer, we found someone had prepared a sledge run with a ramp. It was full of nicely packed snow. Amanda went first, skilfully steering herself around the dangerous snow ramp...

But unfortunately, I was unable to avoid it and almost broke my coccyx...

Sadly it got dark, so we headed home on sledge and foot. Amanda had to stop for a toilet break:

By now it was pitch dark. Luckily, a snowman with a glowing nose guided us home:

New Year

2007-01-24T22:31:00.000Z

Welcome to our New Year party. You're only a month late. Don't be put off by the blurriness - it's just the mix of mulled wine and mulled Pimm's.

10 of us gathered to see in the New Year. Here are Sara, Karl, Ted and Clare, quaffing some New Year champagne and studiously ignoring the punk rendition of Auld Lang's Syne blaring from the stereo. Ted probably would have preferred a lounge version. Maybe I can get one for next year.

After the champagne there was dancing. Pete and Amanda here were probably dancing to something really rock 'n' roll, like Hole.

Here, we see Ted and Clare dancing to Kraftwerk. If only I'd put the Chicken Song on, maybe we would have seen his famous Chicken Dance, which he hasn't performed in public for years. Something for the wedding, maybe, eh?

Penny danced, too.

Then she and Amanda started fiddling with the camera. Arty, eh?

And after the dancing and drinks, every party has to end in an argument.

So, a New Year begins, and someone has already broken her New Year resolution. Holly swore she'd give up the mini scotch eggs. Tsk!

Snow!

2007-01-24T21:38:00.000Z

A whole inch! Here is the view from our window. Notice our car, Obi, on the right; Amanda dug her out with a shovel later.

Christmas Yules OK

2007-01-17T22:37:00.000Z

This year we decided to spend Christmas with Tim's parents in Hampshire. As is tradition in the Edwards household, presents were distributed on Christmas Eve. Dad has really grown into the role of Father Christmas, and Che is proving a very astute Little Helper - here seen distributing a present to me.

Star present for Che this year was a Thomas the Tank Engine train set which Dad seemed to keen to help him set up. Unfortunately, I have caught the moment when Thomas ploughed into Gordon from behind, causing a nasty derailment.

Nobody was left out, although Fosse perhaps wished she had been when she opened her present and found these snazzy leg warmers.

Christmas Day and we sat down to turkey, pumpkin and lashings of roast potatoes. Luckily I warned Mum about Amanda's fabled appetite for roast potatoes and there were just enough. Although nobody actually likes Christmas pudding, mum always likes to cook one and douse it in brandy.

Here, caught on camera, is the moment when the pudding collapsed in a towering inferno and put itself out. As you can see from the shiny paper crowns mum and dad are wearing, the Christmas crackers were high quality this year - even the jokes were genuine antiques from probably the 18th century.

Following a taxing session of 20 Questions - which Amanda brought after hearing our Trivial Pursuit set is similarly ancient - we all settled down to watch Cars, Che's other favourite present.

Some of us were a little the worse for wear. Others were just very tired.

On Boxing Day, we went for a walk. Here, Jerome and Tor model rival headgear. Tor's ear muffs seem more understated than Comrade Jeromeavich's statement hat.

Meanwhile, Amanda goes for the vintage look.

Mum, Dad, Lucy and Che have fallen behind so we amuse ourselves with a group photo.

Finally, Lucy and Che clean up in a bubbling New Forest stream.

A brief summary of recent events

2007-01-17T17:19:00.000Z

A New Year brings a new resolve to be a more regular blogger. Apparently there have been complaints. So here's a brief catch-up recorded in the medium of digital photography.

First up, two trips to Hampshire in October and November: Che, in full Hallowe'en gear, was taken on a ghost train through Exbury garden centre. In true British railway fashion the overcrowding was such that Amanda and I were unable to get a seat, and Che had to sit on Simon's knee. Mum and Lucy dote on the left.

When in Hampshire... go to the farmers' market and buy squashes, cheddar, farmhouse cider and wood-smoked garlic. Can't say I recommend the latter, myself.

Our second trip was to house-sit while the parents lived it up in South Africa. Here, Amanda models the latest in London fashion: desert camouflage. Works surprisingly well in forest terrain, no?

Some Lovely Horses...

I was there, too. We'd gone on a pub walk, which was unfortunately about 10 years old. No trace remained of the original, so we kind of made it up as we went along.

Imagine if we attached a camera on the end of a pole to our necks:

We'd tell you where the lovely pub was, but unfortunately it has already been in the Sunday Times which means it will be overrun by lawyers and stockbrokers in 4x4s if you ever went there.

Anyway, Happy belated Christmas:

Jude's wedding

2006-11-15T17:00:00.000Z

And so we went to another wedding; our third of the year! This one was in the home of Victorian music hall favourites Gilbert & Sullivan, somewhere north and west of London. First of all, Amanda and newlywed Sam posed in their finery.

Next, the happily married couple, David and Jude with the father of the bride.

Those of a political bent will note Bertie Ahern, the Irish PM was in attendance, disguised as the photographer.

Amanda and the bride enjoy Kir Royales in the grounds.

Amanda and myself also enjoy Kir Royales.

A rumour had been going around that there was a pond in the grounds where Sullivan drowned whilst attempting to save the life of a drowning girl. With an inquisitiveness that only several Kir Royales can confer, I decided to locate this treacherous body of water, responsible for the untimely death of one of British music's brightest stars. I was disappointed to find it empty. Here is a photo taken from the pond's dry bed, perhaps on the very spot where Sullivan drowned.

After drinks in the garden, we repaired to the lounge for dinner, where an oompah band struck up.

Well, actually they were a Dixieland jazz band, which meant we were spared the normal wedding classics. And finally, another happy couple, Sam and Steve.

An oary tale

2006-11-07T09:48:00.000Z

Right, we've got a lot of catching up to do. A and I have been very busy which explains the month-long hiatus. I'll ease you back in to our lives with a gentle row on the Regent's Park boating lake, where I was putting in some practice for Ted's stag do on the canals.

Here, Amanda takes a break from (watching my) rowing and enjoys the final flushes of summer. And below, a photo that hardly needs an explanation.

A couple of sandwiches and a ginger beer later, I defy the birders among you to deny that this is a Great Crested Grebe. She had a few chicks with her, but sadly my mobile phone camera was found wanting in the zoom department. I'm sure you can imagine them, though. Think small, fluffy, tweety and very sweet. And surprisingly agile, as I discovered when trying to catch one for Amanda to take home.

Meanwhile, up in the trees, a woodpecker had taken advantage of a fungus to create a kind of verandah over his front door, which was nice.

An intrepid fox

2006-09-30T15:09:00.000+01:00

Amanda's curtain twitching was rewarded one afternoon with a couple of foxes frolicking in the next-door neighbour's garden. Here is one of them, post-gambol, chilling out and catching some rays.

PYO blackberries

2006-09-29T13:38:00.000+01:00

For some reason, blackberries cost £3 for a punnet of about three in the local M&S. Shocking, I know. Crumbles are pretty much the nicest puddings in the whole world, and there's only one thing nicer than rhubarb crumble: blackberry crumble (possibly with a bramley apple or two). Recently, we have discovered the joys of plum crumble as well, but that's another story. Anyway, you can imagine how much a blackberry crumble would cost if made with grocery store-purchased berries: we're talking luxury food here. And since when was crumble a luxury food? Hmph. So Amanda and I went blackberry picking on the Heath, with a little help from some cheap Spanish labour.

Amy very kindly filled a tupperware container with blackberries, but with hindsight, I'm wondering if she didn't only help out because we were on our way to one of the finest perry pubs in London, the Duke of Hamilton. Well anyway, our hands covered in the sticky sweet juice of summer's bounty...

...we walked through the Heath to the Hamilton, our fifth favourite pub in Hampstead.

Shockingly, despite claims to the contrary in the CAMRA good cider guide, there was no perry, so we made do with the usuals, except Amanda who drank some scrumpy. Pete met us there and drank a lager.

But we had worked up an appetite; Amy for the bright lights of Soho, and us for something Japanese. We went our separate ways and found a puss in Back Alley.

Yum. And the blackberry and apple crumble was pretty tasty, too.

My big fat Jewish wedding

2006-09-27T16:25:00.000+01:00

Well, not mine, but Amanda’s friend, Sam’s. We arrived at the Jewish community centre in Willesden in the style to which we are accustomed: a Vauxhall Vectra minicab.

The groom, Steve, was on hand to offer me a selection of kippahs for the ceremony. I went for a purple one to go with my tie. Steve was completely blown away by my sense of style since he sought my opinion as to which of his two hastily purchased ties he ought to wear to go with his natty linen suit.

The ceremony was a slimmed down version of the traditional one, with a jolly Scottish rabbi doing a kind of stand-up routine and also helpfully providing a translation from the Hebrew. Quite melodramatic actually, with Sam having to walk around Steve several times in a sultry manner, while Moshe the keyboardist provided musical accompaniment. Being a born showman, his kippah was one of the more flamboyant on show. He also plays a mean Hava Nageela, as he never seemed to tire of proving.

After the wedding, there were canapes and drinks while the newlyweds were photographed at considerable length. I papped them from our vantage point upstairs, but unfortunately these early digital cameras don’t have very long lenses.

Meanwhile, we chatted with the soon-to-be-married Jude and David, she with Pimm’s, he with Kir Royale. Theirs will be a jazz-accompanied wedding at Gilbert or Sullivan’s old house.

Tanked up with champagne and canapes, we repaired to the ballroom for the reception and a dance. The meal was followed by the biggest, fattest dessert buffet in Willesden. I manfully tried almost everything, I scaled the heights of my chocolate mousse mountain and made inroads into the creme brulee, but the pavlova defeated me in the end. Amanda offered me some of her more modest dessert hillock, but it was no good.

But before that, Sam and Steve were lifted into the air on chairs...

Dangerous, eh? The first dance was almost some derivative little dirge by James Blunt or one of his ilk, but Steve marched over to Moshe and soon put a stop to that. In the end it was Otis Redding, which was much more preferable. Amanda danced; I took photos.

Of course, it was over too soon, so we caught a cab and met Pete at Toast for whisky sours and whatever Amanda drinks (cocktails, by this stage of the night, I suspect).

Cobweb appreciation

2006-09-07T17:28:00.002+01:00

I thought something to complement Ted’s blog today. Behold, the handiwork of a spider too mighty for his naive kitties. It must have stretched at least 10 metres across the front of our house.

Et pour madame, le roti de poulet

2006-08-23T13:04:00.000+01:00

I blame the parents.

Always bet on Oz

2006-08-17T15:05:00.000+01:00

There was something clinical and very Australian about the way Amanda destroyed the feeble resistance offered by a rag-tag band of Edwards and Hamers at a recent croquet tournament at Uncle David's residence in Devon.

Note the difference between Amanda's ruthless focus and the cack-handed ineptitude displayed by Jerome. Luckily, Amanda was on my side. Victory was a foregone conclusion. Below: I gesticulate via the medium of croquet mallet, cousin Jools, sister Lucy, mum (obscured by Jerome), and Tor.

Later on, petty rivalries were forgotten. Meet my cousin Rachael (right), demonstrating the classic Hamer pose.

Meanwhile, Simon and Lara were still trying to erect their tent.

The following day was one for nursing hangovers...

...and trying to persuade Che to hold a tiny apple so the camera could see it and we could do a perspective-based joke proving him to the biggest boy in the world.

His sense of humour will develop, I'm sure.

Simon's birthday celebration is consigned to legend as no photos survive. Our later trip to Cheddar (from now on known as Chavver) Gorge, is best forgotten for reasons of taste and the fact we were too scared to get the camera out for fear of mugging.

Appreciating groynes

2006-08-08T23:42:00.000+01:00

This is a family blog, so the recent obsession with groynes may sit uncomfortably for some. Unfortunately they are an integral part of the British seaside. So here are some more:

A groyne on Minnis Bay in Kent's Reculver.

Ted flashes - like a pro.

Meanwhile, two hours previously: Ted and Clare in Herne Bay, post fish and chips. It's a good place for jet skiing. More Herne and Minnis Bays here.

Bring the Memsahib more Sheba

2006-08-08T23:19:00.000+01:00

Go West!

2006-07-24T21:17:00.000+01:00

For our fourth holiday this year (my fifth), we decided to follow the setting sun to the land of cider, pasties and cream. Go West! said our stomachs and we greedily followed.

But we were lucky it didn't all end in tears on our second day. Ignoring the danger sign, Amanda thought it worth endangering my life for this once-in-a-lifetime visual gag. Unfortunately it doesn't get much better from here on in.

This particular groyne was on a beach in Poole. And I was full of roast beef, pork and chicken thanks to a carvery chef who took pity on my indecisiveness. Amanda looked on enviously over her morsel of salmon while we swapped repartee with her friend Jackie and husband Richard.

In the end I took pity and started loading her plate with roast potatoes, resulting in this photo of a happy Amanda, keeping well clear of the groynes.

We spent that night with Uncle David, who I must thank for being so hospitable. Unfortunately no photos survive, Scrabble doesn't photograph well - least of all bad Scrabble.

The next day we went to Dartmoor where we found a lovely B&B on a farm whose ruddy squire brought to mind the farmer from Withnail & I on account of his gammy leg wrapped in polythene. The only animals we saw on Great Sloncombe Farm were a feisty English sheepdog called Lucy and an old mare whose name escaped us.

However, these sinister equines were waiting for us at Spinsters' Rock, a 3,500 year-old burial chamber we were keen to see. Unfortunately, we had to get past these two horses plus a foal and his mother who seemed equally keen for us to give them some sugar cubes or else. Bravely, we resolved not to succumb to their petty extortion and we gallantly skirted the hedgerow to reach the rock.

Ha! Made it, horsey suckers! And who'd have bet against this hale and hearty lass?

But it wasn't just the horses that were determined we should not pass.

The plucky little ewe could not keep us from our goal: Grimspound, an ancient village with walls Nine Feet Thick! Amanda took this photo in a laughable attempt to suggest we were in some way lost, when in fact our objective was just over the hill.

At length we found our car again and drove to Cornwall, via a nice pub whose fire had supposedly been burning since 1845. We thought it a bit unnecessary in 30-degree heat, but it was colder in those days, I suppose. I ate a ploughmans lunch with Cornish Yarg cheese, which is covered in nettle leaves and sounds like the wreckers may have been partial to it. We spent the evening with Uncle Robert and Auntie Thelma, who treated us to a homely brazier and this beautiful Portreath sunset.

After a stop at Zennor, we ended up at a campsite by the beach at Sennen, and made our rendez-vous with Tom and Roz. Surf was up big-style, but one mustn't forget to prepare oneself for a day in the sun. Is this an embarrassing photo? Certainly not; it is a salutary reminder of the importance of slapping on factor 45 to avoid getting a 'chav tan'.

The next day, we went for a stroll along the coast. We cut it short to go exploring rockpools, but unfortunately they don't have much on Australia and we left empty-handed. Still, we managed to hide our disappointment for this photo.

Jerome and Tor eventually showed up, so it was only a matter of time before we went to the local boozer, a nice pub called the Success or something like that. But before the drinks, a walk, and an indie band album cover moment. Ugh! They probably sound like The Feeling.

And so to the pub and a table on the terrace over-looking the sea. Tom actually held that smile all night. Don't believe me?

Can there be any station in life happier than "Hoxton marketing twonk" (© theguardian).

Meanwhile, Tor was enjoying the Cornish lager, while Jerome gingerly sipped at Heligan Honey and Amanda gamely swigged away at a cider called The Rattler.

Our final day, and feeling as rested as only a night under canvas can, we decided to take a walk on the moor before our 10-hour drive home. As well as a pond swarming with giant dragonflies, we stumbled upon this well-preserved stone circle and a hippy.

And so ends our holiday in pictures. So much else happened, but without photos you probably wouldn't believe me. Until the next time...

We had a picnic on the Heath

2006-07-06T22:36:00.000+01:00

Last weekend we were privileged to be visited by Mum, Dad, Lucy and Ché. As it was about 35 degrees and sunny, we decided the only course of action was to have a braai on the Heath. We loaded up our beasts of burden (the family) and gave Dad the task of smuggling the barbecue onto the Heath. He surreptitiously clanged through the multitudes while Lucy asked in a mum-pitched voice, 'Are we allowed to barbecue on the Heath?' Hmmmm, Lucy, only if they don't catch you.

Luckily they didn't and we got a nice braai going.

We soon had a picnic party conteded by lashings of sausages, pork ribs and chicken. Although strangely the mushrooms seemed to get the biggest cheer of the day. Well, apart from the Rosé, of course, mum. Dad was busy fending off the attentions of the young gentleman of the Heath. Can't think why, dad.

Lucy also enjoyed her Rosé, showing her appreciation by pulling her most seductive pose.

...which was sadly wasted on the young sombrero-toting gentleman present.

As always, the teetotallers started getting bored. Ché amused himself with a stick, until we could take no more and Lucy led him off into the long grass to give us some piece.

Mum was just pleased with herself for contriving to avoid being snapped with another glass of wine.

Eventually we had to go, but not before barbecued bananas filled with Cadbury's famous limited edition salmonella-flavoured Dairy Milk. Another delightful Heath braai ends and mother full of praise for how well organised it all was. Can't imagine whose attention to detail that might have been. Still, we managed to forget the ketchup, as always.

Ah, a happy ending. Che gets to try on Auntie Amanda's sunglasses.

A fairy tale

2006-06-11T12:07:00.000+01:00

I popped up to the Heath today and happened upon this Arcadian scene, illuminated by a shaft of ethereal light.

Sadly, even the fairy-folk appear to have been corrupted by the evils of Tesco's Finest* Rose. And the sea salt and balsamic Kettle Chips look pretty earthly, too. Ah well. Penny only had one glass as she was going dancing afterwards.

I leave you with the latest addition to our household, Obi. She is named for her colour (aubergine) rather than Alec Guiness's finest thespian moment.

Amanda's magical mystery birthday

2006-05-30T10:38:00.000+01:00

After Amanda's secretive efforts on my birthday and the awesome party she planned involving most of my friends and a guest appearance from Doctor Who's Billy, I had to come up with the goods for her birthday on the Spring Bank Holiday weekend. And so I told her to pack a night bag and off we went to, she had got it into her head, the North. Getting progressively more annoyed every time I moved to get off the tube and then sat back down again, by the time we got to Paddington Station, she seemed to be safe in the assumption we were going to Bristol. Ha! No way.

As I led her to platform 13, she wondered aloud what on Earth was in Twyford. As we clattered on a banger of a suburban train through such salubrious areas as Southall, I could sense the panic emanating from her. So when I moved to get off at Slough, she must have been convinced I was once again joking. Oh no... We detrained at the home town of David Brent, which handily enough for my hilarious little wheeze is a five minute taxi ride from Stoke Park Club, golf club to the likes of Goldfinger - and Bridget Jones.

After a massage in the spa - accessed through a Ferrari showroom, I mean car park - we repaired to the exclusive restaurant for a three course 'table d'hote' dinner. Whatever that means.

A friendly waiter then offered us a private room - the old chapel - for our after dinner drinks. Being down-to-earth types, we opted for the lively atmosphere of the bar.

Our room, needless to say, was about three times the size of any other room in the hotel. (How we laughed on watching Bridget Jones a few days later at the pitiful size of their room.)

So, we had a balcony. Here's the view:

Then we went for a walk. Nice, eh?

A drinking sesh

2006-05-28T11:33:00.000+01:00

A recent poll of Brits found that 25% of our age-group drink to get drunk. If our little gathering at the Duke of Cambridge on the Spring Bank Holiday weekend was anything to go by, this is gross underestimation. Besides, how can you drink Weston's Organic Cider and not get a tad sloshed?

Anyway, it was fun. And here are Louise and Neil, who came all the way from hurricane alley to say hello and to look after Holly while I took Amanda away for her birthday. Thanks Louise and Neil! I hope Birmingham's agreeing with you.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the table, were Ted and Clare. Ted was quite insistent that I take this photo. Personally, I prefer the one below from New Year's Eve, 2004. Apologies for the lack of photos. I was too busy downing grappas and brandy with Dan. Ted's got loads more pics here.

How to smile, by Che

2006-05-21T11:11:00.000+01:00

Che has learnt how to smile. Even in such unlikely environments as a London bus and tourist traps like the London Aquarium, where Belgian waffles cost £3.50 a go. Observe:

He may have been smiling because of his recent brush with the animatronic dinosaurs ("di-doors") of the Natural History Museum. Or because an old Glaswegian had just given him a bar of chocolate on the bus. Lucy seems less sure, but that may be on account of the inclement weather. Unfortunately, fish tanks don't photograph too well, so we'll leave you with this one of the Atlantic ocean.

Melbourne nights

2006-05-08T16:32:00.000+01:00

Boo! That's a scary clown about to gobble up Amanda. You can't really see her, but that's what happens when you turn off your flash in search of an artistic shot. Luna Park is on Melbourne's Esplanade in St. Kilda. We were unable to go on the rollercoaster as it was out of order, so we went for pizza at Amanda's favourite pizzeria. After tasting a Topolino's pizza, I have to wonder why we average one Domino's pizza a week back in London...

The Antipodean St. Kilda has a better night life than the abandoned Scottish island of the same name, as Amanda and I found out when Dave showed us around his 'hood (thanks, Dave). Sadly, Luna Park shuts at dark, but you can always go to the Espy, which in my humble opinion, is the finest gig pub in the world. We went on Sunday night, and there were bands playing in three rooms - all for free. We left at 1.30am, but they were open till about 4.30. The only criticism I have is for the rotund Scouser who kept trying to tell us about how he'd scored a goal for Everton in the 1966 FA Cup final. Unfortunately he mistook us for people who know about such things. Luckily there were a group of girls sitting nearby who (he thought) would be more interested in his drunken ramblings. Here you see Amanda in the Espy with a stubby of Tasmanian cider and Dave.

Anyway, on to our final night in Melbourne. Robyn and Grant were there. In addition to appearing in this photo, they treated us to a genuine Aussie barbie and put us up after a night out on Brunswick St where we saw some genuine Aussie hip hop. And some very tasty nutella pancakes. And they took us for a drive around the F1 circuit. Thanks, you two.

And meet Amanda's friend Amanda, who picked us up and drove us to the airport. Thanks Amanda.

On this partiular night, though, we went to Robyn and Grant's favourite restaurant and stuffed ourselves full of kangaroo steak and lemon tart. Yum.

Intense

2006-05-03T16:39:00.000+01:00

"Meow! I'm trying to concentrate..."

Beach snaps

2006-05-03T14:51:00.000+01:00

Amanda's Dad was kind enough to show us around the beaches of the Sapphire Coast in New South Wales. So, with an Esky full of picnic food we headed to Pambula beach. That's Amanda, Dad and Lyn. Here you can surf and stay in a campsite with these fellas. Best keep an eye out for your Vegemite sangers.

Then on to the river mouth, where Australian infants learn to swim. Being an avid follower of David Attenborough's work, it occurred to me that sharks rather like estuaries. Amanda's Dad confirmed that sharks are known to swim up the river and are particularly partial to an area known as 'Shark hole'. Still, nice place to learn the 'Australian crawl'.

Here's an example of how not to do it at Eden beach. After seeing my inept display of the English crawl, Amanda was told by her father not to take me to Torquay (the one near Melbourne). Apparently they have real waves there. Personally, I'd rather take my chances with choppy seas than swim in the calm, shark-infested waters of a river mouth. Despite what the expression on my face is telling you, that's the warmest sea I've ever swum in.

Anyway, after scrabbling to shore, I attempted to regain a shred of dignity by becoming a totem pole.

Pouched pals

2006-05-01T13:50:00.000+01:00

You're not going to like this. We went to Healesville Sanctuary with Amanda and her mum and dad. Here they have every Ozzie animal you'd ever wish to see. Platypi, tasmanian devils, echidna, possums, wombat (you don't want to hit one of those with your car, by all accounts), and these chaps, of course. What you may not like is the fact that all the photos of these marsupial (and monotreme) stars are currently on rolls of film and I don't have a scanner. Never fear - they should enliven gaps in pub conversation over the next few weeks. Alternatively, you know where to send donations to the Edwards scanner fund.

We learnt that dingos don't eat babies, despite what Meryl Streep might say - this was Anzac day, a public holiday, so there were millions of children there and the poor dingos took the incessant petting quite well. We also witnessed flying foxes doing their latrines whilst upside down and sleeping. Quite a trick, eh?

Then we went to Badger Creek, where we saw the mysterious lyre bird in the wild. It's temperate rainforest, see. The lyre birds are on the film camera too. They're so cool that they have made it on to the 10 cent coin. The female lyre bird is a bit of a music buff, so the male has to learn as many sounds as he can, like other bird calls, running water, or chain saws. Being fancy birds of paradise, they probably would prefer if I didn't share with you their dirty secret: that at sunset when everyone is leaving the barbecue area in Badger Creek's car park they like to come down from the forest and eat the scraps. Damn, those photos are on the film camera too! But here's some genuine temperate rainforest, complete with tree ferns. Smells just like the palm house at Kew Gardens.

Meanwhile, here's the creek itself. And a big old gum tree - watch out for falling limbs! And the badgers? There's no badgers - this is Australia.

Don't Stop Me Now

2006-04-11T20:44:00.000+01:00

As first dances at weddings go, Chris's choice of the Queen classic was outstanding. Mind you, the wedding march was pretty special, too - Liz walked down the aisle to Chariots of Fire. All very public school. Speaking of which, lovely to see a few long-lost Trent boys there. Here we all are: I can only feel sorry for the girlfriends. Meanwhile, Amanda dances to that raining men song.Unfortunately, there was no room for Return of the Mac (sic) in the playlist, but that didn't stop him. There's no stopping the Mac:

Anyway, back to the happy couple.

Oops, not that couple. This couple:

How sweet. Although I believe this picture more
accurately reflects the groom's personality:

Not much of an eye opener

2006-04-06T19:33:00.000+01:00

Oxford thrashed those poor Cambridge oiks! Amanda's friend, Emmanuel, couldn't seem to handle this fact, even though he went to Lyon University. Or Toulouse. The writing was on the wall about 30 secs into the race, as you can see from Amanda's excellent photo - taken from the south bank by Putney Bridge. I wanted Cambridge to sink, because they rejected me. I always thought it was traditional to steal a policeman's helmet on Boat Race day, but those Oxford boys had other ideas.

Meanwhile, on the bank, I was having difficulty keeping my eyes open. Here is one of eight shots Amanda took. But, alas, the more pressure she put me under, the less I was able to perform. Of course, we will never know if she and Rachelle had their eyes open, owing to their natty eyewear.

By the way, I should explain that Rachelle used to work with Amanda. Emmanuel is French. Later on, I was able to open my eyes, which made it easier to get home. Incidentally, the efficiency of London Transport never ceases to amaze me. It took a mere 2 hours to get home from the boat race. If only we lived in Bristol.

Gingery tales

2006-04-02T23:06:00.000+01:00

This weekend, I suffered a terrible football injury. I assume it's a torn tendon or something, as I'm still able to walk. But it wasn't all bad news because it did allow me to take these rare photos of us playing football on the Heath. In attendance for the first time in roughly seven years was Jase, my final year project partner on my Biology degree, and ginger extraordinaire. Here he is at a cocktail party in 1999: note how he can pull off holding a cocktail in a plastic glass and a beer can with equal ease.

As you can see here, he still has that Cornish sparkle in his eye; as you can't hear here, he has also maintained his friendly rural brogue: vet school has indeed warded off the ravages of time.

This sequence of photos also exhibits "Jonaldinho's" (thanks, Jase) skills on the ball - and between the sticks. At least part of his success in this area can be attributed to his facial expressions, I think you'll agree.

The unfortunate man on the receiving end of this stinging volley is called Noah, or 'Persil White' as Steve dubbed him. He asked if he could join in. No photographic evidence of Steve's shooting prowess here, I'm afraid, but it was widely agreed that the man has a foot like a traction engine.

The wisdom of cats

2006-03-30T18:34:00.000+01:00

One figure yet to make an appearance on this blog is Holly, the ginger cat. As blogging without a cat is almost unheard of on the internet (exhibit 1), I thought it was time to out her.

Holly is an addict. If she doesn't get her hit of pansies once a day, she spends the entire day scratching on the balcony window. Once she is allowed out (nobody can resist her little ginger face for more than 10 minutes), she brushes the flowers with her cheek and then heads straight for the pansies, which she gobbles up like a smackhead on her first hit of the day. See exhibit 2:

Sadly, she cannot handle her narcotics; about a second after her hit, she runs inside to puke. It's not an unpleasant vomit - all purple and puce pansy flowers, but one does have to clean it up. Of course, she would deny it all, and frankly it's her word against mine - look at that lovely clean floor.

Stagged up

2006-03-28T17:22:00.000+01:00

Amanda and I have done loads of stuff recently, but we don't take cameras everywhere with us, do we? So here's one from the archives.

Back in February, Chris had a stag do to celebrate the end of 27 years of not being married. It was also something of a celebration of the joys of European brotherhood. Where else could one drive between three countries in one weekend with the mother of all hangovers?

So, we started in Biarritz, where we went to a casino. Chris won enough to buy a second very luxurious honeymoon. There are no pics of that, so I'll move on to Andorra. Unfortunately my most stunning photos are on film and I have no scanner, so you'll have to make do with these:

Here is the stag himself, resplendent in hi-vis, which my engineering friends will approve of, as the weather was poor.

The dogs were taking a rest from carrying around French people who were even more hi-visibility owing to their somewhat anachronistic crimes against ski fashion.

That evening we decided to stage the 2006 Bum Board Rally. Chris won with a rather slow but reliable technique. Woodie's, meanwhile, looks better than it actually was. My own hands-free technique was a little too unstable for the conditions. Luckily no photos survive.

Sadly, Andorra is not blessed with the finest cuisine on the continent. This may be a common failing of ski resorts; my tip for anyone who insists on going to Andorra is to avoid the English breakfast. But before breakfast we had to work up a hangover. This we did by hogging the only Table Football in Andorra all night. Despite a lengthy run of victories by me and Rog?, these two were widely regarded as the finest exponents of the art by the end of the evening. They wouldn't last a second at Cafe Kick.

We ended the night at a club where Chris threw this shape.

On to Barcelona, then, where most of the photos are on the film camera, or are too naughty to publish on a family blog. Pics of the Baja Beach Club available on application. This rare clean one was taken by the best man, who also did not want to go and watch the footie. Sensibly, we went to a nice Barca bar instead and met this missing person:

2006-03-13T20:20:00.001Z

A walk on the Heath
I don't normally do requests, but due to popular demand from Down Under, here's some Heath coverage. Last weekend we saw a parakeet, which made Amanda feel at home, and a kestrel, which proved that there is the odd native bird to be seen if you look hard enough. Yesterday we saw a mistle thrush. Unfortunately these are just photos of Amanda and myself looking through the hollow of my favourite tree in the world and Amanda's sensible footwear. The bird pics are proving more difficult: little rascals just won't stand still.

2006-03-11T11:02:00.000Z

Brussels: a retrospective
Amanda and I went to Brussels
two weeks ago. At last, some
photos. Ted gave us a guided
tour - hasn't he grown?

It was about minus 10 degrees,
incidentally. Perfect weather,
we thought, to walk into town
via the scenic, architecturally
rich route. At this point I had a
runny nose. Amanda was fine -
she's the speck in the bottom of
the picture wearing an inuit coat.

About three hours later we made it to the Grand Place. The wind was Baltic at this point so we took refuge in a series of ever smokier bars, which was good for my rapidly developing sore throat. In the end we decided to go back to Ted's Ixelles mansion, which was a good move. You can see how warm it is.

The next morning, a gentleman played roll out the barrel (or is it barrow?) for us. Ted took exception and tried to take him out with a 2 Euro coin, but he missed and frankly it only encouraged the fellow.

Simon turned up later with Lara and came parrot watching with us. Thanks for the lift, Simon.