(Note to reader; if you click on the pictures they get bigger and click on “comments” to add a comment i.e. not enough sex & violence, type a little slower for the uneducated etc.)
Decided to give “The Desert of Palms” another visit, this time by car. Parked at the information centre and chose “the yellow” route, which encompassed a climb to the highest peak in the area, mount “el bartolo” at 729 m. The route was basically circular with an offshoot to the peak. As can been seen from the photos this became questionable after dark clouds and a heavy mist closed in, and after
the recent thunderstorms we wisely decided to give it a miss.I am presently (7:45 in morning) looking at one of those small teapot things that European people have that actually brew coffee. Got it at the market for €5 and as I had never used one before decided, after buying appropriate ground coffee called “BONKA”, honest! Well yesterday fills it up and puts it on the smallest gas hob we have got, it boiled, and boiled and boiled. When is it done? Problem is the “smallest” hob is still quite powerful and although the coffee had perked, it had heated up the cup bit you put the water in, so much that it was boiling the perked coffee in the top.
Figured this out after about 15 minutes and decided to “have a look”.
Now what happens to cheap coffee thingies that, a) you have never used before b) you don’t know how fast they work, or MUCH more importantly how bloody hot they get. So “let’s just try and prise open this welded lid”, hold on to bottom and …………… OOOOOWWWGGGGHHHH!!!
Hot coffee everywhere, no fingerprints on left hand (thinks; left hand bugler leaves no trace at crime scene) and I’ll have to clean all this up, one handed, before her indoors gets up. Oh well, reach for the instant.
Back to the present, little bastid has been on for a few minutes and steam is still coming out. Right! Asbestos gloves on, hold bottom (of the coffee pot silly), prise lid and viola! I’ve never enjoyed a Bonka so much in my life. To be honest, the time taken, for only one cup mind, to fill it correctly, wait for it to do its stuff, then clean the thing, with a pickaxe, after it’s taken two hours to cool down, it’s simply not worth it, back to the instant Columbian from Lidl.
Another 24 miles to Castellion and back and Tricia is seriously talking Licra and Spandex. She has finally noticed that EVERYBODY, well cyclist that is, in Europe wears the stuff. So as she tends to wear longish shorts and a blouse, she looks like she’s off to the shops (she actually asked me to put a basket on the front of her bike) rather than a gruelling 30 miler. So it’s off to Carrefore sports section and a chamois crutch.
As the weather heats up, more and more are leaving the site to go home for summer mounts, we definitely feel like “Jonny no mates” as there are large spaces all around us. Soon will be our turn, only nine days till we leave!
As mentioned in previous post, the next is:- The invite to Tricia’s 50th, including a potted history.
Dear friends,
As chairman of the Forest Row Goose Fettering and River Widening Society and although unused to public typing as I am, it however gives me great and joyous pleasure to invite you (insert name here) to the forthcoming half-century celebration.
" I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, straining upon the start. The game's afoot: Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge cry, "God for Harry! England and Saint George!"
Or better still, come to: -
Tricia Swinhoe’s 50th birthday party!
The event takes place at or around 7 o’clock’ish in Swinhoe’s back yard on Saturday 17th July. (Her actual birthday being 14th July, Bastille Day, need I say more?)
It will comprise the standard BBQ format, rain or not. Pre-orders for how you would like your meat burned can be taken, black, very black, charcoal and dust.
Invitees will be limited to those from a similar social geodemographic background and must own at least one property abroad (preferably the Algarve) and must not, under any circumstances, associate with people from, or work in the general vicinity of, Croydon or Crawley.
A gift list will be supplied in plenty of time before the event but any article/device or tool that can be used by either a Postman or Electrian will suffice.
Tricia is planning a pre-party “botox” trip to the local vets, so if anyone would like to sign up let me know by return please.
A short history: -
Tricia was born 50 years ago in a place called Seaham, a small pit village, close to the sea (obvious I know). She was your actual Miner’s daughter (not the bird).
The family became restless and finally emigrated the 7.8 miles north to Whitburn, another small pit village near the same North Sea, where her Dad became a “Pit Deputy”. (No, he did not wear a star; it was a form of management).
She went to school in Whitburn, did various northern exams, which are meaningless down south; she basically received the normal northeast education i.e. enough to sign on. She was a real working class lass. She was a bobby dazzler from the start. She started work with British Rail in Newcastle as a secretary, building herself up to a good size 14 on the local “dips”, stotty cake and pie and chips.
It was here she first met her true love. Unfortunately it did not last and he became a very useful left half for Plymouth Argyle and now runs a pub in Bolton.
She then got a job in God’s own city, Sunderland, at Thorns Radio Valves and Tubes, in Pallion Industrial Estate. Doesn’t it sound so romantic?
Working there was a rather gawky longhaired Electrian type yobo who thought himself a bit flash. Owning a red Mini with Mickey Mouse painted on one door and Dillon (from Magic Roundabout) smoking weed on the other. (He often wondered why the Police kept stopping him?).
To cut a very long story short, Tricia made it known to the local gossip that she may fancy a bit of “rough”. He eventually went round to her office and asked for a date. On the way out her mate asked what the hell did she see in him? “Oh, I’m in love and I’m going to marry him”…………………………er, make up your own words now.
The “date” involved seeing Little and Large at “The Tavern” in South Shields and John (yes the bit of rough, thank God), for some obscure reason, pouring as many Brandy and Babychams down her neck as possible,
He got promoted to Factory Engineer and she left to work 400 yards away at Rolls Royce, eventually becoming the Managing Directors PA and earning a relative fortune. Which came in handy later as John tried to get pregnant because they could not afford her to stop working.
Anyway, engagement was followed by the great day, John bought a Triumph Spitfire, er... no the Wedding!
John by now had received his first of 6 redundancies and was working as an Electronics/programming design Engineer at Newcastle University, studying for his degree, part-time Electrian and still earning less than her. John remembers vividly standing in the rain at the bus stop as Tricia drove by in HIS Spitfire. He should have realised there and then that this was the way it was going to be forever, him always getting the shitty end of the stick. (Only joking, pet)
If he had murdered her then, he would be out on good behaviour next Thursday.
Two kids followed and a real “emigration” took place when the family moved “Sarff”; well to Hertfordshire for a couple of years and then here, to Forest Row.
Tricia decided she should be “looked after”, which meant not working and bringing up the kids for the next 16 years. Twice during that time Tricia had her credit cards stolen, John never reported it though, as the thief was spending less than her.
In that time she has met many people down here and made friends and that is why you are all invited, her friends
Tricia and John.
Tricia's Day Speech by Bill Wagglestick
This day is called the 50th feast of Tricia:He that outlives this day, and comes safe home (via Roadrunners or Southdown, whoever comes first)
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,And rouse him at the name of Tricia.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Tricia’s day:'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
And say 'These wounds I had on Tricia's day, fighting with Swan for the last chicken leg.
'Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But she'll remember with advantagesWhat feats she did that day: then shall our names.
Familiar in her mouth as household wordsRadford the dour,
Marsh the silver fox, Stockwell the Greek,Kent the injured,
Connacher the devious, Leadbetter and Swan of the short pocket,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Tricia’s day shall ne'er go by,From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;We few, we happy few, we band of brothers (and sisters!);
For he to-day that sheds his blood, wine, beer and burgers with her Shall be her brother
(and sister, watch the PC);
be he ne'er so vile,This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought, drank and BBQ’ed with us, upon Tricia’s day.
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