nunoncastors

Lindsay and I have birthdays just over a week apart and, as you might suspect, this causes problems. Well, I say problems, it’s more the case that we both like doing things that are awesome, wicked and ace but can’t quite persuade all of our friends (each other included) to have quite that much fun in the space of two weekends.

Inevitably, this sort of situation leads to compromises in all quarters and usually, if I’ve been good, Lindsay graciously allows me to tag along on whatever trip she has planned*.

This year saw all the cool kids camping just outside Scarborough for a spot of jaunting up and down the coast and an eventual journey inland to Flamingo Land†.
Sounds pretty simple doesn’t it? Camping, pottering about, surely we should’ve been abseiling or paintballing or grappling with Ninjas in a forbidden temple, right?

Wrong. Daft as it sounds, I’ve never had quite so much fun on my birthday as watching Susie get drenched by a wave cresting the seawall at Sandsend or eating cake with a Gedling Leisure Card in some remote Yorkshire car park. As for Flamingo Land; Fuck Yeah!
Happy days.

Gallery: Robin Hood’s Bay and Whitby
Gallery: Flamingo Land

* I jest, of course. It’s really a highly democratic process ^_^
† Dude, seriously, you’ve no idea.

The Deep, it’s in Hull - which is bad - but it’s full of fish - which is awesome, you should go.

Gallery: The Deep

There are many things to do in Yorkshire, it’s a county with a long and vivid history, possessed of paralleled beauty*, and filled with loads of people convinced of its innate superiority over all other counties; if nothing else, you could wander around arguing that Lancashire is where it’s at. I chose not to – I like my face the way it is – and instead set off on my bicycle for parts unknown and adventures unimagined.

Riding by my side were Sir Moos-a-lot, Lord Gruntlesby and Rupert the Tractor, I’m sure you must’ve heard of them.

Anyway, having wandered around the fabled Honeysuckle Farm in search of opportunities to pat farm animals on the head and imitate ducks for our own amusement, we headed on to Hornsea and the marvel that is… uh, a seaside town in decline. Granted, we were there in the off-season, but there’s just something about the place that smacks of glories past and people who eat too many chips. Ennui ensued.

Leaving Hornsea behind, Lord Gruntlesby demanded adventures beyond mere meres and fried foods, he called for glory and cake and vociferous oinking. It is his way. So it was that we broke the cover of houses, gift shops and flaking paint, and made for the rolling green of high hills and wild moors. Heading cross-country we stumbled upon Sigglesthorne’s ancient church and, because for a devoutly unreligious man I have interest in such things, pottered about looking for zombies. Sadly, there were none to be found, just an impressive organ to be tooted on, such is life.

Beyond Sigglesthorn and its silly name lies the edge of the world, vast moorlands crisscrossed with tracks and roads and beastmen called Charles. Here, beyond the tracts of reason, Hull Bridge and Swine Moor guard the approaches to Beverly as jealous fathers cosset their curiously pastoral daughters from wandering hands. I, for my part, became increasingly unhinged and started writing ever more complicated and nonsensical prose.

Passing within the boundary of sanctuary stones we arrived in Beverley itself, marvelling at its Minster and wondering at just how heavy the discharge could really be. Seriously, what?

Following Sir Moos-a-lot through the winding streets in search of sandwiches, Rupert declared himself tired of civilisation, and demanded we depart before the chocolate shop made us soft and portly. As disagreement stirred he departed for the moors once more, forcing our hand as we dutifully followed.

Dragged out in the wilds once more, the darkness closed in as we skirted Wassand Hall, beyond that there is nothing but my hairy feet and recollections of rain.

Quite a nice day out really.

Gallery: Hornsea to Beverley

*Because otherwise I’d be saying that Yorkshire is unsurpassed in its aesthetic charms, which isn’t the case at all.

Long ago, in a time of Myths and/or Legends, I went to the Sealife Centre at Birmingham with three trusted companions to investigate reports that fish are awesome and octopi slightly unsettling. Later, we ate our own bodyweights in cod and chips; delicious was not the word.*

Sadly, because of the nature of our quest, people were left out, left behind and… uh, not invited. This wasn’t as a result of some subconscious desire to exclude people, rather the inevitable chaos involved in any activity organised by Ian, Stephen and myself. This, however, was simply not good enough for my peers and certain among them insisted on even greater revelries to atone for dual sins of forgetfulness and having fun without them.

Fair enough really.

So, at Lindsay’s behest, we tootled down to Warwick for the day and besieged the castle. There’s a proud history of castle sieges attached to our group, Shrewsbury, Riber, Edinburgh, they’ve all fallen by our hand. Granted, no one really expects a group of usually sensible people to clamber over fences, wander down paths through thick undergrowth and ford streams just to see what’s there, but there you go, four castles, four-nil.

Warwick itself was no exception; the defences were easily overcome by the combined might of our wallets and two-for-one vouchers, the fools! They may as well have left the gates open. I laugh at them, ha-ha!

Quite besides that, the castle is a bit rubbish to wander ’round, it’s like a theme castle and therefore disappointing to anyone interested in, say, history. Still, the jousting was fun and Shakespeare’s house is just down the road.

Gallery: Warwick and Stratford

*Apparently, it’s Grease.