The Weekend, or How it Nearly Became a Depressing Holiday, but Didn't.

Things weren't looking good on Friday when we arrived at Leeds/Bradford airport and had to walk at a 45 degree angle to the terminal. It took an hour for the airport to concede defeat and cancel our flight to Dublin, and, in a spot of talking shop, it made me realise why hostels not taking credit card details is a good thing, as the lady in the hostel we were going to be staying said she was going to charge us anyway when I called to cancel. I will admit I did a bit of stern talking, mainly because our beds were the last two in all of Dublin for a Friday night, and I was pretty sure they'd be able to find someone else to stay there. We haven't checked our bank accounts yet, but she did concede defeat to our faces. No Ireland then, although we did briefly consider paying triple the original price of our tickets to land the next day at five in the afternoon in a completely booked out Dublin.

Back in Leeds city we went in search of the internet to find somewhere to stay that was not Leeds. Don't get me wrong, seeing my Grandmother has been great, the city's been great, sitting in the Duck and Drake drinking real cask ale has been great, but May and I couldn't get past the thought in the back of our minds that our holiday hadn't really started yet, especially when I found myself blubbing in a phone booth at the British Airways lady asking her why my bag had been in the completely wrong staus for the past five days so nobody had actually been looking for it.

Finally we found ourselves forking out £8 for two hours in a four star hotel's business centre, the only internet available in Leeds that wasn't in the library. We'd sat in Waterstones before that reading all the travel guides, and had narrowed it down to three places. Bath, because it's my aunt's favorite city in the UK, The Lake District because of Jimmy McGovern's The Lakes (me), or The Peak District because Mr D'arcy was from Derbyshire. Or some shit (May). Through the cunning use of 'eenie-meenie', we booked a B&B in Bakewell, a small town in Derbyshire, and booked a bus to Derby. Or rather we booked the bus first, the B&B second and only at that point realised that the two were nowhere near each other. You can't win them all.

Derby was nice, a much sandier coloured city than Leeds, which is very terracotta-like (and tiling-happy). We stopped for lunch in Ye Olde Dolphine Tavern, which first opened in 1530, and was the oldest pub in Derby. It was also the first old-style pub we had been to that didn't have fruit machines, a television and Coldplay on a loop. May and I are all about the cask ale pubs, not only for the use of the old-style pumps, but because of the sheer variety and low price of the beers on offer. Most pints are around £2.60. Some favorites so far have been Absolution Ale from Sheffield, Marston's Pedigree and Timothy Taylor Landlord. The only thing we've first had to get over is the tepidity of the ale, but it's easy to do when it's cold outside.

Bakewell was an hour by local bus from Derby. Our first time in a B&B, the owner pointedly asked us if we wanted a twin or a double room after staring at us for a long time. We don't know if she was disappointed when we said twin.

Sunday we bought a pamphlet of walks and decided to do the 14km walk to Chatsworth House. It took us through the village, across a golf course and through a lot of sheep fields. Jonathan and Dan had told us from their walking adventures that you always greet passing walkers, which makes things even more pleasant when you're walking along in the winter sunshine. Most of the other walkers we passed were of a particular brand of retiree, encased in goretex, systematically day walking their way across England. There could be worse things to do. When Chatsworth was coming into sight in the distance, May told me about Georgiana, the Duchess of Devonshire, who lived a scandalous but politically active life out of the house we saw. Her marriage was unhappy and adulterous, and apparently she had her illegitimate children live in the house with her, which either her husband didn't mind, or did mind, but rather than confront slapped a newspaper against his thigh and grunted a bit.

Before you get to the house you walk through the tiny village of Edensor, which is many peoples' launching pad for looking a the House. Meaning they use the picturesque streets and laneways as a carpark so they don't have to pay at the house. Chatsworth House was gorgeous but closed. While resting on a bench we were accosted by one of the goretex army who's two main quotes were: "Oh that walk, a nice easy one," (he was four million years old) and (to May returning from the loo) "I've just been talking to your partner or friend or whatever you call them now," (he was four million years old).

Some of the way back was along the swollen Derwent river. May and I talked about the play, and including an omnipresent big stately home that contained a Remains of the Day-esque Duke or Duchess. We passed some more houses at the top of a valley that we decided to buy (to stay in when we weren't staying in Chatsworth), and walked through more sheep. The sheep looked like they wanted to kill us, but ended up just looking at us while weeing.

After both having hour long baths and lying on our beds, in our B&B bathrobes, drinking gin and tonics we decided that this holiday was working out alright really. By the time we went to find dinner it was too late, apparently. It's true though, 8pm is an ungodly hour to eat. So instead we sat in a pub with a pint watching Top Gear, one of the fifteen repeats showing that day. Not that I'm complaining.

The next day we only had time for a 10km walk that took a lot of the Monsal trail in, which used to be a railway line. This made the walk a bit more boring, but still the countryside and fresh air was lovely, and dare I say, picturesque. As was the cheese we bought at a market (lovely, not picturesque).

My bag may be returned today.. Maybe, they say. We're off to Edinburgh tomorrow, and are trying to swing going to the Robots in Disguise gig in Sheffield on Saturday night. Photos will come when I get the cord. from. my. fucking. bag.

10pm, Hong Kong Airport, Jan 20th... I think.

Still surprised by ridiculous security screenings (see this article by a US Airline Pilot.) More seasoned travellers are probably scoffing at me, but there I was, for the third time in as many flights, popping my little clear bag on the conveyer belt after walking past the huge pile of abadoned water bottles filled with highly volatile explosives on a bench.

Andy was patted down in Melbourne after his shoes set off the metal detector. As a result, in Sydney, he preemptively took his shoes off and put them through the x ray machine to save on hassle. That's right, in Sydney. An hour after leaving Melbourne, there we were, back in the queue.

It's in Hong Kong airport I notice the something strange about these enormous cavernous spaces, and that's that there are no birds. We are so hermetically sealed in this duty free paradise that no form of wildlife is able to break through. On the other hand, there's Tanqueray for AUS$18 a bottle and Double Happiness cigarette cartons for less. Can't go wrong really.

although let's begin with a little narcissim....

there are two warm-main-jacket choices that I can't decide between. I need advice.

1) Trusty old duffel coat, with many layers underneath, and if it rains, goretex japara over the top.

2) Big sheepskin jacket (short), not waterproof, japara on top, less layers.


The problem is indoor heating, which i hear is a bitch in europe... apparently they swaddle all interiors in unbearable heat. So a big quickly removed layer is preferable. But the sheepskin is much more cumbersome... what to do what to do.

if you are really bored, please give advice. or large wads of cash.

The Going Away Drinks

We had them... They were good. I was hung over the next day. So we watched Harry Potter.

Here are Photos

Hopefully this will be sporadically updated during our travels.. starting in 6 days. If not, I'm sure there's a million other blogs you could be reading. Or you could be out playing in the sunshine.