Winter to Spring

450 miles for good cider

There's good cider and then there's jaw droppingly awesome cider, more akin to wine.

I'm busy sipping on Knights Malvern Gold which I aquired, oddly enough, near Malvern.

For those who think that the alcopops they sell in South Africa (and here) are cider, you just have to get yourself some of the real stuff. It ranges from absolutely rancid to ludicrously fine.

Hereford is real Cider country, but you can find local brews all over England. Most farmers markets these days will sell real cider - the stuff that is flat, strong and bitter sweet.

Some of the mass produced stuff isn't bad - a cold pint of pub cider on a sunny day is sheer bliss - but nothing can touch the real stuff.

This weekend I had a solid grounding in English Driving, from Hampshire via Berkshire, Oxfordshire and Warwickshire, through to Shropshire, into Worcestershire and back again. Long distance driving here is truly tiring as there is no unbroken stretches of road more than 10 miles in length, but that does make for a very interesting experience.
You have to constantly adjust speed as you approach towns and negotiate the millions of traffic islands dotted everywhere.

It's easily possible to completely forget London and realise what so many visitors to England never do really grasp, that the vast majority of England and Britain is countryside of breathtaking soft beauty. For many, there's the misconception of England as one great expanse of concrete.

You can spend a day in a 20km radius and not get to see all there is to offer, for in that small circle, you'll find at least one major town and 20 to 30 hamlets and villages.

Another amazing aspect is the changing countryside and architecture from one place to the next, still very noticable in these modern times of Burger King and Tescos.

As I have another glass of Malvern Gold, I reflect on a fairly rushed drive through the English Countryside and realise just how much there is to see of it.

Six Months to Somewhere?

So, it's been six months has it?
Something like that - feels like years, or days whichever way it falls in my head.

What have I achieved?

I'd say the single most interesting aspect of this move is my chill quotient, which has reached new heights of childomity I never thought possible.

I always knew I was a soft soul at heart, relaxed and slightly hippyfied, now I realise that it's true - I am. Joburg had really bought the worst out in myself due to the horrible stress of living in mild fear for so much of my time there.

For the second time, the spagetti in my pot fell out when I was draining it, into the sink. For the second time I calmly decided to cook another pot without any anger at all. Six months back, I would've been cursing like a mad thing. That means something, it means I'm just simply more at ease. Those little things are what count. Anger? - heck, yeah, I get angry, but the wild boiling anger has gone to be replaced with a more logical, less stressed version.

I'm still no closer to figuring out why I exist, but then, that's something that not many people ever do quite get to grips with. Greater minds than mine have grappled with the unanswerable question - why?

Pay it no mind, that's the general idea.

These days I figure my existence is merely to learn and experience whatever is thrown my way and also to just be overawed at everything around.

Often I feel insignificant when I view the great achievements that others have made compared to my meager offerings, but it doesn't get me down. Keep striving on and generally enjoy life as much as possible. If your not happy with something, try to change it.

Easy words to say, in the up and down world of mood swings, bad days, good days and humdrum living.

What always freaks me out is how such small things can derive such sheer pleasure. How on earth could looking over green fields populated by sheep and birds stir the heart to such a large degree?

Who knows.

I'm really nowhere, but that's ok - I'm alive, summer is on its way and there's things to learn, to see, to experience - is there really anything else needed?

Hmmm, no.

English Driving and Winchester

I finally got mobile yesterday, the proud owner of a '96 Fiat Hairdryer, otherwise known as a Punto.
It's not that bad and perfect to start off with. £1095 (About R12000) will get you a reasonable Jammy.
It's a 1.2, but has enough oomph to prevent becoming a moving obstacle on the motorway.

I decided to use the morning out to test the hairdryer/car under some typical English driving conditions. Unfortunately, it wasn't raining, so I had to scrap that idea.

I set off at 8.30, bright and sunny, scraped a layer of frost from the windscreen and proceeded to get lost. I'd drawn out a cunningly simplistic map, compliments of www.multimap.com. As I don't have a printer and haven't got around to buying a map book, it was always possible that I would drive off my pencil scribbled route into the great unknown (or a hedge)

It was deceptively simple, head south from Odiham, through South Warnborough, down to Alton, then take a right onto the A31 toward Four Oaks, New Arlesford, Itchen Stoke, Itchen Abbas, Martr Worthy (I kid you not), under the M3 and into Winchester.

Somewhere near Alton, after a brief unplanned detour around the town centre, I took a wrong turn.
I spent the next 30 minutes having a glorious time bumbling down narrow country lanes and discovering the most remarkable little villages and hamlets. Revisting my route now, it seems I somehow went too far South, into Bordon, then headed in the right direction in a roundabout route. I have no idea how I managed it, but I ended up getting to Old Arlesford without passing through a single village that is on the map.

From there it was easy going to Winchester and the roads were just fantasic fun with loads of narrow windy bits through the heart of rural Hampshire.

It seems the English have a bit of a problem with narrow country lanes, they all seem to want to go as fast as possible. Perhaps it's because there's little to no chance of being caught speeding. I kept to a reasonably sedate pace simply to enjoy the scenery.

I arrived in Winchester to partake in another marvel of English engineering, the multi-storey carpark, built by idiots who somehow managed to get the scale entirely wrong. I suspect that whoever designed them, has never had to use one. Fortunately, my little Fiat was small enough to negotiate turns about wide enough for sparrows to fart in. I squeezed into a parking space, paid my tithe for the pleasure of visiting the worlds stinkiest stairwell and headed for the famous Cathederal.

It truly is an impressive sight, which is more than can be said for some of the hotels dotted around it. How any architect can build a square brick block next to such a marvel is anyones guess.

I entered the cathederal just before Palm Sunday mass and spent 20 minutes just soaking in the scale of the interior.

After being suitably inspired at the workmanship, although not the religion behind it, I went to view the outside again. I was in time to see the Palm Sunday procession enter the grounds from the town on the way to mass, complete with brass band, palm fronds, money gathering urchins and the Lord Mayor sporting a silly hat and a gold fire poker under his arm.

Time to take my leave.

I headed back into the town to the Hampshire Farmers market, bustling with people being sold produce by real Hampshire Farmers. I had to partake in the shopping frenzy and aquired a bunch of sausages, a bag of spuds and a plastic container of real rotgut cider. "Old Sheepdogs Arse, 50% proof" or something like that.

I decided that I needed to test my car on the motorway, but first I had to find it. After negotiating my way out of the carpark built by morons for midgets, I decided to completely ignore all detour road sings and made two infuriating loops around the town centre, before finally deciding to head for Southampton, the wrong direction.

The method in this madness is something I've finally learnt about road signs here, they make absolutely no logical sense at all. In fact, the road out of Winchester to Southampton, also leads to the M3 to Basingstoke and London. You learn these things over time. I suspect the same people responsible for the car parks also have a few fingers in the road sign pie.

Motorways in England are the same as Highways in South Africa, full of dickheads. The kind of mentality to whom a following distance of 2 inches is great. The type of fool who will overtake trucks at a leisurely place. I assume they must be admiring the truck as they slowly pass it. "ohh, that's a loverly one Beth, it's got 18 wheels, just look at that beauty!"

I regretted taking the motorway, because it's just so lifeless and boring. The car handled fine, the engine didn't fall out and I didn't end up entangled in a mass of tin and plastic wearing a windscreen on my head, so I suppose it was worth testing the hairdryer at prolonged speed.

A good Sunday drive and morning out, now it's time to fry up some organic sausages and drink my rot gut cider ! - ooooaaaaarrr !