Not many can afford the best seat in the house, regardless of cost. Able to obtain that envied place with mere pocket change. Most have to calculate their budget carefully. Stretch it out as far as it will reach.
No need for us to stretch our budget. Panorama Camping lives up to its name. Beastie gets the best seat in the house, at no extra cost. The fairytale valley below lights up our evening, like so many twinkling stars. Dinner-time eyes linger, delighting in the glow below.
4.30am. We either sleep through, or, in this morning’s case, not. Our brains still not fully accustomed to the bizarre and far too early call for prayer. By the time we’re nodding off back into cuckoo-land, excited chatter natters around Beastie’s outer skin. Irritating, like a mosquito’s drone around an ear. Sounds like an insomniacs’ convention. Our early morning fuzz gets fuzzier. An unwelcome dawn chorus. It’s aided and abetted by a whoosh and roar. Unfamiliar at first. Finally recognised. A flaming balloon passes directly overhead. Mr S bounces out of bed, Tigger-like. Grabs camera. Just in time.
These eroded rock formations are a wonder. So that’s just what we do – wander. Step down into this city from the Middle Ages. Go take a close up. Try and get a handle on how life could have been handled back then, within these hollowed out pointy turrets.
Many structures still utilised – either as personal living space or mini-hotels.
It seems each pointy tower had a distinct and unique finish on its roof. Perhaps, so that when little Jonny went out to play with his mates, he’d always be able to find his way back home.
The rock formations disguise the fact that this area is fertile. Eyes look up to their tall tops. Yet at ground level there is a myriad of small-holdings. Each with a variety of produce ‘on-the-grow’. Onions, mint (they drink a lot of tea), grapes and other-non familiars.
Many of the lower and more accessible rocks have been converted for modern living. Electricity and bottled gas on hand. At one point, Mrs S’s curiosity gets the better of her better-self. Hargreavesesque, she becomes Little Miss Nosey . . .
