Category: UK 2021 – South East & Anglia

Five senses clearly not enough.  When the totally unexpected occurs and leaves you unable to make no sense, you hanker after that elusive sixth sense. Hindsight never compensates with its ‘if only’ finger pointing attitude. Like the fortune cookie, foresight can never reveal future’s full futility.

Preparations for today’s off complete. We make our exit on time. Like a couple of trapped greyhounds bursting to fly out after that rabbit. So no excuse and none necessary. Beastie’s bursting too. He’s loaded to the hilt. A full quota of supplies along with every ‘weather’ option on board. We’re leaving in silly season. Don’t want to be caught without snow-shoes and mittens close to hand.

At one point, it seems we might need them sooner, rather than later, as we’re bombarded from above. A cloudburst of hail, hails down on us. White musket shot pounds Beastie on all sides. He’s under attack. In seconds the lanes are transformed into a winter wonderland. We don’t put our skates on.

Our first three-nighter at Graffham, just south of Petworth, offers a good excuse to catch up with Kevin & Jacqui. They live 30K from the site. Beastie’s onboard LPG cylinder supplies gas for the fridge/freezer when we’re not plugged in. Three hours flash by. As we climb aboard to leave, we’re hit by an overpowering smell of gas. Despite our soapy water efforts and plenty of other suggestions from Andy, the local MOHO fixer, we’re unable to get the leak to blow any bubbles our way. Fortunately all pre-booked pitches have electric hook-up on tap, so until we can get to a dealer, we’re silently slipping into Tesla mode.

There are 141 paces to the dishwash sinks. And 297 to the shower block. And they say it takes 21 days to make or break a habit – providing you have the will in the first place of course. But what about those habits we aren’t aware of? Or worse, the ones we are aware of, but are controlled by our subconscious?  We’re doing them before we realise and then of course it’s too late. I have one. (I can hear Mrs S thinking “Ha! Only one?” ) Guessed what mine is? Walking out anywhere I suddenly find I’m counting my paces. Yet, rather than stop counting, I knowingly continue. Weird or not? An internal variation I play is to estimate, then count. Mrs S has long suspected I’m gradually becoming autistic. Is this an early sign? Will I eventually morph into Rain Man? Become the dirge of the local bridge club? Take up smoking, just so I can ask complete strangers if they have a light boy? In the vain hope they’ll spill their box of matches . . .

Our forty-two day trip intends to take in as many National Trust properties as possible. As members, it’s sort of free entertainment. Completely drenched is how we enter number one on our hit-list – Petworth House. Courtesy of a dry 8.4K Scoot. The short 231 step walk from where we park up, sufficiently long enough to ensure the heavens are emptied. A face-masked ninety minutes later we’re back in town for lunch. Decide to give the grounds a miss. Head back to base during a dry interlude. Confine ourselves to barracks. Better to sit the afternoon out.

But before we do, we don’t walk the streets for money . . .

We always carry a one burner portable cooking ring with us. Only ever used when yours truly takes charge of some fillet. So until Friday, when we have an appointment to get the leak fixed, Mrs S is going to have to demonstrate not only her cooking skills, but her juggling ones too.

They say that being in nature can bring many emotional and physical benefits. This Graffham site, set within a beautiful wood, itself set within the South Downs National Park, does just that. It’s up there as one of the prettiest sites we’ve visited.

Sometimes it pays to pay no heed to the weather forecast. A labyrinth of tracks lead us directly from the site. The quickening wind keeps the rain at bay. We don’t need an excuse to step out. Internal calculator gets turned off. A different type of concentration envelopes our psyches. Our unplanned route a delight of sights.

24,371 steps later sees us back on site – no, I wasn’t counting, Mrs S’s fit-bit was – now there’s a thought . . .

One of the many delights of being out on the road touring, is exploring new places. Of course, you never quite know what to expect. It’s like giving yourself a surprise present every day. Sometimes it puts a smile on your face and a warm feeling inside, as you unwrap it. At others, it can feel like you’ve just shot yourself in the foot, wishing you’d left the safety catch on.

No safety worries today. We leave the beauty of Graffham behind and head towards our two-nighter at Brighton. But not before backtracking to Midhurst and our second NT visit – Woolbeding (pronounced . . . beeding) Gardens. We’re treated. Doubly. The rain holds off and the gardens unwrap themselves to reveal a wonderful combination of formal and informal landscapes. The elegant house once leased to and occupied by Simon Sainsbury.

Being retired and officially classed as OAPs, or seniors, or holders of concessionary rights, comes with benefits. But we can’t remember what they are. Like many words, in general conversation that torment us. They teeter on the edge of our tongue. Tantalise as they refuse to be spat out. No amount of A to Z-ing brings about the slightest hint. We learn to improvise. Beat about the bush. Or if that fails then nod knowingly to one another, hoping and assuming the other is thinking the same illusive word. A short while later we develop a mild case of tourettes. Tickled tongues tormented by our brainlessness issue forth a salvo of possibilities. All in vain – accept we’re going qwackers.

This morning arrives with a surprise. Beastie is still holding firmly onto Brighton Rock. Despite last night’s continuous spiteful gusts that bullied and tormented his 3.5+ ton. On board it felt as if we were riding the seven seas. With his slightly higher suspension, Beastie rocked and rolled as if at an all night rave. His Elvis hips swivelling this way then that – uh huh, uh huh!

Our timed entry to Brighton Pavillion is preceded with a drop off at Sussex Leisure Vehicles. Very fortunately just 1K from our site. We leave Beastie to get examined. Hoping that the cause of the gas leak can be determined and rectified.

We are now several years into retirement and the unproud owners of the regulatory bus pass. Unused. Until today. The strong cold wind deters Scoot from poking his nose out from his cosy perch, so we take the plunge. The bus driver offers us a patient smiley instruction as we fathom out exactly what to do with the pass. Then we pass. Just about.

It’s some years since our only previous visit to the Royal Pavilion. As we approach, the outer skin clearly showing its age. Once inside the bygone days of opulence are clearly visible.

We round off our visit around the ‘Lanes’. A souk-like linkage of predominately jewelry shops.

Our day ends on a high when we pick up a totally repaired Beastie. The old ‘should last at least ten years regulator valve’ the culprit.

We have an unprecedented four days ahead of us. Four castles on the shopping list (as opposed to fork handles) Giddy plans such as this not achieved since the Summer of ’67. An in between ‘O’ and ‘A’ levels must do project, turned into a good excuse for a cycling trip with life-long friend Paul Shelton, visiting the castles of North Wales.

We’re currently parked up just outside Seaford, on a very openly exposed Buckle Holiday Park. Family run, with no intentions of updating the facilities since they were first erected circa 1952. The referred to toilet ‘block’, a misnomer. No more than a wooden, run down, longer than average garden shed. The word ‘hut’ springs to mind. At £30 a pot, ‘Value for money’ does not.

On arrival we get a pleasant surprise. We’re allocated a pitch next to Beastie’s identical twin. Our returning neighbours get a surprise too. Our central door is wide open. As they approach they look worried. They think Beastie is theirs, until the penny drops. It’s clear their Beastie suffers from the same ‘driveway anxiety’ attacks as ours. The rear bumper currently held on with lashings of Gaffa tape.

Earlier, we ignore the rain and go with its flow. Enjoy a delightful diversion. Call on the pretty town of Lewes and its cobbled high street. As did Mick Jagger for a short time in 1967. Courtesy of HMPS for possession of cannabis. With nothing to declare, we seek out castle number one. Fill time and space between our ears with its history. A plentiful supply of info boards, compensate for the lack of audio guide.

With Beastie’s burners back on tap Mrs S shows off her culinary talent again to round the day off nicely . . .

It’s interesting how hope of better things to come, generally creates a feeling of well being in the here and now. Yet, oddly, that can sometimes be true of pessimism, with its grounded reality check. The acceptance that the here and now is as good as it gets and no fear of being disappointed.

Packed alongside Scoot, in Beastie’s underbelly, we have included a number of items that may or not be destined to be put to use on this trip. Table tennis bats (the wind would have to drop considerably before use) Snorkeling gear (the sea temperature would have to rise considerably before use). Sponge beach loungers. (the air temperature will have to rise exponentially before use). Bonus balls waiting to be pulled out of the bag.

Tanner Farm Park, just south of Marden, Kent, is home for the next three nights. We have no phone signal. No wifi. Hence this ‘eventual’ posting.

We arrive via castle number two, residing at Bodiam. A once prettily plastered residence for Sir Edward Dalyngrigge. Its drainable lake enhances and conjures a romantic aesthetic appeal. On entry we’re treated to an almost expert display of swordsmanship. The first day back on duty in over a year for the three protagonists causes much amusement as they stumble and fumble through their barely remembered choreographed routines, Despite this, they impart a lot of interesting variations on how best to dispatch, or be dispatched, by an attacker.

Bodiam Castle has far fewer tidbits of information scattered throughout. Head scratching the norm. However, before leaving we’re fully compensated by David, an historian and story teller extraordinaire. He gracefully relates the history of the castle in a way that assumes our knowledgebase and acute interest in all matters past, matches his. He creates mini time warps. Grasps what’s gone and places it before us. A stream of little tittle-tattle-like stories tipple from his tongue, just as if we’re gossiping neighbours across a shared back fence.

With hindsight, there would be no need to face a dilemma. Future knowledge would remove all doubt. Erase all uncertainty. How boring would that be!

After a night of torrential rain, the morning starts with bright promise. It gets blown away as quickly as the ever darkening clouds skimming overhead. Showers the order of today. Our timed midday entry at Sissinghurst Castle Gardens creates a dilemma. We don’t want to get wet. Should we go by Scoot, or by Beastie. It’s less than 13K. Twenty minutes max. We (I) put our money on Scoot. All we have to do is wait for a dry window of opportunity. We take it. But don’t make it. Get completely lost. At one point we are closer to Sissinghurst as the crow flies, yet ridiculously, further, as the labyrinth of lanes fly. Thankful help from a couple of cyclists and then a postman saves our bacon. But by then it’s too late. We’ve doubled our journey time and been pelted by rain and cheek-stinging hail into the bargain. To add insult to injury Scoot’s petrol gauge is now pointing to less than empty. Eeek!

Of the 450acres estate, 5 acres are laid out to a series of beautifully kept garden rooms. We spend a couple of hours dodging showers and drooling . . .

I read recently that everything in the universe has always been and still is, heading towards greater complexity. We can certainly recognise an inkling of that, simply by reflecting on what has changed during our own short worldly existence on planet earth. Is this why many of us have an inner hankering for the simple life?

It’s day four of the Great British Castle Off. To Scoot or not to Scoot. That is today’s big question. Whether it is nobler in the mind to travel in style and arrive dry and warm, or to suffer the slings and arrows of hail and rain and arrive wet and freezing? Oh sweet dilemma, where is your sting?

There is no sting. On arrival Mrs S removes her helmet with relief and states “Sometimes I feel so sorry for myself” – perhaps Scoot’s days are numbered?

Scotney Castle (AKA Scootny), turns out to be another castle that’s not. We blame the French and their 100 years war. It seems the local gentry at that time, instead of simply barring up their windows and doors against the marauding French, decided to fortify their country estate houses a la castle-style. Put on a pretend show. Simply added a turret here, or a tower there, with the odd crenellation thrown in for good measure – et voila! So providing any of these elements remain, it seems it can justifiably still be called a castle.

In any event, it’s another peach set within nature’s stunning beauty. 

Time creates mini illusions. From one second to the next. It places the next in front of us. Knowing we can never go back. Knowing we can only free-fall forwards. And if we try to hold onto the past, the future becomes nowhere to be.

Three nights on this immaculate and well organised CCC site provides no excuses. The beating heart of the ancient Anglican Community and its heaped history waits for us. A downhill 1800 second saunter sees us wandering and wondering within its ancient city walls – what’s left of them. Like all ancient cities, Canterbury is a mix of old and not so old. Of new and not so new. Of things lost then uncovered. Some remembered. Some forgotten. Of fortunes made and squandered. Where sin and sorrow run hand in hand with love and joy throughout the backstreets of time.

We allow ourselves our first meander down town. Go get lost . . .

Day two and we return. Turn the clock back again. Go visit another’s past. On our list, a punt down memory lane, or in our case, the River Stour – one of five UK Stours. Andrew’s well practised homework echoes off the ancient walls and tunnels. His entertaining inventions conjure a reality we never knew. But in some strange sense we’re able to grasp the gist. He enables our imaginations to do what they do best, imagine.

Today’s main event takes second place to a ninety minute walking tour. Colin is on form, along with the weather. We’re on a roll. By the time I’m typing this up 95% of his spiel has been . . . . what was I saying?

Still eager to make the most of our time we book an inner visit. It’s largely underwhelming, due to an ongoing five year plan of repairs. Very little internal info. No audio guide. And the £8 pre-ordered printed guide no more than a history book. A Covid one way system doesn’t help. However, we do fall across one or two aesthetic gems.

We round off our Canterbury Trails at the Azouma Moroccan restaurant. Share a couple of chicken and lamb tagines. Allow our minds the liberty to revisit. Imagine a connection. Join our now to our past – a starlit evening out in the middle of nowhere. Just short of the Sahara.

When it comes to dress sense someone once said “Blue and green, should never be seen”. That person may, or may not, have been a nature lover. But those are the two of the three colours we crave the most when out on our travels. The third? Yellow of course!

Shortly after arrival we get bathed by that big yellow ball. We have our own acre to spread out on, on this family owned site in Upchurch, so we do just that.

When a site sends you specific instructions on where to find them, it always pays to read that information carefully. Even more important, to remember it. Our arrival to 5 Acres Camping illustrates this point beautifully.

We always get there – one way or another . . .

Today’s day of rest gives us the opportunity to follow up on a lead. While wondering around the local cemetery (as one does) at Upchurch yesterday we bump into Jan Lacey. A friendly late eighties lady. We interrupt her watering duties. She doesn’t mind. Within ten minutes she’s related half a life-time’s story. And suggests we walk over to the next village, Lower Halstow. We do just that. It’s quaint.

Until our arrival yesterday, this site had never been frequented by the local ice-cream man. We stopped him in his tracks as he was passing the gate. Seeing an opportunity too good to miss, he returns today. Realises he’s onto a winner. A captive customer base his easy pickings.

Are you a trombonist? Trumping a la Jimmy Edwards? Or a squeeky trumpeteer like Roy Castle? It’s one of those things we all do. Secretly or not. Controlled or uncontrolled. Sneakily or blatantly. With or without embarrassment. Loud or quiet. Long or short. Always bound to create a reaction; a titter; a raised eyebrow – depending on whose closest. Nearest & dearest, or stranger. If it happens to be an SBD, then it’s best to be alone, or vacate the place of your deed ASAP, or take on the look of an accuser!

If you type a question into Google and it has the answer, then someone must have asked that question before you. For example; Q: Are farts heavier or lighter than air? And of course the answer leads you onto another interesting question. If lighter, then once expunged does that mean you’ve immediately gained weight?

Of course, at our time of life we have to ensure they don’t become our nemesis.

Hall Place House & Gardens, Bexley. A beautiful spot. It’s another hot bluey. A no excuse day to Scoot over and take a looksee. A couple of phut-phuts, on our very own phut-phut. We do just that. Families galore making the most. Great to see.

The gardens are also home to the Queen’s ‘topiary’ Beasts. Planted at the time, to commemorate her coronation.

Our three night stay at Abbey Wood in London, an oasis in itself. Scooting around we find many green areas. We choose Joyden’s Wood for today’s gambit. A planted ancient wood of stunning beauty.

Two consequitive days out on Scoot without getting lost – a record. It’s thanks to my new AFTERSHOKZ bluetooth headphones. A tight fit under my helmet, but worth it when linked to MAPS.

You can never find a copper, when you want one. And the one that used to cover this patch is long gone. But before he left, he left a series of wonderful countryside images from the past. Beautiful snap shots. Illusionary images of coloured concoctions. Rose tinted tinctures suggesting a more peaceful existence.

Today, we break our journey. Visit his favourite haunting place. Another gem preserved by the National Trust. Idyllic is the only word to describe Flatford Mill. We go plod his beat. Blow our own whistles. Take our own snap shots. See how they compare.

Today’s technology is inescapable. It’s at our figure tips. Constantly. It almost a greater necessity than food. We can go without food for a day or three. But no internet? Aargh . . .

We’re pitched up at Colchester Country Park. Two miles outside of Colchester. Can we get signal? Only when we don’t need it. Face turned the other way. A message or WhatsApp comes in. How does it do that? It’s showing no bars. We can’t even find out what day it is! I no longer believe the 99% coverage claims of any provider. We had better service in remote areas of Morocco!! Apparently, the moon has better internet signal than Colchester Country Park.

Colchester Castle is caught in our headlights today. Hardly surprising. It’s one of those dark miserable wet gloomy days that belongs to the depths of autumn. The type that makes you want to stay snug in doors, curled up like a tabby in front of a roaring fire. We resist the urge. Make the effort. Catch the bus instead. Away from the site, MAPS technology again at our fingertips. Glued to the progress of the blue dot, we sit and stare, like the eyeballs in the sky of two observing gods. Give ourselves the Nod when it’s time to go nomadic.

Built on the foundations of the huge Roman Temple of Claudius, the castle houses a masterful collection of predominately locally found objects. All give testament to the ingenuity of the master  craftsmen of their day. Indications of a sophistication quite bewildering. Their technological know-how evident in all its forms. From the practical to the aesthetic. Their legacy the building blocks of current civilisations.

We’re not used to it. One of the joys of travelling “sur le continent”, is that feeling of vive la difference. Believe it or not, that includes supermarkets. Being able to discover new items to try, all  part of the experience. Topping up onboard provisions while traipsing round the ‘local’ Tesco doesn’t cut it. On the plus side? Points do. And they make free crossings!

Today promises to dry itself off. And stay dry. It needs to. It does. We Scoot over to Paycocke’s House. Coggeshall. It’s one of many timber framed buildings in the village, dating from Tudor times. Along with three other couples we’re treated to the last guided tour of the day. Get to know the who’s, the why’s and the what’s thats. Like in the TV series A House Through Time, the house’s chequered history revealed. From brewery, clothmaking, shop, homes and now National Trust treasure. It’s not all gawp. Our guide keeps us on our toes. It’s an interactive tour of the house. We get asked questions she already knows the answers to, but we don’t. A guise in disguise. Like a trick of the light. You see things that may, or may not be there.

Letting go is not always easy. Whether it’s a person, a place, or “stuff”. Things never stay the same. Readjusting to a new set of circumstances can be challenging. Even when planned. More so when not.

When our laptop decided to lock me out of the perpetual sign in loop, I went loopy. A cartoon creative, would have concocted imaginary scenes above my steaming head. Multiple scenarios on how best to smash the living daylights out of this innate object would flicker. No Basil Fawlty branch at hand to let rip. Like a dog with a bone I wouldn’t let go. Couldn’t. Not until every conceivable fix had been tried. Even a Windows 10 reinstall failed miserably. That left me miserable. Blogging via phone and tablet the new norm. A new set of slower procedures to endure to create the same end result.

On the plus side, Applefields Camping is a gem. Not just because we have a strong signal! Privately run. Sensibly organised. Lovely owners. Lovely location. In easy reach of our go to plans.

With plenty of afternoon to spare we amble through the local corn fields. Visit the Leiston Abbey, that was. A now ruin. Fifteen minutes north.

It’s difficult to ask for your money back. You need to feel cheated somehow. Unexpectedly hoodwinked. Taken for a ride. Feel able to justify your demand. It’s especially difficult when the item, or service, is perceived as being free

We arrive at Sutton Hoo with high hopes. Unbeknown to us Netflix have recently released “The Dig”. Fortunately, we haven’t seen it. If we had, our hopes would possibly have been higher.

On entering the first exhibition building, our hopes start to get flattened. Like a couple of pancakes at the mercy of a steam roller. Part of the ‘you enter at your own peril’ blurb, advises visitors to engage their imaginations. Never a good sign. Around a couple of two parallel rounds, the exhibits are beautifully exhibited. They are all in brand spanking new condition. Shields, knives, utensils, jewells et al. All reconstructions. AKA fakes. Beautifully reproduced. But nevertheless, not the real McCoy. Ah well, mustn’t grumble. It is free.

We move on. Tranmer House houses info about Edith Petty & co, and the actual dig. We feel slightly less cheated. Though, it’s still disappointing. One room looping three simultaneous video/audio clips, discombobulates our ability to think straight, or take in and recall anything from the information boards. Ah well, mustn’t grumble. It is free afterall.

In any event. The ‘piece de resistence’ is yet to come. The house and land is set in wonderful countryside. We enjoy the walk over to the ‘Royal Burial Ground’. The grand finale to our visit. What remains of our high hopes gets shot down in flames. Our expections have conjured a vision that’s Mary Rose-esq. If only we could switch our minds into imagination mode. We can’t. The dig and all it’s glory long gone. On the plus side, the viewing tower is closed due to Covid!

Daedalus, excluded, has anyone ever killed two birds with one stone?

We’ve already escaped. And in no need of extra feathers. Scoot too manly for a boa. So he never ventures that close to the sun. We take flight. Hightail it. Let him stretch his wings as he flies us down to Thorpeness. A bit further than a stone’s throw from Applefields.

Thorpeness is a delight. Picture book images around every corner. We’ve heard there’s even a house in the clouds, perched opposite a windmill. We ask a local for directions. Get chatting to Jane outside her front gate. A metallic blue, open top Fiat 124 Spider, cruises throatily down the lane towards us, pulls up. The cool looking driver is smartly dressed in black. He’s wearing his white collar, back to front. “Hi James. If you’ve got a minute, would you like to see around my garden?” “Sorry Jane, I’m on my way to do an interment. Next time?”

Hiding her disappointment we become James’s subs. Get ushered on to her field of play for a short tour. Jane’s self designed garden a really interesting mix of plantings. It’s not every day a stranger invites you in to view their garden. The last time we experienced that privilege was ten year’s ago, on Christmas Eve. In Cuba!

Jane directs us down a couple of short cut ginnels and across a small copse.

We decide to kill the second bird. Take a short shingle side stroll to Aldeburgh. Get side tracked by a shell. It’s unusually large.

We constantly compare. It’s our way of establishing whether one thing is better than the other. Look at the pertinent qualities. See if they hold up and meet our expectations. Assist our decision making. Critique our made choices.

On route to the Broads we make a stop. Take a park and ride into Norwich. £1.70 return. A Senior plus moment. Visit the Cathedral. It’s the hottest day so far. Beastie can confirm. He’s sweating cobs. And not the only one.

With no online booking procedure in place we roll up on spec, unsure if we’ll get in. Needn’t have worried. Unlike its Canterbury cousin, entry is free. As we step into the nave, David greets us. “Would you be interested in a free tour?” We thank our lucky stars. Emulate Janice, give it a “foive”.

Diane, David’s understudy leads the way. Fills us in with all the facts and figures of the building’s history. Unlike Canterbury, it’s a joy. At times we almost feel we have the whole place to ourselves. The interior is remarkable.

Norfolk, like Suffolk, has it’s own unique language for describing certain everyday things. A set of unusual and strange words that sound far more interesting and entertaining than the ‘common’.

Here are a few . . . umpty-tump; bishey-barney-bee; charlie-pig and of course, poĺly-wiggle. A different mind’s eye their norm. They like to stretch the norm a tad too when it comes to sign posts. It appears you can go somewhere, but nowhere in particular, by road.

. . . and end up at Potter Heigham, the local waterway watering hole. Frequented by everyone holidaying in this area.

Like many things that seem too big for any single one of us to handle, or bring about change, we can often find it easy to turn a blind eye. Pretend it’s not our problem. Pass the buck. Demand action from leaders and politicians. It’s their job. Isn’t it? Especially true when that “thing” impacts on our need for leisure and pleasure. Two modern day “rights”.

Ensconced within the myriad of waterways, we forget about stately homes, pretty gardens, castles and cathedrals. Focus our focus on two more days in nature. Saturate ourselves while it’s still dry and warm. Turn our efforts into some wheel spinning. Go ride-about. Discover how really flat this area is. It is. Even less than flat. At one point, we reach the top of How Hill. My bike computer shows our elevation above sea level to be -27 metres!!! I knew we should have packed our snorkels. No wonder they express huge concerns about global warming and the rise in sea levels over here. East Anglia’s days seem numbered. Yet “tourism” still rules and is encouraged everywhere. Quieter roads, countered by busier dieseled waterways.

On planning a stay in this region I’d imagined the best way to experience the broads would be by boat. I toyed with the notion. But to jeopardise the theory of evolution and discard our MOHO-Sapiens stature, to revert to MOBO-Restrictus, even if just for one day, was unthinkable. What would Beastie think of us? In any event, we didn’t get it. It seems that all you get to see is the unending waterway ahead and high banks of reeds on either side.

Unless . . .

They tell us that being out in nature is good for your soul. Good for your physical health. Good for your mental health too. Perhaps it’s the nearest thing we have that connects us to the universe. To the divine – the close encounter catalyst.

Today we make our way over to the Sandringham Estate, via Horsey Gap. It’s not famous for its horses. But for its seals. We want a close encounter. A divine connection. We’ve heard that they lie around on the beach all day. Waiting for us. Don’t go for a swim until they’ve made a connection or two either. We cough up £5. Two hours parking. Ten minutes later we’re on our way. A few can be seen bobbing. Treading water. Fifty metres off shore. They seem to be smiling ‘Ha, ha, gotchya’ grins. The owner of the privately owned car park is grinning too. We cut our losses.

We move west, try Cromer. Further along the coast. Wish we hadn’t. It has one saving grace. A brilliant idea of putting art out into the community – Street Side. This favourite, one of many.

Sandringham Estate. Another piece for the non existent igsaw puzzle . . . It’s difficult to imagine a different life for oneself. In different times or circumstances we may sometimes wish we were someone else. It’s even more difficult to imagine another’s life. Virtually impossible. But that’s what we sometimes do. A society media fed and lead. We watch. Search out. Capture the essence. Our timed entry booked for Monday 3pm.

Our fairground frolics have scored a bull’s eye on most days. On others a close miss. No Teddy Bear to tell of yet. Like £5 all-dayers we hop from one attraction to another. Aiming to get our money’s worth.

Our CCC site is just a twenty minute walk from Liz’s Sandringham Estate, our main attraction. The weather gods are in a good mood. Like us, they’re enjoying this fine spell. Always a bonus when walking and cycling.

We each pay four times the all-day rate for a fifty minute glimpse into and through the ground floor rooms. My wrist gets slapped in room one. I take a photo. Naughty boy. “It’s in the T&Cs, sir, that form part of your ticket confirmation. Can you delete the photo.” – “Sorry, I can’t. No delete facility on my 360”. I do the right thing and don’t post it on this blog. Save my head. Keep it privately saved. Along with the others I took in each room!

Our pitch is almost perfectly positioned. We’re so far out on a limb that we have no internet or mobile signal. We remain on the dark side of the moon for three nights.

We get to hear that Wolverton Royal Railway station is close. Apparently the royals from Victoria onwards, hopped off and on here. Good excuse to get the bikes out.

The station and signal box building preserved, but not pickled. Still looking regal.

You can’t always be in the right place, at the right time. And when you’re not, you just have to accept it. Make the most of what’s on offer. Refuse to let it spoil the moment.

We’re cramming. Trawling ahead of every journey. On the lookout for any passing NT places. Spread our net wide. Wider than a Bowhead’s mouth. Eager to hook them in. Keen none escape. Today, Uxburgh House and garden gets swallowed up as we move over to Cambridge. Its temporary look, not to our taste.

The phenomenon of attraction occurs everywhere. It has an effect on everything in the known cosmos. Its source not always fully understood. Gravitational pull and magnetism and other forms of energy fall within our grasp. Yet personal attractions seem less universal. More subjective. I’m attracted to this. You’re attracted to that. Why?

A relatively short Scoot of 20K rolls us over to Anglesey Abbey and Gardens. Our planned and booked trip for tomorrow, brought forward one day. Today says hot and blue. Tomorrow not so. We forego the house. It’s closed on Wednesday’s. We are more than compensated. Its 124 acres of gardens a masterpiece of design and intrigue. A wonderful blend of formal and natural landscaping.

Thursday 17th June. Sometimes its good to remind oneself what day it is. If only briefly. Mary-Ann constantly asks me what planet I’m on and that saves me having to try and remember that. The weather changes. It’s one of those grey overcast days that hover low overhead. A constant threat that breathes down your neck. Like a couple of cool cobras tasting the air we repeatedly take a rain check. It holds off for the duration of our trip in and out from Cambridge. Courtesy of the number 7 and two bus passes.

That attraction thingy steps in again. We deliberately sidetrack. Hop off at the Botanical Gardens. 40 acres of oasis. Give the Fitzwilliam museum a miss. We don’t need to know. Just need to be.

Spontaneity is often key when touring. A small detour here or there often brings reward. Although for those we visit today, there is little earthly reward.

Today’s on route stop off brings us to a halt at The American Cemetery and Memorial, Cambridge. A thirty odd acre site donated by the University of Cambridge in 1943. Another reminder of the tragic and ruthless result of war.

We have the place virtually to ourselves, so to speak. The grey windy, wet day, discourages many others. Takes on our sombre mood, as we reflect on the enormity of bravery we can never conceive. The most immaculate rows of white on green do their utmost to honour each individual sacrifice.

Open 363 days each year, the visitor centre graphically informs, illustrates and demonstrates on a global and individual basis how the Americans came to the aid of the allies war effort. We are touched deeply by some individual tragedies. The irony of surviving a desperate war-time situation, only then to be hit by a car, during blackout, for example.

The Chapel, a work of art and design. Its regular chime breaks the silence and welcomes the fallen home.

One of ‘man’s’ incredible gifts is the ability to figure things out. Not just any old thing. But really, really complex things. Solving and devising is what makes us king. Unique amongst all living creatures.

Today sees us park Beastie up at Bletchley Park. Home of the Code Kings. A privately bought stately home, given over in its entirety for the extraordinary WWII code breakers.

Every form of ingenious thought process was employed in order to decipher the German codes. Ĺooking at their methodology, and technology (not) it was a real slog. But also a labour of love, with the highest of stakes at risk.

No one person knew what was going on in other huts. The big picture chopped up into lots of smaller ones. A miraculous and meticulous conveyer belt of codes and ciphers. Sniffing and snuffing the enemy out. All held their tongue under the threat of being shot for treason! It seemed to do the trick. For after the war, many went to their graves without ever divulging a single word of what they did.

We discover the incredible use of homing pigeons too. Not as pie ingredients. Parachuted in behind enemy lines, to fly back to base with valuable coded messages.

If you’ve read this far and are puzzled by the header, I’ll give you a clue. But only if you don’t shift to the left first.

If ever machines come to dominate the earth, then I imagine that their power will not be challenged by all. Populations will split. Half compliant. Half not. Infact it’s already started.

Today’s short site-hop over to Henley, seems straight forward. We plan a hop off at Grey’s Court. Another hidden away NT gem. Like a couple of Daleks our mantra is “We obey. We obey”. Missy our onboard Oz navigator and master controller, decides to test our obedience. Sends us where no Dalek has ever been before.

The garden is host to an extensive display of interesting sculptures. Some weird and zany. Some put old cutlery to ingenious work.

Everyone’s different, thankfully. And every camper, whether by tent, caravan, campervan or motorhome, has their own very different approach and take on what a camping break consists of.

UKers, on a whole, tend not to go too far from home. Not to be away for too long. This is the general theme we gleen from fellow washer-uppers. Many a retired MOHO couple have arrived on site in two vehicles. MOHO plus car, driven separately, not towed. Often eyebrows raise, when they discover we’re six weeks on the road.

With only a handful of days left, today’s intentions get washed away. No fun for the tenters, we imagine. We don’t go bananas cooped up inside. Play Bananagrams, unscramble our minds.

With Cliveden House & Gardens a little out of Scoot’s range, we unleash Beastie today. Let him stretch his legs off site. The decision almost backfires. The entrance gates look as if they’ve been in situ, since the Duke of Buckinghamshire first built the place in the 1660s, for his mistress. Very tall, black, ornate. Look as if the local blacksmith would have needed a year or two to construct. Not very wide. Wide enough for a horse and carriage. Marble Beastie ball-bangers hover either side. Ready to inflict maximum damage on any stray overwidth entrant. A series of deep gouges convincing evidence of previous conflicts. Beastie’s whiskers start to fidget. He pulls up short. Hesitates. I decide to give him a nudge forward. Supreme confidence in his ability to suck it up and suck himself in. At the last second Mrs S notices a sign. “Large vehicles – next gate” . . .

The “place”, or should that read palace. Is monstrously massive. He could have housed one hundred mistresses, and still had space over. A monstrously massive water feature, makes a monstrously massive statement upon entry. Poses the question “You sure you can afford this?” The house is now leased out as a hotel, so we give the interior a miss. Save our pennies. Head off into the 376 acres of gardens.

The Aston family, owners when WWI broke out, allowed hospital facilities to the Canadian Red Cross. Subsequently converted and consecrated the Italian garden. The unusual cemetery the last resting place for those who died in the hospital.

Back at base, on this fabulous Swiss Farm camp site we’re treated. Bunnies feed and frolic close by. Closely watched by gangs of birds of prey. Several couples of Red Kite on constant duty. They glide and screech feedback to one another from on high.

Six weeks out on the road. Beastie doing the rounds. Scoot shooting out at a tangent. No National Trust stone left untouched as we eventually get back to where we started.

We break our penultimate journey at Avebury. Go visit another circle. One that’s been around a little longer. A 360 online view promises a suitable parking space. Not the case as we pull up. The Summer Solstice height barrier still in place. Limbo dancing not a Beastie talent.

The 330 metre wide main circle is missing a number of stones, but the many that remain clearly show the enormous scale of achievement.

We’re now pitched up at “Camping in the Forest”, Postern Hill, within the Savernake Forest. A two-nighter that gives us leave for an am forest walkabout, and a pm Marlborough walkabout. The beautiful former out-shining the traffic-bound town.

So, our Covid conscripted circle reaches 360. It’s been different. Yet including fourteen National Trust sites has brought a certain similarity and feel to our journey. We’ve travelled through fantastic, typically English scenery. Walked through some picture postcard villages. Trekked through some amazing woodland. Revelled within some wonderfully constructed and beautiful gardens. Our Great British weather played its part too, but thankfully took a minor role, most of the time.

If there’s been anyone out there that’s done full circle with us, then the pleasure has probably been more ours than yours. If you’ve merely bitten off the odd segment here and there, then I can hardly blame you. In any event, thanks for being with us and see you in 2022, when we’ll be back across the water.