Tea Making Facilities

The Sixth of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Tuesday.

Another day, another Travelodge. When did I become a slave to pre-booked, reasonably-priced accommodation? This is my third one in a week.

Listen. It's true that on the odd occasion that I've stayed at a more expensive hotel it the last couple of years the difference in quality has been tangible. But for the most part my basic requirements are somewhere to get my head down, a telly and tea making facilities. Hopefully I'd be spending little enough time in the room itself for it to be an issue. I mean, I only have a shower at home. The bath I had tonight was a real luxury.

They are a bit like the Borg the way they assimilate other hotels into their collective, then file down the edges so that they all look a bit similar. The one I'm staying in at present, Edinburgh Haymarket, is set in one of the capital's big terraces in the west end of the city. Inside it's tall-ceilinged rooms, a wood-panelled car and Yale keys instead of cards for the locks. But the ubiquitous signage and unmanned reception (press 'find' on the cordless phone cradle to summon someone) pervade.

But it is cheap. One of the nights me and the boys spent in Colwyn Bay last week was just £10 in a sale. I used to use Youth Hostels on my travels, but they were more expensive, you didn't have the privacy and there was no tea or telly.

Actually, I make out like gangbusters on the tea and coffee front cos I don't have milk in my coffee so if I can get several cups of both without using up all the little UHT carton things. I know you can ask for more, but this way you don't even have to do that! Brilliant, eh?

So to finish, here is a brief list of some of the Travelodges I've stayed in, working backward from my present location: Edinburgh Haymarket
London Ilford Gants Hill
Colwyn Bay
Croydon
Reading Central
Torquay
Cardiff Central
Edinburgh West End
Glasgow Central
Aberdeen
Southend Central
Saltash
Worksop
London King's Cross
London Farringdon
London Docklands
London City Airport
London Covent Garden

Er, I think that's it. Blimey, that's a bit sad, isn't it? Let me put on my kettle and ponder what it all means...

More soonliest.

The View From the Top Bunk

The Fifth of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Monday.

Every now and then I go to sleep on the train. I did that on Saturday morning, almost dozing through my connection at York. I sprang into wakefulness as some sixth sense alerted me that we'd arrived (either that or the blaring automated announcement) and still dazed leapt from the train. Then leapt back again a second later when I realised I'd left my jacket behind.

Anyhoo, that's not the point. What I'm trying to say is sometimes I deliberately go to sleep on the train. I've been on the Caledonian Sleeper between England and Scotland (and vice versa) a few times, once from Inverness, once from Fort William and a couple of times from London to Edinburgh. That's where I am at the mo, just out of Euston, wending our way to Waverley station.

The first time I went on a sleeper, however, was simultaneously less and more glamorous. The journey was very romantic, between Paris and Venice no less. Unfortunately I had opted for the cheapest possible option (despite it being only a few more quid for extra space and comfort) and so we were on triple- tiered vinyl covered bunks akin to the back seat of an Austin Maxi. Add to this the soaring temperature of a July night (we had spent the day almost getting sunstroke at Disneyland Paris) and you have of of the most uncomfortable journeys I've ever been on. The only one who was ok was the Winnie- the-Pooh helium balloon we'd got from Disneyland was snug under a blanket to stop it floating off. It went on to spend a day in left luggage in Venice before being set free in the skies above nearby Treviso the next day. A young no1 son was a little upset, but we couldn't take Pooh on the plane so it had to be done.

Tonight's journey seems a tad less fraught. Ideal in fact so I think I'll turn over and go to sleep.

Good night, see you in Edinburgh.

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Bagels

The Second of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Friday.

Oh, man it's nearly 3 in the morning. I can't even come up with a clever title for this entry. I was just eating a couple of bagels, plain with just butter, and I couldn't think of anything else.

Yes, eating bagels at 0245. That's the kind of lifestyle I lead.

I do like a bagel, though. Butter on its own works quite well but there's nothing wrong with the popular 'cream cheese' (usually in a Philadelphia stylee) variety. A touch of Marmite is welcome to, but cross contamination as the yeast extract mixes in with the spread calls for the use of two knives.

Or spoons. A friend of mine applies the cheese with a spoon. This allows you to scoop up a a goodly portion and then use the superior surface area of the back of the spoon to spread the cheese more evenly. While I admire the elegance of this both in concept and execution I find myself unable to break out of the knife paradigm.

It was also a very cheap breakfast on my first visit to New York City back in 2002. To save money, Shu Shu, my erstwhile spouse, and I kept pretty much to UK time and went to bed and got up early. This meant there was next to nowhere open to get breakfast with the exception of the odd coffee stand. Even then we had to queue for a coffee and an untoasted bagel. On one occasion the old bloke with a walking stick in the queue ahead of us was buzzed by a pigeon during its take-off. 'Whoa!' exclaimed the old timer. 'Kinda low there, buddy!' he said to the bird. The bird did not reply.

In Scarborough let's not forget the bagels on offer at Mojo's Music Cafe. That link is to an older menu but the Veggie Breakfast Bagel and the famous Bob Marley Bagel are still very much available.

I'm off to London tomorrow. On a previous visit I had visitied a baker in Finsbury Park that did olive bagels - ok, but I wouldn't necessarily pick one out again. On this journey I am once again staying in the glamorous locale of the cheapest Travelodge I could find for the weekend. This time round it's at Gants Hill in Ilford. A quick google of what was around there revealed that the Shalom Bakery just up the road has a very good reputation for its bagels (and cheesecake - double plus good). But during this little shufti around all the sites tonight apparently the place to go is the Beigel Bake on Brick Lane.

Open 24 hours. Blimey!

I however, am not. Closing for the weekend.

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The Three Things of Life

The First of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Thursday.

Short and sweet tonight.

Last night, no1 son and I were lay out in the hotel room like Wayne and Garth beneath the stars, gazing up into the dark and talking guff. We covered a multitude of subjects and eventually landed on the trials and tribs of adult life. Well, to the 11 year old mind these are overcooked to say the least. Indeed, he put me right by stating that there are in fact Three Things of Life. These are as follows:

1) Staying Alive. According to him this is a 9 or a 10

2) Fun. This is an 8 or 9.

3) Other Stuff. This is a 2.

So there you go.

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A Good Walk Spoiled

The Thirty-First of August Two Thousand and Eleven. Wednesday.

I have never enjoyed golf. Oh, I can appreciate the skill involved and I can't deny the appeal of all the different numbered clubs (5 iron. 3 wood. Collect the set...) but my complete lack of aptitude for the sport puts me off. Didn't stop me losing several Dungeons & Dragons Adventure Modules in a game of golf in my youth. But perhaps the bitter memory of that day is what finalised my hatred of it.

Today, no1 son asked if we could play a round of crazy golf.

We were in Porthmadog, having had a ride on the Ffestiniog Railway, the fab narrow gauge steam railway that features on the 'Great Little Trains of Wales' tea towels that do the rounds in this part of the world.

It was an hour or so regular train journey along the Conwy valley to reach the Ffestiniog and on the way I saw the darnedest thing on a path next to the river. It looked like and old woman, a crone, whose black garments rustled in the wind. The figure looked unreal, all hunched over like the witch in disguise in Snow White, that I wasn't sure if it was a scarecrow or some other effigy. She/it wasn't there on the way back so I still don't know who or what it was.

Anyway, we got to Porthmadog by narrow gauge, which was all very quaint but I kept bumping my head leaving the carriage. On the third occasion I almost started crying I was so fed up, much to No1 son's amusement until he realised I wasn't kidding. Didn't stop him talking about it at full volume on the train back to Colwyn Bay though. The whole train knew what a soft lad I was - and what a terrible parent too, as he declaimed to the world the fact that I had put his younger brother's shoes on the wrong feet and only realised at the end of the trip.

That's the sort of day it had been. There's always a point on holiday, not necessarily by the end, where your energy and concentration are at a low and you can be a bit grumpy and off. We've had a lovely day, but after the highs of yesterday it's been a bit of a disappointment to me.

Not to no2 son, who played up a bit but that was probably due to his feet hurting. And not to no1 son, who was made up at the chance to play crazy golf.

With my loathing of the game a given, I wasn't really in the mood for this. I reminded him of the lousy time we'd had the last time we'd had a go at crazy golf in Filey. This didn't deter him and we persevered.

I hated every minute of it.

Didn't stop me winning, though.

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Wow, That's Amazing!

The Thirtieth of August Two Thousand and Eleven. Tuesday.

Here we are in Colwyn Bay, myself and sons no1 & 2 (changing that around is too confusing, let's just stick with age order). We got here yesterday after a weekend catching up with the international Hendrick clan (the historic meeting between my Austrian brother-in- law and my Chinese sister-in-law took place at a Salford McDonald's) and we've settled in nicely. Had a bit of a tummy bug and went to bed with a headache but that seems to have come and gone.

We've got the cereal in and we bob a pint of milk in a sink full of cold water so we can start breakfast in our room as soon as we wake. Then like good little Hobbits we go out to a cafe to have second breakfast. This was tea and toast at the Rendezvous cafe (I know! The same name as the one in Scarborough!) today. Then off we trot to our next adventure.

Today that was a visit to the Welsh Mountain Zoo. Since it is right up in the hills that overlook Colwyn Bay there's a free bus from the railway station that takes you there. It started raining before we even got to the bus stop but we were determined to enjoy ourselves regardless. No2 son looked over the leaflet we had picked up from our hotel and announced our priorities: 'one tiger, two crocodiles and a lion.'

The bus driver was a cheerful Irishman who assured us that at whatever height above sea level the zoo turned out to be was actually above the rain (this turned out to be blarney). We waited for a train to feed up some more passengers then off we went. (Another aside: the others in the bus had come from Butlins in Prestatyn and the daughter had lost her phone on the way. As we rode, Mum left a voice mail message urging anyone who found it to hand it in) .

We alighted and entered the zoo. We were enjoying some macaws by the side of the entry road when a guttural roar behind us captured our attention. There, in a large enclosure was a huge brown bear. No2 son uttered the words that were to become our catchphrase on this holiday: 'wow, that's amazing.'

We quickly made our way to the tigers. Last year we visited Paignton zoo which was good but the animals were miles away. Here, we were mere yards away from these great cats that scratched their necks on a post like tabbies but could take your leg off if their mood changed. It was brilliant.

The crocodiles turned out to be alligiators and they just lay there in the murky water, sinister eyes resting just above the surface. And there were no lions. But there were gibbons and chimps, snow leopards and snakes - it was all pretty much what you'd want for your zoo experience. We got the bus back to town with the same people we rode up with. I enquired if they'd had any luck re the phone. They hadn't, and the daughter informed me that she had kept the same memory card from phone to phone so there were tons of photos and stuff that she was devastated to have lost. I hope it turns up.

It was the middle of the afternoon when we arrived at the station so I announced that since our time in Wales was short we were going to try and cram in another attraction. We hopped on the next train to Llandudno - we were going up the Great Orme!

I'd checked closing times before we set off - if we were lucky we could fit in a trip on the Tramway and the cable car. We set off at a pace upon arrival. No2 son refused to believe No1 when told he was going on a tram. 'That's in Manchester,' he insisted.

He soon had to eat his words when we arrived at the tram station. The tram climbed the steep slope of the Great Orme the same way the streetcars negotiated the hills of San Francisco. A cable running inside the tracks pulled the vehicle along. At the halfway point we changed to a a second tram to complete the journey. When we reached the summit we rushed to the cable car - would we be in time?

There was a queue, but it seemed to be moving along nicely. It was only when we got a little nearer that I could see the sign in the ticket window: 'no credit cards.' Pigging 'eck, we were already thin for cash today. I'd had to borrow off No1 son for ice lollies earlier so we couldn't afford this. Dejectedly, we left the queue.

'If only there was a cash machine up here,' I wondered idly.

'Why don't you ask?' suggested No1 son. There was a bar here - the presence of a cash machine wasn't unheard of so I have it a bash. Turned out there was one of those ones that charges £1.75 in the cafe next door. We got some money and rushed back to the queue. We might only have time for one way but that was better than nowt.

It didn't look too likely but then the ticket lady came out of her booth and called forward people who wanted return tickets. Since we would have to leave in time to get back we were brought to the front of the queue! No2 son was disappointed that we didn't get the red cable car he wanted at the rest of us were made up.

It was a very peaceful trip, with 'wow, that's amazing' views. As we toddled back to the tram it was with the pleasure of a gamble that had paid off. We had (another) chippy tea at the badly punned, but very friendly 'Fish Tram Chips'. We ate these at the railway station with No2 son aggressively disparaging a young gull that was eyeing up our grub.

We boarded, and as the train left we saw a fox by the trackside. It had been a long day but there was just time for one more -

'Wow, that's amazing!'

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I Am Not a Number

The Twenty-Sixth of August Two Thousand and Eleven. Friday.

This might get a little bit complicated.

Using the time honoured tradition of numbering my offspring by age I have always referred, on this blog and in day-to-day life, to my 11 year old first born as No1 son (a small tip of the hat to Charlie Chan too) and, logically, to my 3 year old as No2. It's merely a question of chronology and both are loved equally although when alone with either of them I always explain that I prefer their company to that of their sibling. This, I believe, constitutes good parenting.

Now, No2 son has done very well learning his number, both spoken and signed,  and with a view to encouraging this I explained to him my naming convention. 'You're No2 son,' I told him.

This provoked an immediate response. 'No,' he said and signed, 'I'm number one, me.' I went on to detail that since he was little and his brother was larger and older it made sense that he was No2. 'No,' he told me quite definitely. 'I'm number one, me.'

In the hope of finding some sort of accord I turned to No1 son and asked him if, being an older and wiser head, he wouldn't mind abdicating the top spot. 'Er, no,' was his position on that.

'Sorry,' I signed to No2 son, 'you're number 2.'

'No. I'm number one, me.'

No1, as always more interested in fanning rather than dousing the flames, questioned his brother.

'What number's daddy?'

No2 son paused for thought. He made an exaggerated 'hmm' sound and then delivered his verdict.

'Five.'

Cue much laughter from No1 son. Pursuing his theme: 'And mummy?'

Again, this did not receive an immediate answer. Another thoughtful 'hmm' and then: 'Six'.

That's not fair! That's Patrick McGoohan's number in The Prisoner! (Of course it's my Fifteenth Telly Recommendation. How could it not be?) How come she gets a cool number?

(And talking of cool stuff, while I was looking for a picture to illustrate my appreciation of The Prisoner I came across this:

Yes! Jack Kirby did a Prisoner comic! It was for Marvel but was never published - this site has the details. I'll say that again - Jack Kirby did a Prisoner comic!)

Anywhere, where was I? Oh yes. No1 son was intrigued by the seemingly arbitrary assigning of numbers as was I. So we asked No2 'Who is number three?'

'Hmm,' declared the sage, thinking hard. 'I don't know.'

More soonliest.