Escape to CA with Bob

I needed to go somewhere warm, flat and at sea level.

For my final bicycle ride of 2010, I wasn't going to suffer on any damn mountain passes in freezing sleet.

This trip was to be the culmination of my yearlong effort to qualify for the little-known but highly coveted R-12 award from Randonneuring USA. The ride began in Tracy, CA on December 5.

For those who have followed my R-12 endeavor, sorry. This blog is about the fun Bob and I had after I got the damn ride over. And yes, I did win the R-12 and as far as I know, I'm the first female in Utah to accomplish this. (To qualify, you have to ride 12 consecutive months of at least one 125-mile daylong ride each month. I will soon have a tiny piece of paper that says I did such a weird thing.)

On Sunday, we drove to Yosemite under bright, sunny skies. I'd never been to Yosemite, and appreciated the drive since all I had to do was sit there. No pedaling.

Our first stop is Bridalveil Falls. This is Bob, just before he took a swan dive into the snow, planting his camera skillfully between his ribs and a rock. The camera is fine and the onlookers enjoyed his cat-like grace.


A nice tourist took the only picture ever captured of the two of us.



A cloudy day in the Park means dull photos. If Bob had captured a photo of the Bobcat he spied, it would have made this blog pretty exciting.

After breezing through Yosemite ("No time to see that view," says Bob, "We need to head back to Torrey." We took Hwy 88 east, over some mountain passes, toward Lake Tahoe. A little snowstorm had gone through the night before, dumping between 8 and 12 inches of snow.



The road was perfectly fine. Bob hoped for a reason to use 4WD, but this wasn't nearly terrifying enough.



Soon, the sun came out and the wind began to blow at gale force.


Suddenly, we came upon this sight. We arrived at the wreck seconds after it happened and the guys were still climbing out of the truck. As Bob slowed to help out, we skidded on the glare ice and I feared we'd end up in the opposite ditch.



No one was hurt, so we turned around to flag down the Sheriff we'd passed a couple miles back and get a tow truck on the way. But the Sheriff was already on his way to the wreck so our help wasn't needed. On the second pass, I took this photo. About 30 minutes later we saw the tow truck headed up the mountain.


I got creative and hung my camera out the window, taking this beautiful shot I call "roof reflection". Who needs a still pond?



Not much happened again until we arrive in Delta. The city park is decked out with a million lights.



I think Bob's front yard would look nice with some Christmas lights. I'm sure the deer would appreciate the festive atmosphere while they finish off what's left of the garden, Bob's small pine trees and the snowball bush. But despite the deer problem, it's nice to be home in red rock country, near the Fremont River.

John C. Fremont, of course, had already been here, and there. We found this sign along the road into Yosemite. Fremont sure got around.

To the coast. Aldeburgh and beyond

Today we drove to the East coast to a small village called Aldeburgh. Pronounced "all-burr". I sure can't pronounce any of the names here. Wymondham is simply, "win -dumm". We had lunch in Diss (diss!) which I can pronounce correctly. But you ought to hear me butcher "Norwich" and "Norfolk".



My mom asked me to post a photo of myself in this blog. Bob took this a few days ago... note the cool sign over my left shoulder. Every town seems to have a pretty sign like this and if I'd taken a photo of each we'd still be only 10 miles from Heathrow. This sign is in Castle Acre, about 4 miles north of Swaffham and the home of a castle ruin built in 1066 for Bill the Conqueror.



In Diss we stopped for lunch at a CAMRA recommended pub called the Cock Inn. (CAMRA is the British group CAMpain for Real Ale, formed to save small pubs and advocate for small local breweries). Bob drove right to the pub even though he’d never been there. He says he has a nose for a pub.
He got the Ploughman’s lunch (with pickled onion pictured above) and I had a goat cheese and onion tart. It was okay, but for 10 pounds a bit steep. That's 10 British pounds, not units of weight I'm gaining.



This harbor photo in Aldeburgh (above) reminds me of the harbor at Hampton Beach, NH where my mother's parents (Clyde and Mary Chapman) had a house. I have some happy memories of summer days on the beach in Hampton. This photo makes me want to visit Ma Junkins candy shop for salt water taffy and rock candy.

Along this seacoast are 150 square miles of protected marshes, rivers and dunes, called "The Broads". The reed beds and wetlands formed after peat was harvested from the area, then the sea level rose over a couple hundred years and formed the current canals and riverways. This area enjoys the same protection as a national park in England. Not a strip mall, McD's or neon sign within miles.

Footpaths wind for miles and miles. Below are a few favorites I explored:




The footpath above passes a ruin on one side and the cliffs of the North Sea on the other.



The above footpath winds around behind the Wentworth hotel and restaurant, then climbs a hillside to the church.




Can you read the saying on the three windows above? Hint: the first window reads, "I saw". Once you figure out the sayings I bet you'll have a song stuck in your head as I did!



At 7:45 a.m. I watched this fishing boat approach the beach. This is not a sandy beach, rather it's made of tiny, slippery non-compacting rocks called "shingle". One step forward and a half step back.

When this boat was about 100 yards off the shore I heard a loud engine suddenly roar to life. The boat reached the water's edge and two fishermen jumped out and hooked a cable onto the front. Without ever stopping, the boat rolled smoothly up the beach over the blue rollers lying on the shingle. When to boat reached the fishing shack the winch engine stopped and they unloaded the morning's catch right at the retail shack. The sign on the shack read, "Anything fresher is still swimming."



Words of wisdom, beware the loose shingle.



Many driveways and blind intersections have mirrors like this. (I don't want any comments about the poor helpless blind intersections from you, Will). The drivers here simply haul ass on narrow and terrifyingly windy roads. Mirrors are yet another tool allowing drivers to not slow down.




I like the nautical themes throughout Aldeburgh. This simple barricade is artwork. The spiders seem to like it too (see upper left).

We had dinner at Aldeburgh's Cross Keys pub. It had average food but a great interior with low, dark beamed ceilings. The eating area is a few feet below the street level, making me wonder what happens when the sea floods the town. Here's one answer in the photo below:



The board slides into the grooves you can see on each side of the door. Doorways all along the street have these grooves and boards handy. The residents sandbag around the boards and keep the sea out of their living room. Scary!

The town is dead quiet this time of year, which suits me fine. Tonight the pub we’re staying in, Mill End, is the gathering place for the local RNLI crew (Royal National Lifeboat Institution). I would love to know what they're laughing about but can't understand a word of it. "Are they speaking English?", I ask Bob. He gives me a pained look and laughs at another comment from the bar. I need English lessons.



The lifeboat association (RNLI) has at least 200 locations around the coast of England. Each is supported 100 percent by donations. I was stunned to learn the Coast Guard will dispatch the lifeboat for a rescue, but the governement does not fund any operations, maintenance or equipment. Evidently they do a fine job, from reading a notebook containing more than 40 years of successful rescues.



My dad would love to see an old steam engine show here. Evidently old traction engines are everywhere and local enthusiasts have shows all summer and fall. Evidently I've barely missed the show in the sign above because I can smell lingering coal smoke in the air.

Tomorrow, up the coast to Southwold.

Trip to Hunstanton and the Life Boat pub

Today's destination is the Life Boat Inn in Thornham and a visit to the beach at Hunstanton. Check out the cool place names I saw on the way. King's Lynn is especially interesting because it's where the Pilgrims launched and probably where my really, really old armchair is from.




The Life Boat Inn and Pub is located on the North Sea near a wide inlet named The Wash.

The original part of the inn and pub (pictured above) was built in the 16th century with perhaps a few additions and upgrades since. I loved how the low ceilings gave each room weight and the worn and warped floorboards made it tough to walk straight. Signs above each door and passageways warn, "Duck and/or Grouse”. Anyone over five feet tall will get a good smack on the head if they don't duck.



Everyone was happy with their lunch except one person, who will remain nameless. The Ploughman’s lunch turned out to be the award-winning meal (photo above) which Win and Val were clever enough to order. The huge plates were weighed down with no less than a pound of cheese which Bob eyed furiously during the entire meal, much to everyone's disapproval. Included was a cottage loaf, salad, Branston pickle, and apple and pickled onion.



Sadly, Bob had made a disastrous mistake by ordering the Underwhelming Club Sandwich (above) which he quickly demolished and began scoping out everyone else's lunch. When he began making pathetic whining noises Win was forced to relent and give him most of her cheddar cheese thus bringing us all peace and quiet for a short time.



I had an interesting meal of curried sweet potatoes, creme fraiche, rice pilaf and toasted rocket. I was hungry, but ambivalent about the meal. I might be craving tofu.



The afternoon mitigation walk is essential on this trip. The vast troughs of food we consume is terrifying. I'm guessing today's walk will burn off at least five percent of the calories. We drove to Hunstanton to the infamous cold and windy beach locals call Sunny Hunny. This is a popular destination drawing visitors from miles around despite its reputation as a cold, windy, sandblasted experience. Today was calm, sunny, warm and splendid, inspiring my complete skepticism about the miserable Palin family visits of the past.



Cliffs full off shell fossils line the beach and rocky tidepools proved worthy hiding spots for crabs (photo credit to Bob, bravery credit to me)



At the entry to the beach path was this sign for the north end of Peddars Way, the walking path that runs 46 miles from Tethford to the south, through Swaffham and up to this point. I'd love to walk the whole length... but only if it avoids sections of roadway. The drivers here are insane.



After the beach walk we went to the café at the end of the carpark and Larry gleefully bought this sausage roll. It's nothing more or less than a lump of sausage meat rolled up in puff pastry and baked. Yes, it is really as disgusting as it sounds. Bob ate his fair share, and noted, “I‘ve had much better. Mum and Valerie make them with real sausage and pie pastry". If he was hinting, no one noticed."




On the way home I saw this wattle fence. They’re everywhere.

Tomorrow is the big 80th birthday bash for Win, then I'm headed to the East coast to see what's there. Meanwhile, I am still on the search for a stout beer in this county. So far I haven't found one and am resorting to drinking Aspall cider (or cyder as it's sometimes spelled). The cider is pretty darn good and goes with just about everything. It reminds me of a neighbor's homemade cider in Maine. When I was a kid, Albert Sewell made some strong cider from his own apples. It was fizzy, tart and had a bite.

More pubs, more sights

Yesterday we drove to West Acre, a tiny town a few miles north of Swaffham. From what I could see the town consisted of the Stag pub (pictured above), a church and a few houses. Really, what else does a town need?



Decor inside the Stag can only be described as, "free coasters we've received from our beer suppliers". The bartender owns the place and lives upstairs in an unheated apartment with her husband. Parking is available in the back for cars... and horses. That center tap handle label is for Tydd Steam's Piston Bob Ale. I thought it was too bitter, Bob pronounced it great and had a second pint. I liked the Beartown Brewery Kodiak Gold (on the right) better. But sadly, I have yet to find any Stouts in an English pub this trip. The quest continues!



Once again, we consumed vast quantities of food. In a rare vote of vegetarian solidarity Bob ordered a cheddar and pickle sandwich so he could trade me for half of my roasted pepper and tart goat cheese sandwich. "Pickle" is commercially sold as Branston Pickle, a sweet, sour, chutney-like dark preserve. We have nothing like it in the US.

This is everyday, average "pub" food. It is so good it will make you weep with frustration at the mere thought of ever forcing down another mediocre meal at McFranchise.




After lunch back we drove back to Swaffham and I wandered around for a couple hours. Here is the Cornhall, where "corn" was traded in this historic market square. They didn't actually trade corn because corn is called maize here and is grown for animal feed. Rather, they call wheat "corn". Get it? I'm not sure I do. Pictured below, the sign on the side of this building describes "corn" as also being used for "social gatherings and entertainment". "Corn", an amazing combination of social and monetary capital.






Here's a shop sign you don't see too often in the States (above).




"The Red Lion pub is closed," Bob told me. I may have to test his theory later this week. Evidently they're serving drinks today, but I'm still stuffed from lunch.

We have now tried three of the six pubs in Swaffham: The George, The Horse and Groom and The Norfolk Hero ( which sports a hunk of copper from Nelson's "Victory" that I toured last trip to England. Nelson was a local boy and has pub, beers and hotels named after him.)

Swaffham pubs I still need to visit: The Greyhound, Red Lion and Lydney House (which elicits this reaction each time I mention it):



Truth be told, this is the face you see whenever a phone is in his hand.



Win tells me her garden has gone off. Uh-huh. This fuschia under her kitchen window has completely gone off, leaving only these pathetic blooms.

Tomorrow is a trip to the north coast. The forecast is sunny and warm. I'm packing two jackets, a raincoat and warm gloves.

The Cockley Cley marathon

Since the first time I came to England I've been lured by tiny signposts pointing off the pavement into fields and wooded tree tunnels. These narrow footpaths crisscross the countryside and on this trip I finally had the chance to heed their beckoning call. These "Public footpaths" surround Swaffham, and nearly every town in England. Our first day here we walked Kodi (an enormous and goofy golden (white haired)retriever) along narrow paths between fields and on converted railroad beds now overgrown with brambles, nettle, beech trees and pines. The brambles are especially nice, loaded with blackberries that Kodi and I hogged down as we walked. On my second walk I ate fewer and by my third day I didn't even want to look at the damn berries.


For some reason Bob was inspired to complete a pub-to-pub walk along these paths, so he planned a lunch with the family at a pub in the neighboring (neighbouring) town of Cockley Cley. All five of us crammed in Larry and Val's tiny rental car and drove three miles to the Twenty Church Wardens pub in Cockley Cley. The eponymous Twenty Church Wardens are, according to Bob, smoking pipes which are on display in the pub. No photo, sorry. I thought he was joking.

Bob orders beverages at the bar (Strongbow cider for me).

I ordered a vegetable omelet but the cook glared at me and said, "order from the menu". That was my cue this pub didn't cater to special orders. "Mushroom," I told her quickly.

Check out the "jacket and veg" served with the omelet. Jacket is especially good. I looked on the British Potato Variety Database to determine the variety of this particular jacket. That proved too complicated, so I asked Win instead. Her seed catalog produced photos and we decided by random guess this jacket potato is an "Estima". Smooth, buttery, sweet, rich. At the end of the meal, not a speck of food remained in sight.

Lunch and drinks for five people came to 40 pounds (about $65). Worth every penny, especially since I didn't have to pay. Rain was threatening so we donned raincoats and set off on the footpath with an excellent map scaled two inches to the mile.

Sadly, non of the footpaths followed a route directly to Swaffham, and we zigged and zagged for about an hour before we stopped for a snack at the local sugar beet pile.

At mile five, the windmills of Swaffham helped guide us home. Trusty Guide Bob used dead reckoing to second-guess the obvious. In this photo above, on the right is a recently harvested potato field. The green field on the left is parsnips! A drought has stunted the crops this year and these parsnips barely had roots forming. I predict rising prices in the parsnip market this Christmas.



Around the corner from the parsnips we caught a potato crop headed for market.


Fields here are loaded with flint. Houses and churches are built with it. You can't throw a stone without smacking a hunk of flint. This photo shows a field littered with flint (must be tough on the harvesting machinery) with my artistic arrangement of flint. The arrangement was Bob's idea. Don't ask me why, but we'd been walking for two hours at this point and we may have been weak with hunger and thirst.

I'm learning a great deal here. Sadly I have forgotten nearly all of it. One random tidbit worth mentioning, thanks to Win, is that wattle and daub describes an old way of plastering the interior of houses. The wattle are thin sticks and branches that are covered with plaster made of clay, mud and maybe some animal dung. Betcha didn't know that!

Stay tuned for my next lesson.