Olympic Illusions

A captive audience of Topdog Millionaires

Drumming nirvana - all night long

  Why wasn't Industrial Disease on the playlist?

So that's where all the NHS beds have gone

Queen drops in

Wow, the opening ceremony was a surreal pageant that defied comparison with anything that had gone before. China had set a standard so high that Danny Boyle's creative riposte was a games changer. He even managed to exclude the corporate sponsors from the visuals of the ceremony and substituted royalty instead. As well as poking fun at British ways, he celebrated the talent and diversity in Britain by involving 10,000 energised volunteers as a guarantor of quality and dedication that is never achieved by ruthless low wage contractors who have threatened to derail the games in recent weeks. There were all sorts of subtle references including a flying pig over the Battersea Power station just like the one on the Pink Floyd Animals album. There was still too much of the "who's like us" sentiment but it came from Lord Coe, Jaque Rogge, President of the International Olympic Committee, the BBC and the Locog panjandrums.

The first day of the Olympics resulted in no medals and shattered the expectations of an overly nationalistic media that we were going to collect medals by the drumful. UK Sport is aiming for 48 medals and 19 golds and has said that less than 40 would be a failure. Yesterday's paper predicted how we could win 84 and 25 respectively. I doubt that we will win this many and even 19 golds would be a real success.

We should know from all those disappointing world cups for Scotland and England that we are nowhere near as good as the media hacks and sports administrators would have us believe in most sports. We win our medals at minority sports such as sailing, rowing, cycling which require facilities and equipment beyond the reach of all but the wealthiest nations. Eric the eel was a totem for undertrained athletes from developing countries who lack facilities or sports science and coaching. Britain used to be the same and as recently as the 1980's we had Eddie the eagle as our plucky British loser. There is nothing wrong with this; sport is more than anything about being inclusive, every elite athlete has to start at the local level and it is the opportunity to try that matters.

Far more disturbing for the success of the games were the empty seats for many events including swimming, basketball and beach volleyball. For Jeremy Hunt of all people to complain that it is the fault of the sponsors is hypocritical as well as invidious. But this government is imperious and has no shame when it comes to dumping on others when it will shift the blame from the government and Locog. If 5% 0f the seats went to the 'Olympic family' and 8% to the sponsors, why were more than 50% of the seats empty?

I think Locog and the usually accomplished Lord Coe are being economical with the ticket fiasco. Could it be that they are the ones that tried (and failed) to tout tickets at £1000 plus? Even the bankers would struggle these days to buy at those prices. The Olympic Games are certainly helping pump up the public distaste for rampant corporatism and greed. Which, if any, of the following products or services, have gone up in your esteem over recent weeks: McDonald's, Visa, G4S, Coca-Cola, Atos, Samsung, Panasonic and Dow?

Like millions of others, I have tried to get tickets without any success, and it is galling that the freeloaders who have been gifted tickets by the international sporting federations and sponsors fail to turn up for early rounds or morning sessions. It would make a lot of sense if all empty seats at the start of sessions were sold at a realistic price (say £20) to the real fans who are prepared to queue and who create the atmosphere at the games. The massive crowds and support for the cycling event have epitomised the type of enthusiasm that real fans can bring to the games.

The games will not be a failure if we win fewer medals provided that we nurture friendships and help unify all nations through celebrating sporting excellence and participation in sport. This applies not just to the athletes but all those watching who see the world competing, celebrating and laughing in unison. 

The biggest problem is as always the arrival of the fat cats. Zil lanes, zealous sponsors, £1000+ tickets are all symbolic of the type of games that Danny Boyle's opening reviled. I only hope that Locog gets the message and salvages the real spirit of the Olympics from the corporate domination and influence that is the biggest threat to its success. I would bring back Siobhan Sharpe from  Twenty Twelve to defuse the chaos of ticketing. Perhaps they have, who else could have persuaded Bradley Wiggins to ring a big bell just 10 hours before he had to cycle 155miles in 'that road race thing'.

Cyclist rings a bell - an old British custom

Siobhan Sharpe and Ian Fletcher - let them sort it out

Summer in the City, Sheffield

Reflection in Wall of Water

What If?

Beer of distinction

Winter Gardens

Andy Warhol exhibition

Town Hall

Peace Gardens and Town Hall

Sheffield Cutlery Sculpture

Newcastle Bridge on the Olympic Opening Day

On the day of the London Olympics opening, I was at a training event in Sheffield, a place where I had spent three happy years as a student over forty years ago. I decided to travel down by train the day before and hopefully get back home in time to watch the Danny Boyle epic opening ceremony for the Olympics. Sheffield was in its summer attire and as I walked up to the city centre from the successfully modernised railway station I was assailed by a wall of water that greets you to Sheffield before reaching the procession of civic buildings that have been built or refurbished over the past twenty years. Andrew Motion's poem on the side of a high-rise building prompted me to test the line: 'The City where your dreaming is repaid'. In what short time I would have in Sheffield, I intended to revisit and reflect on my life's adventure in Sheffield.

I wandered into the Millennium Galleries and Winter Gardens and then visited an Andy Warhol exhibition in the Graves Gallery. The city centre was alive with happy families soaking up the sun and seventy or so youngsters were running through the fountains in the Peace Gardens by the town hall. I briefly thought of joining them in the fountains but I had no other clothes with me so I resisted. I visited the splendid Town Hall and the Council officer on duty gave me a rundown of the main issues in the city.

Later in the evening, I met an old friend in the Peace Gardens, someone I had not seen since my twenty-first birthday. We visited the university area and I had intended to go to the old Raven pub that had been a Friday night haunt. It had been replaced by a new development of expensive flats, bars and cafes at the top of Fitzwilliam Street. There was a pedestrianised plaza with outdoor tables, just perfect for a relaxing beer on a balmy evening as we began to unscramble what had happened in our lives since the late 1960s. Having established an easy rapport we decided to visit one of the impressive range of restaurants in and around West Street.

We chose an Iranian restaurant, which was almost empty during the university's long summer closure that hit local businesses hard. The food was good and the conversation was even better. The Iranian waitress brought us sweet tea and a whisky on the house as we were the last customers, and we talked about her experience of life in Iran. She had overheard parts of our conversation after other diners had left and told us she had not wanted it to end. We had reprised our different life journeys since we had last met and she thought our enthusiasm for life had been infectious. We had revealed the essence of Andrew Motion's words: "The lives which wait unseen as yet, unread" but we could only dream of the past. It was almost midnight before I walked her to the bus stop as we had done 44 years ago. It reminded me of the many nights when I had walked 4 miles home to my digs after the last pint had caused me to miss the last bus.

The next morning I rose early and took a walk to Sheffield University before my training event started, it is just a mile or so west of the city centre and, along with the Hallam University campus in the heart of the city centre, the two universities create a vibrant city. But university term times mean that they are only fully utilised and occupied by 50,000 students for 60% of the year. Why do we persist with Higher Education having three-year degrees? Surely a degree could be achieved within 2 years with two 45-week study years instead of three years with only 30 weeks of study, 3 weeks of which are taken up by exams. The academics wouldn't like it but those who want to spend time on research or writing papers could teach for just one or two semesters each year and find more transparent funding for their research instead of using their teaching time.

In Scotland reducing the four-year degree to three years is a no-brainer. I recall discussing this with John Curtice from Strathclyde University six or seven years ago. He was staggered that the Scottish Government had not legislated for this although he recognised that the universities would resist this with vigour. He thought the arguments would be spurious in an economic climate of austerity. I had been aware that my children's university courses seemed far less intensive than my experience when there were 15 or so lectures a week as well as three practicals and a couple of tutorials. Saturday morning had us attending three lectures.

It would make sense not only to reduce the future debts of students who find three years of living costs on top of tuition fees a debilitating financial burden but also to be a means of making academics live in the real world. And why have empty facilities for 40% of the year?  Most of us survive on four to six weeks of holiday a year. If an academic year was split into three 15-week semesters, those who wanted to specialise in research could focus their teaching on one or two semesters. It would allow savings and greater efficiency in the deployment of Higher Education resources and maybe the opportunity to shift more funds to vocational training in the colleges.

At the end of a day's training course, I ran down to the station to catch the train back to Scotland, there had been jokes from the diverse group of participants during the leadership course about the quality of trains. It would appear from my colleagues based in the north of England that TransPennine Express is firmly bottom of the league of train operators and this is confirmed by customer surveys. I was travelling by East Coast but for the second time on the trip, my reserved seat was already occupied for the short trip to York. So was the seat on the next train from York to Edinburgh but there was an empty adjacent seat until 12 soldiers from Catterick joined me at Darlington. From the size of the carry-out, I presumed that it was going to be a heavy drinking session. After politely declining a bottle of Sol and a Jack Daniels from the soldiers at my table I gave up my seat so that they could get on with their session. I was called a real gentleman but more importantly, I got a quiet seat to enjoy reading the diaries of Chris Mullin as I passed through the northeast where he now chairs the Heritage Lottery Fund.

The Newcastle bridge was decked out in Olympic rings in the beautiful evening sky and the Northumbrian and East Lothian coast were shimmering in the rare summer sun. The train arrived in Edinburgh 15 minutes late, the soldiers were in full voice and I had to sprint for my connection through the chaos that is Waverley station during its refurbishment. I made it home before 10pm to hugely enjoy the Danny Boyle pageant. His pageant allowed me to relive many other periods of my life to put alongside the happy three years in Sheffield.

Don't remember, damned don't remember and statistics

  

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On the day that Andy Coulson and Rebekah Brookes were charged by the Crown Prosecution Service about the phone-hacking of 600 alleged victims during their time as editors of the News of the World, the BBC released an analysis of which witnesses in the Leveson Inquiry used the term "I don't remember" the most during their evidence to the Inquiry. "I don't remember" appears to have become the term of deemed integrity for our captains of industry from Rupert Murdoch to Bob Diamond in this era of self-diagnosed senility.

What emerges is fascinating: Rebekah Brookes and Andy Coulson are in stellar company in the "I don't remember" league along with James and Rupert Murdoch and that chap, I can't recall his name, but I think he may be prime minister.

The number of times witnesses at the Leveson Inquiry who said: "I don't remember," "I don't recall," "I can't remember" or "I can't recall" and the number of words they spoke is shown below in blue and in descending order.

1. David Cameron   49 of 25,890 words spoken

2. James Murdoch   41 of 23,162 words spoken

3. Rebekah Brooks  35 of 20,544 words spoken

4. Rupert Murdoch 30 of 19,362 words spoken

5. Andy Coulson      28  of 10,531 words spoken

Rebekah Brooks immediately refuted the phone-hacking charges saying: "I am not guilty of these charges. I did not authorise, nor was I aware of, phone hacking under my editorship." Mmm, there again she may simply not recall what she had authorised. She and Andy Coulson both played the 'At the News of the World we worked on behalf of the victims of crime' card without any remorse for the 600 victims who were subject to the 'crime' of invasion of privacy and press harassment.

The BBC analysis is an undoubted slur on News International, its leaders and friends. Even the seventh and eighth highest "I don't recall" claims came from the Minister for Culture who is responsible for making the decision on the News International acquiring BSkyB and the Godfather of one of Murdoch's children. Yes, Jeremy Hunt and Tony Blair with 23 and 19 "I don't remember" claims respectively. There were 474 witnesses at Leveson so this is excellent bunching by Team Sky wannabees. Despite or more likely because of the collective amnesia of these magnificent seven domestiques of News International, the spoils of their loyalty will not include the takeover of BSkyB to add to their monopoly of the press.

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Monadhliath Munros

Monadhliath mosses 

The Monadhliath hills by Newtonmore are frequently dismissed as amongst the least worthy in Scotland. There are four munros on the south east edge of a vast desolate plateau that stretches to the Great Glen fault. But like so many hills they have an appeal which increases with every excursion. After weeks of rain and low cloud, there was a dry day in store and I needed to get out on the hills. I had previously climbed them twice in winter and twice in spring so I decided to visit the Monadhliaths, it was after all supposed to be summer.

Stalker's hut on ascent of A' Chailleach

Carn Sgulain over the moss

A' Challeach from Carn Sgulain

The Monadhliath plateau

Ptarmigan

Carn Dearg from Carn Ban

Open Access to Glen Ballach

Gate pot

Saturday, 21 July 2012
Distance: 27 kilometres
Ascent:   1115metres
Time:      5hrs  51mins

m   A'Chailleach        930m          1hr 28mins
m   Carn Sgulain       920m           1hr 59mins
t    Carn Balloch        920m           3hrs 7mins
t    Carn Ban              942m          3hrs 40mins
m  Carn Dearg           945m          3hrs 54mins
t   South-east Top      923m           4hrs  5mins

We drove up Glen Road from the centre of Newtonmore and parked at the road end where the Allt a' Chaorrain joins the river Calder. The intention was to climb the three easterly munros and for Gregor to continue over to Gael Charn, which I had climbed last year.  I would return to the car and drive round to the Spey dam above Laggan to collect him. He was keen to descend by the route we took about ten years ago when we happened upon three golden eagles, including a young bird in Glen Markie.

There is a good track from the car park that climbs steadily for a couple of kilometres along the river and we were able to cross the river without too much difficulty, it was full but not swollen. We headed for the stalker's hut at about the 500 metre contour and from there found the diagonal path that cuts up to the shoulder of A' Chailleach. The last 250 metres of climbing is over some peat hags and then onto a grassy slope which takes you directly to the modest cairn.

There was no reason to stop so we descended to the deep gorge over a wonderful carpet of heather and mosses and then climbed back up through more peat hags to Carn Sgulain. With the exception of the vandalised summit of the Cairnwell, this must be one of the least impressive munros. The views to the north are over an endless desolate plateau and only the fence posts break the Monadhliath monotony. We had some food and started the long trek across to Carn Dearg along the apex of the ridge.

There are a series of long shallow dips but after the top at Carn Balloch there are more rocky outcrops and we saw seven families of Ptarmigan. The chicks were all flying but they kept in family formation as they skittered away from us. Carn Dearg is the most impressive hill and you leave the long ridge to walk out to the summit which is an airy perch over the impressive Glen Ballach. It had taken almost two hours but we were ahead of schedule. Gregor headed off to the west, another 10 kilometres of undulating terrain to reach Gael Charn. I went over the south east top and dropped to the Glen via a steep gully and then made a beeline for the river. The ground became increasingly difficult to negotiate as the vegetation and wet underfoot conditions conspired against progress. There was 5 kilometres of this down to Dalballoch and then along the boggy ground to Glenballoch house.

I had made good time and I was back at the car by 4pm, arriving at the same time as an ex soldier from Teeside who had done the round in reverse. We had stopped for a chat with him on the walk as we passed on the ridge just below Carn Ballach. He was midway through a munro round and seemed well organised and equipped for the venture with a very energetic golden labrador for company. We talked for a while and then I drove down to Newtonmore to buy some lemonade in the brand new Coop supermarket. The Coop have become increasingly impressive over recent years and seem to be benefiting from their sound ethical principles, like paying the farmers a better price for milk than the increasingly disliked big supermarket chains.

It is a beautiful drive down the A86 to Laggan and then just a couple of miles up to the Spey dam. I was early but Gregor came running down the track after 10 minutes and it was only two hours home, the A9 surprisingly empty for a Saturday.

Wee Blether Tearoom

Tasteful Tat but not the Tearoom

Barry Island signpost

At a time when Olympic Britain seems to be becoming a 'real food' free zone with fast food outlets invading the country like Panzer tank divisions and propagating untruths with all the panache of Goebbels, it is always a reward to find a local cafe that serves real food. When it sticks to home cooking, good value and edgy humour to generate business it puts a smile on people's faces. The Wee Blether Tearoom in Kinlochard in the Trossachs does all of these things and attracts a motley assembly of day trippers, walkers, cyclists, foreign visitors, locals and tradesmen.

To describe it as quirky is to understate the ambience: a signpost has been erected with each finger pointing in the wrong direction. Barry Island, Uddingston and New York vie for nail space on the pole. The adjoining shed is a billboard for rescued colourful adverts and you trip over witticisms before you find a seat, if you are lucky, next to the cake filled Welsh dresser. There is slow food served fast and fast food served well. It comes in portions that satisfy cyclists and provide enough calories to survive the journey home along the rutted and pot holed roads back to the towns and cities. You can get everything you want in Shona's restaurant, she just loves to make cakes and make you "fu tae bursting!" She'll even let you swim in the loch and you don't need a swimsuit.

Shona and Ricky have created a haven of good grub with a laugh on the side. You can also sign up for Ricky's plastering services, not only does he ice the cakes but he also wields a mean trowel and instead of marketing e mails he will send you new jokes by text which arrive randomly. It is a genuine local business and it seems to hit the button with hungry cyclists, cake fanatics, feisty locals and grateful tourists escaping the fangs of fast food Britain.  The Wee Blether Tearoom is too remote to be challenged by the corporate fast food syndicates; I am not sure whether even Brakes gets this far but, if it does, it would probably because the driver wants some decent food.

Wainwrights Again?

Having finally completed the 214 Wainwright Hills last year, I was struggling for excuses to get out on the Lakeland Fells. Fortunately, Gregor came to the rescue, he had asked me to help him list all the Wainwright Hills that he had climbed during our annual trips to the Lake District. After establishing that it amounted to 130 or so, he decided that he would climb the rest. We had planned three or four outings over groups of hills - they never take more than four or five hours in the Lakes but the diabolical weather made most of these walks less than appealing, they deserved better days.

We have both spent too many days on the Scottish hills with the waterlogged ground, low cloud, high winds and in rain, sleet or snow. The Lakes were supposed to be for gentler easier episodes in the hills. We watched the weather all week, trying to anticipate an odd couple of hours when the rain stopped and we could go out and play, a bit like tennis really but without a retractable roof. We got off the mark on Sunday evening when, an hour or so before the Euro Final between Spain and Italy, the rain abated. The nearest hill was Black Fell, one of the smallest Wainwright hills nestling above Tarn Hows. We only managed two more outings but I suppose that I am now doing another Wainwright round. Like last time I will not let the list obsession prevent lots of repeat visits to favourite hills, the Lakeland hills are not just for bagging.

Sunday 1 July 2012

Ascent: 285m, 

Distance: 3km,  

 Time:  1hr 5mins

w   Black Fell     322m        0: 42mins     

I parked about a mile from the Drunken Duck on the narrow single-track road from Skelwith Bridge and we followed a track for about 50 metres until it petered out and then just turned to climb the slope to the east. It was the perfect cocktail of shoe-deep leaf mould and bog, fallen branches, and rock outcrops. Impenetrable except with patience and a high capacity for dreary ascents. I should have read Wainwright, he advised approaching from the west on a good path. We eventually emerged from the tree cover and into a large boggy area which also hosted a bracken fest. But the cairn was visible and we were pleased to find it such a good viewpoint. The horizon was 360 degrees grey and not a hill was to be seen, this could have been Essex but without the traffic noise and we weren't going to get a tan in this.

Our descent had to be less miserable so we headed south-east and, after traversing another bog, faced two stone walls surfaced with lichen and laced with barbed wire. After that, it was plain descending to the path that runs back from Sunny Brow to where we had parked the car. We had revved ourselves up for the football but Spain would have done that anyway creating intricate patterns that the pasta boys could not unravel.

From the summit of Black Fell

Tuesday, 3 July 2012

Ascent:       955m,  

Distance:    15km,  

Time           4hrs 9mins

w   Sour Howes           483m     0:43
w   Sallows                  516m     1:05
w   Yoke                      706m     1:51
w   Ill Bell                    757m     2:07
w   Froswick                720m     2:32
w   Troutbeck Tongue 363m     3:19

Tuesday morning arrived at the sound of more rain so we decided to get out and climb the hills to the east of Troutbeck. We parked by Limefitt Park caravan site, where wooden chalets were selling from 'only £99,000', you could buy 5 houses in Burnley for that sort of cash. We walked through the site and zig-zagged our way to the Garburn track below Sour Howes. We found a stile and climbed to the ridge above and meandered along it until we reached the summit. It was clear and the rain had stopped although the rest of the day's hills were still lost in the cloud. We followed a faint path round to Sallows and whilst on this summit the cloud began to lift and the long ridge to Yoke became visible. The last time I came up this way, I was still a teenager and I seem to remember that grass skiing was popular on the slopes down to Troutbeck. It looked about as graceful and tempting as running in ski boots.

Yoke and then Ill Bell were reached quickly and the massive cairn at Ill Bell reminded me of Wainwright's wry observation that it has 'an imposing array of fine cairns that would do credit to a Matterhorn'. It could have been because the clag was still surrounding us and any view was in the imagination. I briefly imagined that I was skiing down to Zermatt but then the clouds began to lift and the prospect of a grass ski down to Limefitt Park soon deflated my adrenaline rush.

We had a snack instead and dropped down the initial steep path en route for Froswick, a mini Ill Bell. From here we dropped to the path leading down Blue Gill and then Hagg Gill. There was a lot of Herdwick sheep grazing and Gregor stopped for more photos of them. Once we found the path it was a quick descent, lubricated by the surface water to the boggy col below Troutbeck Tongue.  We skipped across the bog and soon made the summit where we met the first other walkers of the day who were sweating their way up in the high humidity of a wet Lakeland week. 

Troutbeck Tongue is a fine small hill that overlooks Windermere and Troutbeck. The path down brought us to Troutbeck Park and after negotiating a field with bulls we arrived at above Ing Lane and from here there was a right of way skirting Town End and back to the A592 and then to Limefitt Park.  We had escaped most of the rain and surprisingly it had been a walk to stir the spirits.

Sallows and Sour Howe from Yoke

Ill Bell

Troutbeck Tongue from Froswick

Thursday, 5 July 2012

 Ascent:     650m,

Distance:    8km,     

Time:  2     2 hrs 32mins

w    Red Screes                 777m        0:25
w    Middle Dodd             653m        0:42
w    Little Hart Crag         637m        1:20
w    High Hartsop Dodd  519m         1:32          


After another wet day, we decided to make an early start and climb the four hills around Red Scree first thing the next day, come what may. To our surprise, we happened upon the only two hours of blue sky all week. The ascent of Red Scree from Kirkstone Inn is by a stone staircase and in the humid warm air, it was like exercising in a sauna. My sunglasses steamed up but we reached the summit of Red Scree in no time and the views were good although another weather front was approaching from the south. We took photos and decided to walk over to Middle Dodd first.  Like a number of Wainwright hills, this is like a ski jump, a longish descent followed by a short slightly upward tilt. 

We looked for the best route back to Kirkstone and decided to drop down to the valley after the last hill, High Hartsop Dodd rather than reverse the walk to Red Screes. On the traverse round to Scandale Pass, I found a meadow pipit chick and we spent some time trying to get photographs.  There were cattle grazing in the pass and a helium party balloon was tied to the stile. I retrieved it and tied it to my rucksack to lighten my weight for the next ascent to Little Hart Crag. An alternative would have been to fill Gregor's rucksack with stones as my brother had once done on a day when we climbed 4 Munros on the Skye ridge including the Inn Pin. It worked and I was first to the top of Little Hart Crag. I must patent the hillwalker's helium balloon, it would have to be set free at the summit, you wouldn't want it to slow you up on the descents!

Then another easy descent to High Hartsop Dodd where I released the prototype Helium balloon and watched it soar towards Helvellyn, I just hoped that it didn't tangle with one of the low-flying Tornados that use the Lakes as their playground. Last time I was here I had descended down the end of High Hartsop Dodd to Brothers Water but this time we elected to go off the side to the Caiston Beck. What we had not expected was a Juniper forest. Instead of retreating and finding an easier descent, we continued and were scratched and covered in Juniper leaves as we wriggled our way through the dense tangle of branches. As a tonic, I chewed on the berries but they were not yet ripe. We vowed never to repeat the experience.

Once down we negotiated the swollen beck and found the path leading back up the Kirkstone Pass.  It was an easy saunter up the 220 metres ascent to the Kirkstone Inn. The last kilometre was on the busy road with holiday traffic, a group of teenage girls on outdoor activity weeks languishing at the roadside and the odd lycra-clad cyclist pretending to be Bradley Wiggins.  We were back at Langdale for midday for a swim and then resorted to the ultimate antidote to holiday bad weather - the scrabble board.

Brothers Water and Middle Dodd from Red Screes

Red Screes

Helvellyn range from Red Screes

Froswick and Ill Bell

Herdwick

Meadow Pipit

Helium powered

Juniper Jungle

Dreich Week at Langdale

Great Langdale from High Close after tropical deluge

Langdale Gala

Blackwell House

Arts and Crafts Dining Room

Cockley Beck

Langdale estate

Langdale Pikes from the estate

Haverthwaite railway

Fairburn 2-6-4 tank engine on Haverthwaite shed

Appreciation at last

Sadly the only sign of my favourite beer

The last Saturday in June has seen us heading to Langdale for most of the last 28 years. I am not normally inclined to revisit places but the facilities and position at the heart of the Lake District make this place like home. This year the weather was not promising and so it proved. It was the wettest and dreichest of weeks, there was only one shade of grey. Our usual activities of days in the hills, tennis, the hire of boats and kayaks, walks to pubs, and cake cafes were heavily curtailed.

We swam, watched the Euro football final, and quite a bit of Wimbledon but showing flexibility alien to the coalition government, we also adopted Plan B. We went to the Langdale Gala in a downpour, visited the magnificent Blackwell House - a glorious restored example of the Arts and Craft movement, toured the low lying areas southwest of Windermere, stopped at the Lakeside and Haverthwaite steam railway to bunk the engine shed, and toured the remote country by the Duddon Valley. We made a trip to Ulverston, the original home of Hartley's Beer before it was sadly taken over by Robinsons and then closed. Plan B made all the difference, our investment of time in new activities motivated us to recovery and we managed eleven hills as well.