Back in my teens I canoed a fair bit, and even achieved a basic canoeing instructors qualification – likely expired. My old canoe – appropriately named Green Goddess – still hangs in my Dad’s garage. So the prospect of spending some time on the water again was something I was not going to pass up. ---- All rights reserved. nd.com Read on...

We picked up a second hand, sit-on-top kayak about three weeks ago. Large enough to carry two adults (“plus a child or dog” is often included in the sales blurb), it is something of a plastic beast and I was concerned about how much effort it would take to paddle it. It came with back-rests and paddles, so we had to shop for safety equipment and even a roof rack to carry it.

The calm and glorious weather last weekend was ideal for our first venture out, so we popped it (sorry, heaved it) onto the roof of the car and drove the full mile down to the sea. The tide was close to low water, so we were glad of the lightweight, two-wheel trolley to help get the boat down to the surf.

I’ve paddled the sea a couple of times and know well how tricky it can be to get through the surf and into calmer waters beyond. But with two paddlers, that is far trickier. One, the front-most, must get into the boat first, the other following once it is in enough water to float. This must happen between waves, so timing would be critical. Jen climbed in, I pushed the boat a little further and lept up. But the kayak turned a little away from the approaching wave before I could grab my paddle and so we were firmly dunked!

We timed it just right for the second attempt and soon we were on the almost totally smooth water beyond the surf.

The beach shrunk away quite quickly, as did the sounds of people and the surf. Just a few hundred yards out and all we could hear was the slight lapping of water against the kayak hull. Below, the sea was clear enough to see right to the sandy bottom. (We did not take out cheap sonar “fish-finder” this time, so I’m not sure how deep the water was.)

Chucking some lures

With low levels of fitness – and Jen being just out the other side of her cold – we decided to be safe and not paddle far. Instead, we floated around near the entrance to the cove with her dipping Mackerel feathers and me spinning a lure for any interested Pollock. It was inappropriate conditions and location for either of those fish, but this outing was really about orientation and familiarity.

Next time, we’ll go further, perhaps around nearby Cambeak point, a likely spot for fish, and a great test for the little fish=finder. This is a small sonar device that floats behind your boat, measuring the depth of water and sensing any passing shoals of fish. I’ve never used one before, so it should prove interesting. (And yes, I am having to fight the temptation to test it in our goldfish tank!)

By the time we returned to the beach, after perhaps an hour, the surf had increased a little with the now incoming tide. The plan was to ride a wave or two right into the beach – and we almost made it! Unfortunately, I failed the steering task by getting my paddle trapped between surging water and boat, turning us sideways for another dunking in the last three feet of water.

Boats need maintenance

Boats always seem to need something doing to them. Stuff breaks, stuff gets beaten by salty water, stuff gets lost. We were no exception.

The return dunking overturned the kayak and resulted in the rear fishing rod holder snapping in its mount (easily replaced). We also managed to lose the front drainage plug when emptying water on the beach. Plus, the uneven sand caught and broke our little two-wheeled trolley. At least only the drain plug will be a necessary (and cheap) purchase before the next trip.

It will take us a few trips to properly familiarise ourselves with the kayak and how to handle it. But before the summer is out, I expect we’ll be heading further out to sea and perhaps paddling around headlands and onto inaccessible coves. The ultimate aim is to catch a fish or two en route, to cook and each it for lunch on a beach before heading home. Now doesn’t that sound like a satisfying day out?

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Literally at the end of the road.  We cannot see far for the deep fog all around, but we are very near the edge of the Creux du Van, a 160 meter high, vertical rock face. ---- All rights reserved. nd.com Read on...

In to the restaurant and we are ushered up a creaky wooden stair beneath a dangling forest of suspicious-looking sausages, and into a claustrophobic, wood-panelled room already filled by the rattle of expectant early arrivals.

The room bears the scars of countless visitors. Carving ones initials, the date of one’s visit, or some other dubious monogram into the wooden walls is anything but discouraged.  (Though a prominent sign dictates such activity on the tables to be less acceptable.)

I feel very much in Switzerland: the promise of alcohol and melted cheese and a complex tangle of multilingual conversation.

This is no ordinary gathering. It is the annual coming together of the absinthe business elite. The players who make and distribute absinthe products right across the world.

Tomorrow is the annual absinthe festival in the tiny town of Bovaresse in the Val de Travers. The town is far too small to be marked on my sat-nav. Tonight, absinthe manufacturer Claude-Alain hosts his famed party for those in the business. (if you are wondering why we are there, this Absinthe Shop is the reason).

There are some heavyweights of the absinthe world here. The author of the most respected absinthe histories, who happens to be offering tastings of a currently unreleased absinthe he produces from herbs gathered in the wild.   There’s the Brazilian who runs an absinthe bar and shop in Tokyo, and who wins the award for the longest journey to attend this weekend’s festivities. There’s one of the top absinthe distillers who only removes his blue work overall after the drink starts to flow and the air temperature in the cramped room peaks. And there’s the guitar-playing woman who at last year’s event, was a man (and who turns out to be a capable musician).

The cacophony of conversation, exaggerated by the many languages, is close to deafening in such an enclosed environment. But those snippets of English I can make out are fascinating. Small talk abounds, but future deals are being instigated, meetings scheduled, relationships forged and strengthened: business is being done over the absinthe, wine, and alcoholic melted cheese. It is thoroughly fascinating to note who is happy to imbibe plenty of alcohol, against who is maintaining a clear head.

This is unlike any trade event I’ve ever experienced (until next year, perhaps), and the absinthe festival itself is not until tomorrow.

* This post was written during the latter stages of the gathering on the evening of 18 June 2010, with limited editing before posting.

Post photograph by Jonas Merian
My photos from the trip (videos soon)

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One gem in this great series was “Wrecking Season“, programme about Cornwall-based playwright and beachcomber Nick Darke (now deceased – and sadly, the programme is not available on the BBC iPlayer). ---- All rights reserved. nd.com Read on...

[it followed Nick] as he combed the wild seashore for the wonderful hardwoods, exotic sea beans, fishing paraphernalia and fascinating artefacts deposited on Cornwall’s beaches by the ocean’s long haul drift

So with a visit to The Strangles in yesterday’s glorious weather, and a little time to kill until the tide allowed us to access Little Strangles beach, Jen was inspired to do a little wrecking herself.

It took no more than a handful of minutes for her to discover what you see in the photo. These are floats probably used by lobster fishermen to mark the locations of their cages. Though it was a tough climb back from that beach even without the burden of wrecking spoils, this find now sits on our doorstep.

I shudder to think what might be added to this pile when the stormy weather returns late in the year.

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Today I picked up a couple of fresh Mackerel. How fresh? I’m pretty sure these guys were pulled from the sea this very morning (with hook and line by the look of them). The fishmonger apologised for not having any recipe sheets left for mackerel: he keeps a cluster of well thumbed fish recipe books and photocopied pages atop his counter, and his last recommendation for a seasoned crumble to go with a fillet of Pollack was delicious. ---- All rights reserved. nd.com Read on...

We got into a conversation about the area, where we lived, and so on. He commented that locals do not buy much fish from him. That was a surprise. “They don’t buy much fish at all,” he went on, “they seem to be big meat eaters. Have you seen the butchers?” I indicated that I had. In fact, you cannot miss it.

Perched on a corner of the town square, it is, to even a non meat eater like myself, a spectacular affair. So much so I feel I should  return to eating meat just to patronise such a perfectly assembled array of fresh produce. It is impressive.

Our fishmonger, on the other hand, cannot match such grandeur, clearly keeping only as much stock as he is certain of selling each day. But his fish could only be fresher if he popped out with a rod and tackle to catch them to order.

The lack of interest in fish here puzzled him. He theorised that it rose from a history of everyone knowing a fisherman or two, and therefore having access to free, or at the lest very cheap, fresh fish. Perhaps the idea of paying money for fresh fish has been bred out of the general population. And perhaps younger generations have not learned an appreciation for just how good Cornwall’s sea fish really are.

So, even when I work out how to catch them for myself, we will make a point of a regular purchase at our local fishmonger.

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Strangles is not the beach to expect floods of holiday lobsters soaking up the sun. The nearest parking – little more than a country lane  lay-by – is perhaps a rugged half mile from, and 350ft above, the beach proper. The approach is typical Atlantic-beaten, north-coast Cornwall. ---- All rights reserved. nd.com Read on...

The designated footpath, which crosses the South West Coastal Path, offers a safe and sure-footed route, and at the bottom is something of a surprise. Cliff erosion has required the construction of a steep wooden stair, leading to a rope-aided clamber for the final, tricky step. A fun surprise, though a challenge to negotiate with multiple cameras and walking poles.

Smooth pebbles soon give way to sand. Everything is still wet from the receding tide. Rock slices jut from the sand making me think of the shattered mechanical remnants of some wartime beach landing.

Bordering the beach lie two areas of rocky outcrop I want to explore as possible fishing locations. When there is some swell, these will be worth a visit.

To the left, further south, I can make out the distinctive white, clifftop tower near Boscastle. The sight prompts the decision to head there later for lunch.

The rocks to the right of Strangles appear to have deep indigo streaks through them. These turn out to be colonies of mussels, so many that there is little rock to be seen in places. The mussels here are larger than those at our nearest beach, but are mostly still on the small side for eating.

The coast here has some of the best rock pools I have seen, and Strangles is no exception. Oh the hours of my childhood consumed by such watery wonders.

Another, smaller beach lies further right, reached by clambering over a barrier of boulders. Here fewer and more rounded rocks litter the sand. Between them, numerous brackish rock pools are fed by several trickles of fresh water that appear out of the shingle near the cliff foot. Further right still, over a larger boulder field, is a huge rock arch. But that looks far too much effort to explore today.

Strangles lies a couple of miles away by car plus fifteen minutes on foot. I expect we will spend a great deal of time there.

Important refreshment

Amongst the cameras (both digital and film, of course), lies our great luxury. With thanks to twitter, Stephen Fry, and a small tax refund some time ago, we discovered the magic of highly portable, freshly brewed espresso. The Handpresso goes almost everywhere with us, and armed with this and a small flask of hot water, fresh espresso is always to hand. The photo proves it!

Jen has a bunch more images from the beach visit.

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This time proved to be a very different experience to previous trips. The company is leaner, meaner and more focused than it has ever been. Yet still feels like a dynamic, reactive startup – something I think it (inevitably) lost touch of as it grew. ---- All rights reserved. nd.com Read on...

The trip provided the team of which I am a part to be physically together in the same space for the very first time: two of us from the UK, one from Mid West USA, and the remaining based in San Francisco. It was good to see old faces again and connect properly with new ones.

Travel

Tension surrounding the potential threat of Icelandic volcano dust clouds, the travel arrangements proved a new challenge now that we live in South West England.

Our nearest airport is Exeter, but would require two stops to reach San Francisco (some routes via Amsterdam). Then there’s Bristol, requiring one stop (a 6-hour layover in Newark).  Both options threatened a total door-to-door journey time of just under 24 hours – providing everything went smoothly. The only direct flights departed from Heathrow which is over four hours drive from home. The additional advantage of traveling with Virgin Atlantic made Heathrow the most appropriate option all round.

San Francisco

It seems I am an outsider as I have little love for the city. Perhaps this boils down to only having been there on business and seeing very little of it, perhaps I am simply not the city type and dislike spending too much time in such hectic environments. But San Francisco has never captured me in the way Chicago did – Chicago simply feels more grounded and established.

The day after arriving I was able to spend some time with friends in Marin County – yes, the mountain bike Marin – which is just over the Golden Gate Bridge from the city. We drove up to Tomales Bay for barbecued oysters and beer at the waterside, where I almost soiled myself when a passing pelican spotted some tasty fish snacks not more than 15 feet from the shore. Those are big birds to have plunging into the water!

Gratefully, there was also time for city bound leisure activities during the week. A stroll to a random Italian restaurant for dinner one night, followed by a standup comedy show near Fisherman’s Wharf. This was the first time I had been in a comedy club since running one for myself. Most acts were relatively inexperienced, several with quivering hands and quaking voices. I was pleased that my moustache proved a useful comedy tool for some – though, disappointingly, no-one really made the most of the opportunity. Though I was entertained, I didn’t feel any of the acts really connected with the audience, each going through their sets as rehearsed with little to stand out from the crowd. Perhaps small comedy clubs are the same the world over.

There’s talk of another trip in the fall, perhaps November. Who knows, I might just end up looking forward to it…

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Several times a day we remind ourselves: “This is where we live.” This place still feels like a holiday on which we carted all our stuff and have had to do some work. We still need to remind ourselves that we do not have to go home; we are home. ---- All rights reserved. nd.com Read on...

The familiarity of the objects around us is the main cause and yesterday was a typical example.

I spend most of my working day staring at the same computer.
I see little in my field of view that suggests I am anywhere special other than at my desk.
I need to drop an envelope in the postbox, just across the road.
Walking through the large entrance hall to the front door does not trigger anything.
Walking across the gravel drive feels unfamiliar.
But it is not until I reach the road that I register the quiet and that we now live in a peaceful, rural village.

It catches me out every time.

If you’re already sick of me gushing about living here, you’re just going to have to suck it up – there’s much more to come. But don’t worry, I suspect I’ll be cussing once the peak holiday season kicks in and we’re choked with temporary neighbours!

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I completely confused the guy at a local car repair and MOT garage this morning by telephoning to ask where they are located (there was a 10 mile conflict between two online sources). When I finally realised I should get to the point and book my MOT, the conversation switched to a more comfortable one, but also a great deal slower: ---- All rights reserved. nd.com Read on...

ME: “I’d like to book an MOT for my car”
GARAGE: “MOT? <long pause> When do you want that done, then?”
ME: “Sometime next week would be ideal.”
GARAGE: (exhale, likely at the urgent need to book within a few days, not weeks) “How about… <very long pause> next Wednesday?”
ME: “That will be fine.”
We exchange details of car and contact info.
GARAGE: “Will you leave the car with us?”
ME: (slightly puzzled as surely they need the car to MOT it) “Yes, no problem.”
GARAGE:  ”We can drop you back if you need it.”
ME: “It’s only 3 miles, good excuse to get the bicycle out.”
GARAGE:  ”Yes, lovely if the weather holds.” (in a bemused tone I can only assume was exasperation at the mention of those newfangled bicycle contraptions).

Cheerful, helpful

Such an unfamiliar experience to have people, strangers at that, engage you in cheerful, friendly conversation in shops. People wait rather than barge past in shop aisles. I don’t think I’ve heard a car horn used in frustration, anger, or anything other than followed by smiles and waving at someone the driver recognised nearby.

To a jaded South-Easterner, accustomed to the frenzied, tensioned lifestyle of the home counties, it comes as something of a puzzle to be greeted by several friendly welcomes and smiles from staff when entering a great little café in Launceston yesterday.

I hope I never get accustomed to this environment so I can always appreciate it.

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Not to complicate matters, I opted not to change my hospital details following our move to Cornwall. So Monday’s final hospital appointment came saddled with a drive to and from Slough – that’s over four hours each way. It also meant a timely opportunity to deal with some previous apartment details, but that’s another story. ---- All rights reserved. nd.com Read on...

The title of this post suggests that the result of the surgery was a success – so I’m not going to have you read to the end to find out. Yes, a complete success. Not only did it fix the hernia, but it also solved a much longer term problem that was making day to day live increasingly cumbersome.

A kink in the system

For perhaps eight or ten years – the onset was so gradual, it is tough to pin down – I had been experiencing intermittent intestinal pain. Every now and then, without warning, my digestive system would some to a halt. More than mere constipation, this was a point of pain that rendered me incapable of doing pretty much anything for between four and six hours, usually during the night.

The problem was intermittent, but gradually increased in frequency, and predictability. Certain foods and eating patterns arose that triggered the increasingly severe problem. If I did not drink enough water in a day, then ate a heavy evening meal (breads, potatoes, and the like), I would almost certainly suffer the problem. If not, then I would experience a more sluggish metabolism with several days of general discomfort.

Last year, after one particularly bad episode, I discovered a lump in my abdomen, centrally located, just above my navel. The best decision I made was to have it examined by a doctor without hesitation.

A string of appointments and tests later and a hernia was confirmed. A small section of the gut had protruded – just a little, it was not visible – so that it intermittently constricted the flow of food through my system. Thus the general sluggish digestive system and in cases of “heavy load” everything came to a grinding halt.

All better

At no time was there a clear indication that the digestive problem was directly related to the hernia. Doctors were deliberately vague if I suggested it, opting a “let’s see” attitude. I was not convinced they were related, but it seemed logical. Until I reached recovery after surgery, there was no way to know for sure.

Life now is something akin to those first few minutes after a fit of hiccups. I eat and no longer experience the sensations I became accustomed to – what I now experience is simply normal. I can eat normally again. Not only that, but my improved digestive system as a whole has lost me noticeable inches of girth.

When I first found the lump, I was understandably concerned. Thoughts turned to how serious a problem it might prove to be and whether I might discover something life threatening. But knowing what it was, and having the chance to deal with a specific problem, was a far more attractive proposition to me than living life under an increasingly large question mark. Diagnosis is a scary path, however, and I am grateful my problem proved to be relatively straightforward.

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Petrol was my first concern. Even in our preliminary visits, we hunted out the nearest petrol station. Not using the car often, sometimes not for a week or two, I landed in the routine of not filling up unless absolutely necessary. After all, 24 hour petrol stations were no more than a mile or two away from home. ---- All rights reserved. nd.com Read on...

Here, the nearest 24 hour supply is 20 minutes’ drive away. Though the nearest physical petrol station is around three or four miles, I have yet to find any indication as to which brand of petrol it stocks!

Rural Rule #1: If the petrol tank falls below half-full, fill up!

The car is not the only fuel we must pay attention to here. With no gas supply in this area, we rely on Kerosene from our big, friendly, green storage tank, for heating fuel. If we allow it to run dry, we not only get rather cold, but, apparently, we ruin the entire heating system.

Researching into Kerosene supply proved more confusing than searching for car insurance. No-one wants to commit to a price estimate online. After quite some searching, I found somewhere that was prepared to quote just under 50 pence per litre, based on buying 500 litres. Now then, hands up who knows how much our big, friendly, green Kerosene tank holds? (I have no idea.)

Rural Rule #2: Keep a close eye on the fuel tank level monitor.

Cash. Remember that stuff? The general urban routine is to use plastic of one form or another and grab some cash only as required. You retrieve just enough cash for a purpose, after which you return to the plastic. But when your nearest cash machine is 20 minutes away by car and there is, shall we say, lower saturation of plastic acceptance, you are forced to dust off those forgotten cash-level monitoring skills.

Rural Rule #3: Maintain more cash in wallet than receipts.

These, of course, are minor disadvantages and nothing a little attitude adjustment will not cure. Nevertheless, I have an emergency petrol canister on my shopping list for the weekend…

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