From the Dales to Plymouth

It's so easy to waste the holidays, and just hang out in Leeds, chillin' on the allotment, tidying the study and redecorating, or even restructuring some part of the house. I was determined not to waste this summer.  I had got the tent down and was out of my Dales campsite by 8.30am, getting to West Park for 9.30 to pick up the glocks, to Leeds Station for my southern tickets, back home to pack for Plymouth, and by 2.20 I was wondering hopelessly around the first floor of the Clarendon Wing looking for the School Room.

I had two wonderful sessions with a couple of boys on the wards, then it's skipping back up Clarendon Road, finish packing, lift to station, 5 and 1/2 hours on same seat, Plymouth at 9.45pm, tucked up in b and b North Road West  with the Olympics. I enjoyed the Happy Hour sign in nearby street.

Next day I meet up with former pupil, Chris, have brought him a steel pan to help with his composition for us. Forgot the sticks, make a pair with rubber bands and chopsticks. Check out Plymouth. See the Barbican and bus.

"Did you know that Charlotte and Holly were in Plymouth?" texted Georgia. No, I didn't but now I am on the ferry over to Torpoint. Charlotte picks me up; we go to Portwrinkle beach, collect shells and some steelpan stick driftwood; get soaked in a sudden downpour; Bridget and Holly take me back to Plymouth. Forgot driftwood. Here is a picture of the driftwood, shells and plastic toy all found on beach. And Bridget and Holly in wifi heaven.

Met Chris for "a drink". We played pool; then when the first pub closed we went to a second one, and just as we thinking of leaving this wonderful band arrived.  As I was attempting to get up the second b and b's stairs at 3.30am [!] I remember the notices about being quiet at night.

The tele is still on when I wake up, just in time for breakfast: glorious mushrooms on toast; have to be out for ten, and wonder off into Plymouth with never again in every step. Walk round the coast from the Hoe [where Drake, allegedly played pre-battle bowls] to the touristy Barbican, sit in the sunshine and nearly finish Barnaby Rudge, a very dark book by one of my favourite authors.

Meet up again with Chris, meet the Arts Director for local festival, discuss Foxwood Steel coming to Plymouth, have a last cuppa in the sunny precinct of Plymouth. The train gets me back to Leeds for a couple of late hours with the Olympics. Next . . . .