Scandinavian beauty

Here's an addition for Mike's new collection.

Those of a delicate disposition might not wish to continue.

Wild were the winds

Ok, so I was exaggerating the camping vicissitudes. Slightly. We went in the van, so our accommodation was more "van-with-nylon-shelter-attachment" than strictly "tent". Also, there was no snow forecast, although the overnight temperatures were predicted to be sub-zero.

PREPARATIONS
The van is a constant source of joy and wonder. Whilst rearranging its contents for spring rather than summer, (out go suntan lotions, insect repellent, swimming  paraphernalia, large tent, barbecue, sunshade etc; in come blankets, fleeces, coats, waterproofs, umbrellas and more blankets), I discovered b1's gameboy, lost since last August, and several tins of cassoulet of similar vintage.

OUTWARD
On the journey B read to me from Tunnel Visions by Christopher Ross. Or to be more accurate, he shouted it at me in order to be heard above the ear-splitting high-pitched whistle which is generated by some mysterious aerodynamic anomaly above the driver's side of the windscreen at speeds of 45mph and above or in strong wind conditions at any speed. The book began promisingly, with a passingly interesting point about straight journeys. b1 spent the drive crouched over his gameboy.

MAKING CAMP
0nce parked, cautiously, near the cliff edge, the business of tent erection had to be undertaken. Taking into account the direction of the prevailing wind (licking of fingers, plucking and casting of grass, observation of surrounding vegetation which mostly consisted of... grass) we positioned our polyester shelter in the lee of the van. We subsequently discovered the wind didn't so much prevail as prevaricate and it spent much of the rest of the stay blasting directly into our humble dwelling when coldest and least convenient. b2 was keen to help, holding tent pegs and pulling on guy ropes. b1 lay on the grass and played his gameboy.

GASTRONOMY
There are various essentials of camping cuisine. Beer. Pringles. Pot noodles. Cans of tomato soup. Jaffa cakes. Vendors of fish and chips. However on our first night we feasted on our forgotten tins of cassoulet. More than usual attention had to be paid to the timing of preparation and serving because under the local atmospheric conditions any delay between removing the bubbling pan of scrumptiousness from the flame and spooning it into bowls resulted in the flash-freezing of the victuals. An unfortunate side-effect of this gourmet meal was the subsequent flatus generated in the lower intestinal tracts of certain members of the party. Not mine, of course. The ensuing internal windiness rivalled the external forces of nature and was considerably more malodorous.

FACILITIES
These existed, but only just. There was no hot water at all. There was - for the entire campsite - a portable unit which contained one shower, three toilet stalls for each sex and a total of four wash basins. When sitting on the toilet in any position other than with ones ankles behind ones ears it was impossible to shut the door. Unfortunately the former position is not the most efficient for fuss-free urination, at least for female campers. Rather than wash up in cold water in a six-inch-wide wash basin in which a toilet brush was resting we purchased additional cups and bowls. Eventually, the day before we left, we found an outdoor washing-up area about a mile from our van, and hygiene was restored, at least to the crockery.

DIVERSIONS
Whilst searching the internet for family activities near West Runton, one of my early finds was local fun. Unfortunately we never even spotted, let alone met up with, Helen or Dalton, despite the encouragement and in-depth research by colleagues in the office into the meaning of the acronyms spattered liberally over the page. When I was conversing on the telephone about my recently-purchased self-inflating piece of camping equipment everyone leapt immediately to the wrong conclusion. It was, needless to say, an air mattress.

For the two trainspotters (B and b2) there was the nirvana of the north Norfolk railway, or Poppy Line. Apparently b2 startled shoppers in the model train outlet by standing in the middle of the shop and announcing in firm and strident tones: "what I need is a Virgin". Despite our unceasing efforts to persuade him to attach the syllable "train" to the word "virgin" he refuses to do so. We have so far been unable to formulate a convincing explanation as to why the two must go together.

I watched the sea and the sky. As the grey clouds of morning broke up slowly the progress could be seen on the sea - the dull brown would change to deep blue on the horizon and under patchy skies wave tips remained brown but the troughs dappled pale blue. At night the low temperatures were compensated for by the startling clarity of the stars, so bright and low as to be almost tangible. Jackdaws were nesting in holes in the cliff. I saw a single swallow, then four, then a pair of sand martins stream past. The song of skylarks cascaded from the fields on both sides of us. A pair of fulmars flew past quartering the cliff, just at our eye-level, several times each day. I explained to my spellbound audience that they are related to albatrosses and members of the family are also known as tube-noses because of the distinctive bill formation used to filter out the salt from the seawater they drink since they seldom come to land outside the breeding season. I turned from my rhapsody to find my audience reduced to one, B, who suggested desert lands with coasts should harness fulmar-power to desalinate sea water and thus provide vast reserves of fresh water to make the deserts bloom. I felt this might not be a process susceptible to industrialisation but didn't say anything because I didn't want to destroy his dream.

b1 immediately made friends with the boy in the neighbouring tent. They passed most of their time lying side by side on the ground, barely exchanging words, playing their gameboys.

BREAKING CAMP
When taking down a tent, perform in reverse the actions you took to erect it. I paraphrase the sage advice of a camping website, but you get the general idea. However I have to report that this is easier advised than done. Also there is the inevitable violation of the space-time continuum which has to be addressed when attempting to replace the camping equipment into the packaging in which it was sold. Perhaps the tent manufacturers employ teams of burly individuals to sit upon the neatly folded fabric and reduce it to the minute dimensions necessary for insertion into the cover provided. Certainly greater avoirdupois than we commanded was necessary to render the bundle small enough to repack with any ease.

RETURN
Further readings of the aforementioned Tunnel Visions accompanied the journey back. The book, which had seemed quite promising on the outward trip, rapidly descended in our estimation. "Trite" and "condescending" were the words which sprang to mind. The soi-disant philosopher transpired to be demonstrably no such thing. B mused, at maximum volume to overcome the whistle, on whether the short, numbered, aspiringly aphoristic divisions of the book were a reference to Wittgenstein's Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. I made the mistake of saying I knew nothing about Wittgenstien. I now should know more, but can't recall all the detail. Happily for the progress of my threatened migraine I side-tracked him onto the loving description in the book of the joys of a full English breakfast. Thus it was that at 4pm we found ourselves in a Little Chef mopping up the remaining grease from our Olympic Breakfasts with the slabs of fried bread provided. b2 dandled his new train (not, sadly, a Virgin) all the way back. b1 concentrated on his gameboy.

DEBRIEF
Overall there are two observations to be made. Firstly, camping grounds without adequate washing facilities should be avoided. Secondly, there is a major and I think heretofore unpublicised design fault with the westfalia conversion which is that the bunk in the roof of the van is best suited for children while the bed in the main body is best suited to adults. Combine this arrangement with a child with a bladder the size of a poorly-developed walnut and you have the unfortunate consequence of the adults being trampled on the head four or five times a night as the child in question descends to relieve himself.

Otherwise a splendid time was had by all.

Sun, sea, sand and...

Old Speckled Hen. The cliff-top campers' beer of choice. Between bottles I took pictures.

The beach was stunning - when the tide was out it revealed a seam of chalk containing huge flints. Many were pounded into wonderfully appealing organic forms.

The cliffs are very soft, fragile and constantly eroding, despite the elaborate lines of wooden and metal breakwaters constructed to try to prevent it. The remains of the walls of a house which had toppled over the edge could be seen close to the near-perpendicular steps from clifftop to shingle.

More, perhaps, tomorrow.

Reflections can be ok, of course

Reflecting on the photographs, it seems reflections figure quite prominently in them. I went into a photography shop near work last week to buy yet more photographic paper and the woman behind the counter asked me how it looked printed up since she herself always used matt paper.

I showed her the pictures already printed which just happened to be in a folder in my carrier bag. She was a wonderfully warm and appreciative audience, and remarked that she too liked reflections because it was "an extra space". I like that.

I spent the journey to work this morning admiring the extra space the world acquires on the roofs of passing cars.

Here is impatient executiveman thrusting his personal status-space aggressively through the traffic unaware of the fact that he's trailing clouds of glory.

And here is the bus of mirrors superimposing the light and grace of sky and tree onto the dreary rigidity of unimaginative high-rise housing.

I'd still like a polarising filter though.

Joyful family holiday approaches

Purely in the interests of providing the little bs with a fully-rounded childhood I have organised a delightful family jaunt for the long weekend holiday.

What better, more bracing and traditionally British experience could there be than erecting your tent on the top of a cliff in pouring rain, freezing temperatures and northerly gales? All children must have such a memory to shiver over and complain vociferously about for the rest of their lives.

Numbered among the vociferous complainants is, unfortunately, Dr B, who obviously doesn't take his duties as a parent as seriously as I do. His thin mediterranean blood stops circulating altogether in temperatures below 20 celcius. His extremities turn blue. He does not take the sensible, proven approach of dwellers in northern climes of setting off on a long brisk walk down the beach, dodging the flying spume and shouting above the wuthering and crashing of the elements that things could be worse since it isn't actually snowing, much. Instead he shrivels into a moaning ball of misery and, well, moans.

Despite my assurance that he could stay at home in the warmth of his centrally-heated study wrapped in a duvet drinking hot chocolate while I broaden the children's horizons he insists on coming too. I had thought he must be making up for a lack of such glowing memories in his own childhood but I subsequently discovered the few childhood holidays he had were spent in a caravan in Wales. Although perhaps not in April.

Rain's coming

There are some words, somewhere, but they're not near the surface.

Unlike (effortless elision here) the surface of the new-fashioned loathsome double-decker conductorless buses. Everything is all over the surface of the windows - they're far too reflective. I anticipate far fewer pictures because of the reflections, or the eventual purchase of a ridiculously overpriced polarising filter, which is supposed to get rid of them, so I'm told.

Meanwhile, a small illustration of the extent of the problem as the sky behind flows across the houses in front like mercury pooling over paper. Mercifully without much interference from the additional layer of the interior of the bus.

Kinja

Very exciting. At last, a feed for blogs with no feed. Although of course it works for blogs with feeds too. I'm still sticking to the bloglines for the liquid feeding tube, kinja is more chunky in style. So this is my bloggy chunks selection. When asked, eight out of ten feedless-blog readers said their eyes preferred it.

Up and about

Some of the pictures are up - 32 out of 55. Not all, because we ran out of hooks. Additional supplies are due to arrive in a fortnight. I hope the pictures give people pleasure, or prompt a moment of satisfactorily decisive contemplation in those who do not find them to their taste.

I realised vaguely that the preparations were eating up a lot of my time and energy but it wasn't until last night, when I woke up repeatedly, that I worked out that it was quite a big deal. Not in terms of whether people would like the pictures or not - I'm sufficiently fond of them myself, and have enough warm, wonderful, encouraging words for them left here, for that not to be an issue.

What is important is the milestone. This is a hobby (photography) which I associate closely with the mental journey I have made, a source of pleasure from the pain. And this display says to me "look, here is something I'm happy with, which is not a source of grief or insecurity or envy or pride, it just is, and this is something which was inconceivable a year ago or five years ago or ten years ago; look, a step forward".

And it's yet another thing that would never have happened without this space, this blogdom. Not a greenhouse, which implies an artificial environment, more a coldframe. Thank you everybody who tended the seedlings.

(I am very content. Does it show?)

No words

Recently my work has been concerned with the genocide in Rwanda. This year is the tenth anniversary. I have no words. Once upon a time there were torrents and cascades. Falls thundering relentless on hardest stone. Now not even the dribble of a leaking tap in an empty house in an abandoned town. No words.