A rather underwhelming country music “jamboree” over three days on the South coast. Had a free weekend and thought it would be interesting or at the very least, entertaining.
Hmm…Country music done by Brits always seems to me to have an air of irony, coupled faintly with embarrassment. All that singing about dead dogs and orphans doesn’t really cut it in Eastbourne. We get off on Peter Kay’s “Amarillo” and recently Beyonce’s “It Ain’t Texas”, so it’s hard to take it too seriously.
This little festival tried hard but the music was repetitive – many of the songs were repeated by all the acts, overlooking all the other great stuff there is in the country genre.Check out Willi Carlisle- there was nothing of his calibre on offer over the weekend. The acts played mostly covers with little original music.
Willi Carlisle – grassroots country.
The Saturday headliners were a Creedence Clearwater Revival tribute band, which were pretty close to the original in terms of sound. The audience had swelled a bit from the disappointing Friday night gathering and the band gave them a good show.
Brits dress – up is a self- conscious take on Americana. Line dancing doesn’t come naturally, although a few in the audience had taken lessons.
Whilst the US is low in the popularity stakes at this moment in time the one thing they are bloody good at is line dancing. It’s in their DNA.
Watching Friday night dancers in Las Vegas is mesmerising. Gilley’s at Treasure Island Hotel has drinks served by girls in chaps, bra tops and little else, but somehow it doesn’t feel at all tacky.
At Stoney’s, after they’ve handed in their handguns at the desk and got a ticket to retrieve it at the end of the night, they hit the sizeable dancefloor hard and just look…cool. Men dance alone, stamping and rotating, feet never missing a beat, thumbs in their jean loops, real Stetsons and boots, denim and leather adding to their natural swagger. Girls look self- assured, modern, in short shorts, long hair swishing their shoulders as they lean into the steps. This is their Friday night out and they enjoy it, comfortable in their own culture.
Friday night at Stoney’s Las Vegas.
I tried line dancing…once. It’s not easy, but done properly it’s slick and visually appealing.
Watching a group of Eastbourne mums perform their slightly out -of – sequence line dance on stage to the sound of Beyonce,wearing white boots, cheap cowboy hats and tasselled micro dresses, I threw in the towel, took off my leather cowboy hat and headed for the pub. They had the enthusiasm, just lacked that rare quality…looking effortlessly cool. Country music and line dancing will continue to entertain, but the Camper Jamboree wasn’t for me. I’ll hold onto memories of Stoney’s – Viva Las Vegas!
Festival number two on our summer schedule. Practically up north. Well, Worcestershire. Six days of live music, all free, we only paid for camping and unlike some festivals, the showers aren’t six quid, but, yes, free! The town stops for the weekend and the streets are pedestrianised. Around ten thousand people pack the camp site,stages and pubs.In the charity shop they were expecting to make in excess of four grand. Not bad for selling free stuff. See the FB group “Charity shop shit ” if that appeals to you…
It’s a blues festival, so the music and audience are somewhat lacking diversity. I’ve heard “Proud Mary” performed in a variety of iterations and it’s only Saturday. However,the atmosphere is laid back and friendly. The only exception being the pub ( I won’t name it) run by a hundred year old landlady who is straight out of “League of Gentlemen” and appears unable to give change for a twenty pound note without haggling.
League of Gentlemen pub in Upton Upon Severn.
The setting is both picturesque and historic, with Oliver Cromwell having stormed the town back in the Civil War, after the Royalists tried to blow up the bridge to stop his soldiers. A plaque commemorates Cromwell’s address to the townsfolk. He would sadly get short shrift now, as the Reform HQ is prominent on the high street.
Cromwell’s troops took the town.The “Pepperpot” church tower.
The festival is busy and feels compact. Not much walking to be done and with a nod to the demographic there are mobility scooters for hire. Great if you’re ten and you can tear up the high street and do doughnuts on your Nan’s wheels.
The queues for beer and food are long, in particular for the fish and chip shop in town. All in all, this is a festival with a very British feeling, in spite of the American classic cars and numerous cowboy hats.
The River Severn.
The daily spitfire and hurricane fly – pasts pay homage to the past.
I wake up with a jolt. Sunday morning hits. I slide slowly out of bed, being careful not to move my head too quickly. Slight hangover. The effects of too much cheap wine and dancing in my garden during a thunderstorm, past my school-night bedtime of ten thirty. Groan. Piles of marking ahead. Bob Geldof changed the course of the world last night and I have to spend today reading Year 9’s thoughts on the role of the Nurse in Romeo and Juliet.
2025
Wake up very,very gradually. Remove eye mask and ear plugs, necessary for someone of my age to get to sleep. Remind myself what day of the week it is. Creak downstairs, make tea, drink tea.Think about running. Put on running gear. Run. Reflect on what’s changed over forty years.
Billy Connolly was interviewed by the BBC, incredulous that Phil Collins, in Concorde over the Atlantic on his way to Philadelphia for Live Aid US, could be contacted by satellite phone link. Oh,Billy, didn’t you see it coming? None of us did. I once imagined what it would be like if we could see each other on a phone call. Hideous.
Freddie Mercury, early days of Queen.
What’s changed? Everything and nothing. I don’t have to mark interminable pages of dross on a daily basis. Instead,I can tap my thoughts out on a device smaller than a postcard ( remember writing them?..wish you were here,blah,blah..).
I can spend the day doom- scrolling and see that, although Bob did change the world at the time, poverty, hunger, pollution, terrorism,war and everything we hoped would vanish still exist. As an added bonus we now have influencers, global warming and Love Island.
Live Aid was exciting, even if some of the music was pretty awful. And don’t get me started on the hair…but Madonna looked like Madonna, not an alien reincarnation. Macca had yet to lose Linda. Elton had some of his own hair. Mel Smith and Griff Rhys Jones were a dynamic duo, lauded by the crowd as if they were the rock stars. We still had Freddie,George,Rick Parfitt. The list of dead stars goes on.
Forty years gone in the blink of an eye. It’s easy to be overcome by nostalgia, wishing to turn back the clock. I prefer to remember it fondly, counting my blessings that I don’t have to mark any more bloody awful essays.
…are some of the things I’ve spotted whilst doing a morning run.As a born- again runner ( after a 3 decade gap) I’ve been heading out in the early morning before it becomes too hot and whilst it’s still and quiet.
Runners on the South Bank baffle me with their weaving and dodging the crowds, especially when there is a perfectly good, quieter and more or less empty road parallel. Perhaps it’s a generational thing?
In India, you’re never more than a few metres away from another human being. Here in Greece, it’s cats. Long- legged, feral professional mousers. Scabby, mangy and living their best nine cat lives.
Free to be…
Discarded coke cans remind me of why our little planet might be going to hell in the proverbial. Litter, the detritus of human activity, including a sun – dessicated old condom, is strewn along the roadside.
Worse in India, their rubbish is monumental. Parts of America aren’t much better. On the bus from JFK to NYC I was shocked at the rubbish along the highway. That was my first visit some years back and I thought I was going to a first – world country . Now I’ve seen tent city in Portland and fentanyl alley in Seattle. Not so great eh ?
In contrast , there is much beauty to appreciate, even on an urban run, if you ignore the smell of weed and constant threat of scary dogs.
This morning, for a short while, the world felt calm and peaceful, insects hummed and flowers, abundant and richly -coloured accompany me along my route . I listen to the slap of my footsteps on the dirt road, briefly enjoying my solitude, interrupted as I make my way past angry dogs behind a thankfully high fence. I hear them long after I’ve passed, realising I’m definitely a cat person.
Festival season has begun. Unfettered by the demands of work, children, or even pets, I’m free to enjoy whatever a festival can throw my way.
Red Rooster started the ball rolling and unlike last year’s miserable, muddy shit- show, the ground was dry and the mood upbeat.
Instagrammable selfie frame.
Morning runs took my feet past pyjama- ed children, bacon-frying grandparents, dungaree – d beardies and every type of vehicle imaginable.
Fuelled by Jack Daniels.
One morning, passing under a tree with a rope swing hanging on a low branch, I spotted a skipping rope.Left behind by a careless child. Maybe not careless, just distracted, as children often are.
Skipping home without a rope…
It started me thinking about how life is a series of losses, big and small,which we learn to deal with. Some are on a truly terrifying, huge, unimaginable scale. Homes, friends, loved ones, whole communities. Catastrophies and tragedies.
Others are tiny, insignificant to anyone but ourselves, yet they play on our minds. “Where did I put…?” The single missing earring that I searched for. That photo. Keys. Always keys.
The skipping rope has a back story. Who lost it? Why? Then the story takes another turn.What happened when the owner realised it was missing? How long did that take? Who found it ?
Festivals are pop- up communities,ever changing, with hundreds of different experiences constantly unfolding and emotions ebbing and flowing over several days.The woman sobbing to her friend/ relative about a man “not getting” her. A dad shouting at Harvey to hurry up. Three friends, slowly getting stoned and giggling at their tobacco pouch emptying all over the grass. Pun not intended.
A pop up community.
They aren’t everyone’s cup of chai. For me, they offer not only great music,the chance to be outdoors, meet interesting people and take a break from the ordinary, but also watch an infinite number of mini – dramas play out in front of my eyes. People – watching.
Dark skies threaten coming rain. A few drops turn to a torrential downpour in seconds and back to sunshine in minutes. The Pacific North West has rain. Lots of it. It’s March and cherry blossom season, so petals blow, pink confetti.
My feet take me on a run, pausing to activate the signal to cross roads. “Walk!”, a disembodied voice barks at me. I watch out on the kerbs. They’re really high and the pavements are cracked and dangerously lumpy. One broken ankle in the family is quite enough. That’s the reason we’re here in March- our daughter slipped on pine cones and ended up in surgery.
Downtown Vancouver is quiet. Few people walk anywhere and surprisingly, I haven’t seen another runner. Perhaps it’s not fashionable to run around the streets and I should head down to the waterfront. On London’s South Bank the runners prefer to dodge through the crowds rather than take the quieter side roads.
Car is king here. I plan to use the bus at some point but it seems that the message is they’re dangerous. They look pretty empty to me and if you’ve ever been on the 289 to Thornton Heath then you’re immune to danger.
Main Street is home to vintage shops, a few bars and coffee shops. There’s a cannabis store, which has a warning outside not to give money to panhandlers ( beggars) as they blow it on fentanyl and abuse their staff.
There’s a push here to MAHA…make America healthy again. I fear that ship sailed long ago, heading straight to the U.K. Asking for oatmeal with walnuts for breakfast seemed a good choice. There was enough for 3 days and more walnuts than I’d eat in a week..and I eat a few walnuts most days.
We all remember water shortages in spells of drought. Some of my memories are further in the past than others. The summer of 1976 for example, which I spent living in a tent on the banks of the River Ouse in King’s Lynn. That’s a story for another time.
Whilst I had pretty much given up showers that summer, across the nation stand – pipes had queues of women with buckets and bottles at the ready to be filled for all domestic purposes,including washing.
Keep calm and carry your bucket.Whatever floats your rubber duck.
The time – honoured tradition of using bath water over and over again, which fell out of favour when tin baths in front of an open fire were replaced by fitted bathrooms, was back in vogue.The call “Leave water in bath” reverberated around bath – time,with families hard – pressed to keep clean. I’ve never really appreciated how soaking in your own murky water constitutes a hygiene routine but please,each to their own.Also,having watched and been traumatised by the 1975 horror flick “Shivers” I never liked to linger in the bath,just in case…
Showering evolved through the eighties, although I do recollect P.E. teachers taking rather too long to glance at us when we had cold showers after hideous sports lessons.
Showering is now part of us all saving the planet by using less water. My bath went years ago when a wet room replaced it. Terribly middle class I know.
Having a shower with a friend may be delightful, but sometimes you just want your own personal space.
At home,the odd spider puts in an appearance. Of course, India has great big,”I can eat you ” sized bugs. Thinking I was doing the staff and world in general a big favour, I opted to have my room cleaned every other day. Mistake? Yes. Looking down to see a large cockroach skating towards me on the crest of a ripple on the tiles,I grabbed a bucket,scooted it onto the drain cover and rinsed my hair with one eye on the bucket. Cautiously lifting the bucket it looked like a good dose of conditioner had knocked it out. To be on the safe side, my trusty travel kettle enabled me to dispatch it fully.
I will eat you.
Revenge came the next day.Stepping onto the terracotta tiles I checked the floor. Shampoo streaming, a loud “WTF” exploded from deep within me. Bug #2 was twice as big and I’m pretty sure hell bent on galloping up my leg. Oh and they fly. Yes,the whole alien,too-disgusting- for- words package.
Sorry if you’re a Jain/ animal lover / entomologist, but there are some things I don’t want to share my shower with.
It has that effect on you. India.Finding yourself.Running…in sandals.My third trip to India and I’m discovering hidden powers. Not only have I been knitting and crocheting with the best but had serious yoga sessions with a yogi who encouraged me to aim high. I did…and came home with a trophy from the Mysuru Open Yogasana competition. Totally unexpected, as I had only planned for a couple of gentle sessions if I could find a teacher. Mysuru is awash with yogis and studios as I discovered.Lessons were around R750,that’s about £7.50 . Try finding that in London,or indeed anywhere in the UK.
Early morning walks around Kukkarahali Lake coincided with sunrise, spectacular when the mist disappeared. The locals are out in force. Walking,running,all ages,shapes and abilities. Solo or in cheerful,sociable pairs or groups, with none of the British self – consciousness or swagger. Not a Sweaty Betty outfit on show,just come as you are. Not a water bottle in sight.
Sunrise over Kukkarahali Lake
That’s how I came to be running…in sandals. After a week of hourly morning walks,daily ashtanga yoga ( apparently that’s the hard one ?) I suddenly found myself breaking out in a run and kept running. Not quite Forrest Gump but enough to spur me onto a parkrun this weekend. Only this time I’ll be wearing trainers.
Feeling a tickled shade of rose pink – I wrote this poem and tried desperately hard to enter the competition online, whilst travelling in the Pacific North West earlier this year. Numerous attempts to upload my efforts on my mobile phone failed ( unsurprising, as I was on the move in Nevada and Arizona and wi – fi was often compromised ) the deadline came and went and I gave up, thinking it probably would not be good enough anyway.
A few weeks after my return to the UK I received an email, telling me there was still time to send in my entry. Still thinking it was not a great effort but that I would give it a go anyway, having spent time trying to enter, I sent off my writing.
I have just heard that , whist not being shortlisted, it was Highly Commended. Out of 1,500 entries and with the judge being the brilliant Roger McGough, needless to say I am quite chuffed!
The Onion Pickers.
Cycling past onion fields on a June
afternoon, I concentrate, wobbling in
tractor ruts, steering wildly.
He calls "Smell those onions !"
I momentarily fight to stay in the
saddle- bumped, juddering.
Across the red earth they catch my eye,
neon hunchbacks crossing the
furrows, forty or more.
The sweet - sour onion smell hangs
heavy in the air,
We dismount, staring at the workers
spread over the distant acres.
Going about their task, voices call out,
conversations carried on air.
We, in holiday mood, stop to consider
them painfully progressing along the
furrows.
Later, cycling back past the onion fields
we see the neon ants, no respite yet.
Their lemon hi - viz shine in the late
afternoon sun. I, red - faced in the
warm glow of exercise, wearing hi - viz,
pedal painfully.
White onions row on row, brown paper
skins, no aroma.
Supermarket staples - a split second
flashback to the onion pickers.
Two young children are watching “The Wooden Tops ” on a black and white screen. They sit on a chintz sofa in the lounge of the Officers Mess. Suitcases on the floor, teddies on their laps. A uniformed attendant calls out their names from a list on a clipboard and off they go. Bundled into heavy grey duffle coats, they struggle across the tarmac through driving drizzle, climbing the metal steps onto the waiting Comet A.
Somewhere over Spain a member of the flight crew beckons them into the cockpit and they gaze in awe at the array of switches, buttons and levers. The pilot explains what is happening. The older child, a freckle – faced boy, listens agog with excitement at seeing the intricacies of the machine there in front of him. The girl hugs her teddy close.
The Comet lands – noisily but it’s a perfect landing on the airstrip. Mum takes her shiny compact out of her neat leather handbag , powders her nose and applies lipstick, bright red and glossy. The aircraft doors open and a blast of warm air hits the trio,Mum in her sheepskin jacket, children in their winter woollies.Wiltshire had been cold and wet but warmer than Manchester,where they had been living temporarily and much warmer than R.A.F. Kinloss.
They blink, unaccustomed to the bright sunshine. Looking wildly around for any sign of him, Mum waves frantically, gathers herself and clutches their hands as they descend onto the tarmac.
He is in uniform, looks the same, smells the same, but the children dance around him, hardly daring to believe it’s real. He ushers them to the waiting car, proud and happy to see them all. A brand new, white Vauxhall Viva stands ready for them. Registration GRL 993.
Adventure awaits and for the next three years this little bean – can will take them the length and breadth of Morocco- Casablanca, Meknes, Fez, Marakkech and down to the Atlas Mountains, later through Southern Spain, Portugal and at the end of the posting it will carry them heroically the length of Spain and France on their return journey to England.
May 2023 London Gatwick,North Terminal.
Five in the morning. The North Terminal is busy and after the buzz of going through security everyone is intent on phones and laptops. The seating areas are almost full, no – one will be giving theirs up until they have to. Bags and cases are spread out, territoriality. No – one carries luggage any more, wheels make each journey a breeze. Electric vehicles bleep in the background, so for some there is no need to walk either. The airport is a temple to consumerism, although the papers and glossy magazines are free. I grab a copy of the ” New York Times ” and read about the former mayor of Bend in Oregon, who died recently following the amputation of his frostbite legs as a result of homelessness, after suffering mental illness and eviction. It is one of the saddest stories I have read recently, in a world full of them. The American dream becomes a nightmare. When I visit my daughter in Oregon again I shall think of him.
The flight is on time, trouble-free and I even get a window seat thanks to another passenger’s kindness. I take a hundred photos of the approach to Gibraltar but alas, I am sitting on the wrong side of the ‘plane as we approach from the west and anyway, the Levante sits on top of the Rock as it is wont to do.
My companion of forty – five years grins at my excitement at returning for the first time since 1967. He knows my expression and has seen it on our travels : feeding a baby elephant in Thailand, in the wind at the northernmost tip of Scotland, riding a motorbike in Greece – for this trip is not just about getting a little bit of sun or time away, it is a return to my childhood and I come armed with a thousand memories burned into my heart and soul, memories that are as fresh and real to me as they ever were.
We have our passports glanced at by border control, head through customs and out into the warmth of a summer day. It is cloudy but this promises to lift. At this time of year the cloud burns up quickly.
Out of the airport building we follow the crowd of pedestrians towards the crossing. The R.A.F. control tower is still there, dwarfed by the modern airport buildings and now occupied by H.M.customs. The barriers lift and people spill out onto the airfield, a hundred bikes, motorbikes and e- scooters in sight. Long gone are the carts, horses and donkeys making their way over from Spain to sell fresh fruit, vegetables, rabbits and chickens at the daily market in Casemates.
The control tower is still there.
Gibraltar is the same but different. I snap a thousand pictures of the Rock, the airfield and sea in the distance, ignoring the ” No Stopping – this is a live airfield ” signs and take pictures of the military buildings, mentally daring the uniforms to come out and challenge a woman of mature years who is intent on reliving her childhood. They are sharing stuff on their phones and barely glance at us. It is Coronation week and I could be a threat.
Over the airfield and into the outskirts of the town, I note the traffic and how busy it is. Crossing the road needs serious concentration and we dutifully wait for the green man. We take the oldest entrance into the main town. Straight away I recognise Casemates, the old market place, now full of bars, cafes and restaurants. The bunting is out and the Coronation celebrations are revving up.
We walk the length of Main Street, all “Full English Breakfast ” and fish and chips and locate our hotel, which is the oldest in Gibraltar. Who wants a trip into the past to start at a Holiday Inn, for goodness’ sake ? It has a faded grandeur and is somewhat gloomy, but is perfect as a base.
For the next few days we explore the town and see the sights. I have a list of places to check out. I remember all my addresses- I think I memorised them in case I ever got separated from my parents.
The first two are easy to find, near Main Street. Accommodation is at a premium here and service personnel were advised not to bring their families out to join them until they had suitable housing. Instructions were given to R.A.F. staff in a type-written booklet, which also stated: “Private accommodation is not up to UK standards and flats are rarely equipped to the scale we would expect.”
My family lived for a while in a block just off Main Street, now an air bnb. The second, much larger flat in Trafalgar House is two minutes’ walk away and has a large bar underneath. The barman confirms what I knew of the block. The owner started building in 1955. As he was something of a smuggler and gambler, funds were erratic and he built each new floor only when his luck was in. Looking up I could see a line of washing flapping on the roof. My mother would carry the weekly wash up onto the roof and peg out the laundry, whilst my brother and I played amongst the rusty nails and concrete rubble, taking care not to go near the unwalled edge.
The school we attended is now a casino. I spent days at the Garrison Library, limited by my mother to one book a day from the children’s shelves. It is still there, an oasis of calm just off the tourist strip. One can visit free of charge and whilst no longer a lending library, the rooms and gardens are beautiful. My childhood visits to this very special library are imprinted indelibly on my memory and seeing it again a joy.
Garrison Library 2023
As children, we walked to school unaccompanied, played out amidst the rubble of nearby building sites and had a freedom lamentably unknown today. There were regular ‘wars’ between service children and locals – the ” bakery boys” – usually involving shouting and throwing stones, before dashing for cover down the numerous alleys and side streets.
The top of the Rock is now all ‘ pay to enter’ . Years ago,we climbed the steep steps and wandered around freely. Now the apes are in a nature reserve. Having been bitten as a little girl, I was happy to have the very briefest of encounters this time. The apes sit in wait, ready to mug the tourists spilling off the cable car.
Our third and last flat was an upgrade, in Four Quarters, across the airfield on West Beach. At the time it was occupied by Officer’s families. I presumed it had been redeveloped but as it’s still owned by the MO.D it was just cunningly invisible on Google maps. We had gardens and, more importantly, a beach.
Four Quarters, looking back from Spain.
We spent our final day in Spain, having walked from Gibraltar in search of some more interesting fare. The views of the Rock are better over the border too. It gave me a chance to see the flat by looking through the wire fence, across a thin strip of no man’s land. We could hear the sounds of a Coronation garden party in full swing, the tannoy playing music and announcing the winners of a quiz. I was transported back momentarily to my eighth birthday, a carefree child once again.
As a short break destination, Gibraltar has much to offer, particularly for those interested in history. Situated at the ” Pillars of Hercules”, the entrance to the Mediterranean, there are constant reminders the military past the Rock is famed for. Cannons galore and bastions and fortresses abound. Trafalgar Cemetery is atmospheric, whilst the Gibraltar Museum holds many delights and tells not only of the distant, Neanderthal origins but also of the evacuation of the entire population during the Second World War. It houses the remains of a Moorish bathhouse and acknowledges the cultural diversity evident on the streets outside.
Evidence of past occupation.
Was my trip worthwhile? Well, of course. I found all the places I remembered and shed a few tears for my family no longer here. Travelling in the 60’s gave me a lifelong obsession with seeing the world, and I have my parents and the little Vauxhall Viva to thank for that.
Stories and stitches 