Gig Review: Peter Hook and the Light at Stoke Sugermill 24th November 2012

The songs of Unknown Pleasures hadn’t been attempted live by the surviving members of that recording for some three decades, having been laid to rest with the passing of Ian Curtis.  Peter Hook, an original participant, and his band have relatively recently started to play its songs.  Having been unfamiliar with the Joy Division’s musical history, I belatedly took a punt on the LP in the run up to this gig, coming to it 33 years after it was released.  The watchful security, however, appear to be hedging their bets on age and hand out ‘I’m over 18’ wristbands to wear at the bar.

The Shinies from Manchester opened tonight’s proceedings.  Their enjoyable blissed out pop sound comes from the early 90s school; they wrap their vocal cords around songs in a way that makes their words hard to pick out. Unlike their predecessors, they are not rooted to the spot and move to their music.  Joy Division knew the benefits of a telling word or two and discernible lyrics and wonder if these boys could do with something like that to beef up their character but perhaps I wouldn't have reflected on this if they weren't supporting who they were

The Sugarmill is a great venue with its former loft offering balcony views and raised platforms around the edges. Behind the stage, there’s a draped banner with the LP’s artwork flanked at each end by Joy Division and Manchester but why not Joy Division and Macclesfield? – Two members came from the nearby town.  The gents toilets have..overflown – the sort which would have our wives (if we told them) suggesting we leave our shoes outside when we came back

While playing his traditionally low slung bass guitar, Peter Hook takes over singing duties. He acknowledges the passing of Larry Hagman but otherwise talks little between songs; there’s a newly written book at the back stall for those who can’t get enough Joy Division history. There’s no Ian Curtis mannerisms, of course, merely a raised right arm at times, as if orchestrating the up for it crowd (christened ‘mad fuckers’).

There are those in the crowd who would have remembered the band from the first time around.  One guy, we spoke to, brought his son who preferred the Joy Division carnation to the band’s later morph of New Order favoured by Dad.  It was mainly the older generation who were in the deep throng dancing down the front.  Any reservations about how this kind of thing would work are swept aside.  Hook and his Light carry the LP (‘When will it End’ was a high point with me), Love will Tear us Apart and other old songs with conviction.  The purveying reach of this band pulsates out into this rammed club making it an intense living show piece to the belated band, and the departed former singer.

Down and out in Oulton Broad

Saturday 29^th October 2012

We’re staying in Oulton Broad, near the Suffolk coast, with Jan’s Auntie Liz.  Liz’s partner, Mike, is a fan of the invigorating qualities of fresh air and the main bedroom window is open.  I closed it – these Eastern winds are chilly. Outside the house there’s dug up ground and signposts – apparently workman are there to locate a gas leak which is not reassuring.  I laid out our bags in the bedrooms where there are separate sleeping arrangements between us and the boys; there would be something of a war if both of them were to share the same bed.

Sunday 30^th October 2012

For our first full day, we visited Great Yarmouth, calling in first at a chip shop café.  It didn't feel an inspired introduction; there’s a smell of stale chip fat in there that either never left us or is prevalent all around the coastal town.   After a tray of chips we left the screwed down chairs and tables  and made the small walk to the ‘Joyland’ walled area of confined rides.  The Snails, actually a good swooping rattly ride for the kids, is always a hit and elicited great thrills with Ed.  Other things in Joyland have a retro appeal.  For Sam, who falls short of height specifications, there’s a Thunderbirds pay ride.  Ed joined for a modest Magic Roundabout rotating pay ride and just like Florence and Zebedee used to, they look less than animated about being on here.

It was damp and chilly walking around Joyland.  We mused over coming here at this time of year. It was quiet.  The beach was nearly empty and the donkeys had no takers.  We took a walk down the seafront road where we were to meet a friend of Jan’s from the Bounty Mother’s web site.  I hoped they weren't about to take their offspring to Joyland and was relieved when the warmer, indoor soft play centre at Sealand was suggested.

 I took a ten minute walk to the car park to put more money in the meter. Warmed from working at pace, I was approached by a beggar with piercings in one of his eyebrows.  He had been working more energetically than most - it was the second time he approached me.  The first time he asked for contributions towards the £1:80 to get him home.  A fund to help someone get out of Great Yarmouth on a day like this seemed like something worth rallying behind. However, this time, he just asked for something towards buying hot food. I said I had put most of my coins in the parking meter but he could have the remainder (34p) if he wanted it.  I half expected him to decline it – such is inflation, I’ve had amounts returned in the past by beggars for being disdainfully low.  However, he happily accepted it.  The changeability of his requests led me not to proffer advice (‘you know this lingering smell of grease? That’s from the café on the pier.  I suggest not going there’)

Monday 31^st October 2012

We were to take the boys swimming this morning with Jan’s Auntie Jeanie at a pool in Halesworth.  She kindly said that she’d also take one of the boys in the pool so this freed me up. Some rare free day time!  I went on to have a look around the centre of the town with its nice independent shops. In a book shop I saw some books by George Borrow, a Victorian native of Oulton Broad, the place where we were staying.   I decided to buy Wild Wales, apparently an 1849 respected account of travelling in this country.

In Café Frapa, an airy family run place with a delightful selection of cakes, I read a few short chapters of Wild Wales.  It is a twenties edition and its dust induces some cough wheeziness in me. Borrow talks of making the acquaintance of a put upon Welsh groom in his work place who was the subject of gawping and goading, something Borrow joined in with himself before realising that this guy could come in useful in familiarising himself with Wales and its language.  The groom confides to the writer that, with the terrorising he had to put up with he was thinking of suicide before he found the solace of the writer’s companionship.  There is a physical description of the Welsh groom stretching several pages before remarking ‘It is not deemed a matter of good taste to write about such low people as grooms, I shall therefore dismiss him…’  In chapter three, where he is up to Chester, he is berating an ex-slave from Antigua and endorsing the still then prevalent American slavery system.  There is a George Borrow Society; I’m not about to take out an application form just yet.

In the evening, Auntie Liz babysat for the boys, freeing us up to gratefully dine at the nearby Commodore.  In the quiet upstairs restaurant, the food was pretty good. Our view looked out onto the harbour, or would have if there was more illumination outside – instead it was more like looking onto a Azerbaijan oil field rather than Sydney Harbour.

Tuesday 1^st November 2012

We ear marked today to go to the zoo Africa Alive in Kessingland.  It’s always an enjoyable experience to come here: unlike other zoos, we don’t need to crane our heads around other viewers to look at the Lions; there’s a variety of views, elevated and level.  At some places like Lemur Island, there were no other people around for some distance.  The African theme is prevalent, notably with the native drums from the continent; there’s a booth where these can be played and in this vicinity someone is usually rollicking away on these, often a dad kid like me.

Towards the end of our trip, we took the boys to the Discovery Centre on the site.  Ed had his face painted in a ladybird style – red with black polka dots.  Sam was to have his face projected as a pumpkin. The girl face painting him was on the verge of completing his face when Sam got restless and, in an ensuing wriggle conspired to send Jan’s touch sensitive mobile flying to the ground where the outer glass broke. ‘Take him away’, she said irately. I paid up (the face painter only took payment for Ed) and led Sam outside where there were some playground facilities. From this vantage point, I had a view of what was going on through the windows of the Centre.  Through one I could see Auntie Carrie and Jan looking at the damaged mobile with a rueful look and a shaking of the head.  Separated from this in an adjacent office, a few windows to the left, I could see the young face painter relaying to her colleagues what had just happened.  She took on an exaggerated severe posture, with an outstretched arm pointed outwards.  This, I guessed, represented Jan.  Then she did a chastened, eyes down expression of someone tip-toing away which would have represented her own reaction to being caught in this scene.

Wednesday 2^nd November 2012

In the morning we rang the nearby Waveny River Centre and enquired as to whether they were running any boat trips this afternoon.  We were told that this depended on the numbers showing up.  And if it did run it would be an end of the season last trip out.

When the six of us (including Auntie Carrie and niece Amber) turned up the touristy part of Oulton Broad began to unfurl with its arcades, cafes and gift shops. We found ourselves to be the only ones eager to take the last boat trip out on this cold day.  In the morning, by way of a contrast, we were told that there had been a crowd of thirty to alight for this boat ride.  The captain, who had a reassuring Captain Birdseye beard, said that he’d take us out on an slightly reduced hour long journey.  This was fine with us. We sat on the deck on a bench that lined the sailors’ cabin.

The back gardens that lined the southern broads certainly belonged to a more affluent type of house owner.  Two months ago, while running, I passed Marple homes which had their boats in the back of their gardens on the Macclesfield canal which I thought was nice.  Here it was taken to another level. Ascending paths lead from the water to garages that housed personal boats.  One house, it was pointed out, was recently sold for 1.2 million. There is an element of looking on at how the other half live. 

Turning round for the journey back we caught the wind in our faces and, as the boys tended to veer too close to the edge for comfort, we went down the stairs and inside.  We had some hot chocolate from the staff, an end of term freebie on the house. After getting off the boat, I took the boys back to Auntie Liz’s while the ladies looked in the gift shop – there was much that was fragile here and we didn’t wasn’t to risk paying for any breakages by taking the boys  (or me) inside the shop.

Aunty Liz found out the source of the gas leak by ringing the National Grid line.  The person on the line couldn’t say but suggested asking the workmen outside.  The workmen confirmed that after a previous fruitless investigation, they had found the gas leak in next door’s house and, it has all now, reassuringly, been fixed.

Thursday 3^rd November 2012

We packed up for the long journey home.  Sam’s potty training, which had generally been working successfully during the week seemed to go to pot.  We scrambled through the change bag for a replacement set of clothes but these had a slightly damp smell feel about them.  A packet of wipes, not sealed in an air tight way by me, had probably leaked.

This shined the light on my weaknesses in the whole preparatory child management thing and Jan was seething.  The journey away was not fun as domesticity flaws at our house that was at this point 198 miles away became illuminated: ‘And that area around the dog mat – have you wiped around that recently?  When you’re cleaning you lift things up and wipe underneath - not wipe around them; it’s the same with the food recycling box…’

'...And you let them eat their porridge in the lounge in the morning...'

And so the narrative carried on like this, at full vigour, for the next hour and a half as our car made its way through those Suffolk A roads.

Marple 10k trail run 2012

Saturday 8^th September 2012

It was the day of the Marple 10k trail run which I have participated in for the previous three years.  It’s my favourite of all the routes but I wasn't in the best of spirits.  My chauffeur had been grumpy while driving me here and I didn’t have high hopes for my recorded time.  Since peaking at 51 minutes on the first attempt, my times had become steadily longer.  This year I’d not run for months at a time while struggling with heel issues and an injured toe.  I registered my entry with the organisers and listed my predicted time as just under an hour for which I was put in the last but one batch of runners for the staggered starting times.

Factoring in the start time plus the period that will lapse before I was given the green light to run, I figured I had enough time to walk to the centre of Marple and buy a bottle of water. Going against the tide of runners arriving for the event, my spirits lifted.  It was a bright day and there were lots of smiles.  Then, after buying some water, I was asked by an elderly lady if I could help her walk to a hairdresser’s where she had an appointment. ‘I must start walking some more’, she said.  I was happy to help.  I took her arm and relayed the places we were passing: Cherry Tree café and the tattoo parlour (‘No, I’m not going there’).  Doing this dressed in runner’s yellow material gave me a virtuous feeling which felt in tune with the Olympic spirit.  At the hairdresser’s entrance, she and a member of staff waved me off and I thought ‘Yep, that’s the right send off’.

As I stood in my group prepared to run, the organisers gave us a run down on matters relating to the run. ‘Have you heard about the horses?’ we were asked.  No, this hadn’t been revamped as triathlon type event where we were to consequently also alight on and ride a horse then part swim through the Macclesfield canal; we needed to be mindful of our equine friends on the first part of the trail.  During the run, I would let at least one of these pass first through one of the rails when it’s rider explained ‘Charlie’  was quite headstrong and committed to going first.

The first part of the run was on a trail path. Sometimes this was exposed to the hot sun depending on the tree cover.  A drinks station heralded the half-way point where we were then directed onto a transitional route to the canal path. Much of this was across the field around churned up, half dried mud. A ‘V’ turn heralds the fine canal side path with an occasional rise and droop over cobbled path bridges.  We would pass the odd dog walker or cyclist.  Looking to the other side of the water were some gardens which, on a day like this, made living in a canal side house here look rather lovely.  The gardens were all well-tended and spruced up with water facing patio boards or ornamental features.  Some had their own anchored boats

The finish is just before a bridge.  Up and over this it led round to the adjacent ‘Bell O Roses’pub whose beer garden contained a concentration of completed runners and their friends.  There was some applause for me and the cheers rose over time in proportion to the length of time later people took to finish the run.  It was now lunchtime and runners got a goodie bag, a drink and sandwich and hung out around the beer garden.  The sun was shining and all felt good.  Someone, a walker, who I overtook around 2 kilometres into the run eventually strolled past the finishing line and got the biggest applause although with no visible number I’m not wholly sure he was an entrant. In this spirit, other walkers subsequently got loud applause.

The perfect end would have been family waiting by the finishing line at which point my boys would have come running towards me where I would somehow have carried them aloft.  But in other ways this had all I could hope for.  I was happy with my time of 55 minutes and 12 seconds which arrested the decline of my finishing times.  And there were a lot of things to make it a good day: sun, scenery, good deeds, (firefighters) charity, atmosphere and winding down with a cold beer.

http://www.manchesterfire.gov.uk/updates/news/11september2012_marple_10k.aspx

Gig Review: Colorama, TG Elias & O Chapman

Manchester Castle Hotel   September 1st 2012

 

Opening in a solo capacity was the young O Chapman.  During the set, the door regularly opened to allow a few gig comers in (no one would surely have been leaving) and the sound of animated voices from the outside bar seemed to blare in. The set had an intimate feel, recalling an earlier Paul Simon (or Kings of Convenience for younger folk), but was strong enough to overcome these blasts from outside.  I bought his EP as I liked O’s set and he was polite in promoting it .  On the EP, lightly and pleasingly embellished with a further four members there’s a breathy hint of dark clouds.

T G Elias is the name of the singer songwriter who tonight led a talented set of musicians and a co singer.  I peered over the heads of the people in the crowd to see a keyboardist sat low who wouldn’t look out of place adding musical ambience to an upmarket cocktail bar.  T G talks prosaically and  freely about bowel movement problems although this didn’t bring any notable worried backtracking from those at the front. The first song was getting into its stride when there was an impromptu blast of guitar based raucousness.  From the band’s reaction we guessed that this was not some abrasive sample add on and heads turned round to the mixing desk. TG and the band took this in good humour but sometime later in the same song, he decreed that he wasn’t hearing what he wanted, and a more stripped down sound followed.  When on song, it’s very accomplished Americana with harmonies and double bass and an act to watch.  I wonder if the Badly Drawn Boy style stream of consciousness narrative is a feature every time they play?

It was a warm first September evening and the room was full.  The place was getting hotter and I went out the front of the pub to get some fresh air.  Some drinkers did the same but they were ushered back in by the Pub’s security man. Back in the room, I found a place by some locked French Doors where I thought I may catch a draught.

With a prolific work rate, Colorama last played in the area nine months ago trailing their   previous work.  At the end of that set they introduced a riff led song called Good Music which showcased the skills of their guitarist.  Carwyn seemed to indicate that he wasn’t wholly convinced by the song. In the time that has passed, he’s nailed his colours – or Colorama- to the mast and delivered this adventurous offering taking the song as its title track.  It’s a confident enough work to be played in its entirety tonight.

Good Music may seem a presumptuous title to those non acquainted with the band but I wonder if in the title there is a suggestion that what’s contained here – with its regular groove and a smattering of upbeat, danceable music can also produce the goods.   In this hot room room tonight, numbers like Do the Pump don’t win any awards for lyrical profoundness but they initiate some limb loosening movement from the audience.  Elsewhere, the mood is taken down a notch with the Indie Why is She and My Predicament which may be about the missed David Fletcher.  More than one person in the bands on stage was dressed modishly smart tonight so when Carwyn concedes that the ‘(mind!) it’s hot in here’ a front rower points out that he is very buttoned up.  To his resultant course of actions, one thinks ‘just the one button?’ but the more I got absorbed into this set, the less stifling the environment felt. 

(The above picture was taken at a previous gig at Salford Kings Arms on Nov '11; there were five members on stage tonight)

Gig Review: June Brides, Factory Star & The Distractions Kings Arms, Salford August 31st 2012

Looking back to the eighties,  Indie music had a different kind of follower: students of a more mixed and open minded base from a time when higher education was free, the now forgotten bedsitter – creatively aspirational but skint, and school age kids marginalised for not fitting in with the orthodoxies of the times. 

 From Young Marble Giants rejecting the grandiose approach, the decade’s musical landscape can be positively straddled in a way that bypasses the era's stylisms.  Around ’86, I went to watch a few of the June Brides’ peers at Cardiff Neros: Shop Assistants, Mighty Lemon Drops and We’ve got a Fuzzbox.  We were viewed suspiciously by the staff and frisked at the doorway.  A Facebook group dedicated to this venue from this time has stories of bouncer heavy handedness and the victims wouldn't have relished being taken to the club's exit leading to an alleyway. At bigger venues, the level of security was even more disproportionate with the view that there can never be enough ticket checkers.

In the Manchester area, they have long known that the Indie kid isn’t the enemy within.  I had heard the stories before moving up and was subsequently surprised at how relaxed things turned out to be.  Here in the Kings Arms there doesn’t appear to be anyone checking my details against the names of the people who have made this a sold out gig; no-one doing anything as officious as putting a mark on the back of my hard. I ask the nearest person by the desk, Frank of the June Brides, who tells me the person with the clipboard hasn’t been around recently. But there is no free for all at this gig.  People are friendly and easy going.  The desk man doesn’t appear to have been required.

 

The June Brides flame burned brightly and briefly around the mid eighties. They picked up and ran with the early decade’s great cross fusion of sounds pioneered by the likes of Orange Juice (of which one song tonight is a homage). A few years ago, Phil Wilson started performing music again, and gradually, unlike say Dave Gedge’s Wedding Present, counted in three more ex band members before adapting their old name again.  ‘Hello’ says Phil to an initially reticent audience ‘We use to be the June Brides’.

While rightly eschewing their period production, it could be said many of their old songs weren’t done complete justice on record.  I was looking forward to the live set given their back catalogue its sheen. It duly did but it's also revealing just how powerful and kicking the performance is from this six piece. It is a pleasure to hear songs like ‘This Town’ again but what makes the reformation seem so right is the deployment of wind and string instruments in what may be the new songs. Less jaunty, they take on a worldly air in a good way and it all bodes well.

 

Three members of Factory Star start playing and don’t look surprised at the non-appearance of their main man. They have a loaded bass sound. A seventies looking keyboardist also adds to what will be an interesting concoction. It associates itself on my mind with early Stranglers and they share the experimentation of this band’s era:  eschewing verse/chorus, taking a sound and running with it. Martin Bramah, having helped pioneer the Fall’s sound shares that self contained demeanour of his former band’s old singer and comes and goes when he is needed for vocal and guitar duties.

I have come late to the Distractions and, from the run-up to this gig, it’s obvious that they have a much cherished past.  Mainly inactive in the 32 years since their first LP, guitarist and song writer Steve Perrin has flown in from the Sothern hemisphere for some recordings and gigs.  It’s an intriguing sound.  There seems to be early sixties influences in the tunes and vocal style, shot through with the stamp of late seventies post punk Manchester.

Amongst the fine group onstage, there is 65 year old Mike Kellie of the Only Ones on drumming duties.  One of the few people to make the transition from classic rock to new wave (he is credited with playing on the Rock Opera Tommy) I’ve wondered how he adapted to playing a more frenetic sound.  And 34 years on from Another Girl, Another Planet, he’s again playing with a band that are lithe and lean. All reports from the new CD indicate that they are still coming up with the tunes.  Time goes so Slow, a classic single, is thankfully fitted in before a message appears to be sent that the band have to wrap things up.  Some boos that greeted this news was the only negative murmurs of the night.

 

Thanks to Maurice for photos. 

Another Day, another deluge

Saturday 30^th June 2012 

There is a point at the beginning of ‘Summertime’ when TV advertising campaigns are launched seeking to conjure up a feel good barbecue atmosphere.  Our camera friendly characters swap merry dialogue and raise a glass before the shot hones lovingly on some barbecued sausages, accompanied with audible sizzling.  In case you’re wondering who is strumming the acoustic tune, the closing scenes will reveal Gary Barlow singing ‘Here comes my tax avoidance windfall (doo doo doo doo) And I say …’.

In the meantime, of course, the weather is hardly putting on a sunny disposition.  We’ve attended a few outdoor events this summer at the local park and also went to watch the Olympic flame being carried aloft.   At best there are sporadic spells of sun. A pattern of stop start raining usually occurs and so this was to be the case during Ed’s school summer fair.  Initially, it was bright.  Jan took Ed to get his face painted while I waited with Sam for a turn on the bouncy castle.  Within minutes I saw the hurtling pair coming our way.  I thought a hard line was about to be taken about the suitability of Sam going on the castle but they then proceeded to run past us. Ed was giving Mum a run around, after deciding not to queue for face paint, and was heading to the familiar Reception Entrance.

 I went with Sam in to the school yard where we watched a year group choir singing.  As the rain started and grew in momentum, much of the audience headed to the shelter of the Assembly Hall. I was initially with the fleeing droves before thinking ‘Hang on.  There’s a group of kids doing their best to sing in these conditions.  Hows going back to support them?’  Sam and I went back to watch the choir sing which they did with dwindling momentum and raised glances before the man with the mike prematurely wrapped things up.  I didn’t head into the assembly hall – I envisaged a tight squeeze, especially with the buggy.

I put Sam’s rain cover on  and we headed under one of the gazebos which offered raffle ticket prizes all wrapped up in cellophane and ribbons.  The ensuing scramble away from the elements must have seemed quite intense to a two year old – there was a cacophony of excitable children’s screams and the rain pounded against the cloth roof that collected contained amounts of water which, when it could be held no longer, was deposited in a great splash in front of the gazebo.  Sam, unperturbed, dropped off for his nap time in the buggy.  So, a North West rainfall seemed every bit as effective as a ‘Sounds of the Rainforest’ collection used by some to induce sleepy relaxation.

Before the floodgates opened

Tuesday 5^th June 2012

Our Aberdyfi bungalow was set amongst others on a zig zaggy trail road up a hill.  The car journey upwards required the foot on first gear and lots of gas from driver Jan.

We arrived after tea time and were keen to start making the boy’s tea.  While putting on the bed covers, I heard the words, I least like to hear on arriving at a holiday base: ‘Mike - We have a problem’.  Returning to the kitchen, there was smoke coming from the oven.  The smoke alarm was unmoved or unworking not adding any shrill noise to the undesirable kitchen scenario.

Jan likes problems to be immediately identified with words that broadly mean ‘can resolve’.  My face emerging from the smoke, possibly a bit darker than before, and none the wiser, initially infuriated. However as some smoke dispersed, I could see that there was an uncleaned tray of oil at the bottom of the oven. It looked like some previous occupants had cooked some roast meat.  I removed this, poured the oil away and we used up our one sponge to give the tray a clean.

We opened the door and windows, letting in some cool June evening air.  Our surroundings , when we were able to take stock of them, were great, as good as any view I can recall.  Our hill view looked down to an estuary surrounded by great landscape and the tide was coming in.

The water in our toilet bowl was yellow.  I pulled the flush but the bowl refilled with more of the same coloured water.  Our bath also filled up with this.  Jan reminded me that the bungalow literature said that there might be some colouring of the water but it’s perfectly good to use.  Perhaps it’s like the Donegal soil tainted water that is said to have health enhancing properties.  None the less, we weren’t ready to drop the boys into a bath full of this coloured water.  We wouldn’t forgive ourselves if this generated slow moving soupy ripples outwards.  We showered the boys instead where the colour wasn’t so apparent to the trained eye.

Wednesday 6^th June 2012

Using the coastal road route, we headed north to take a ride on the famous Blaenau Ffestiniog steam train.  We planned to call at Portmerion afterwards.  The coast road was great with its scenery and ruins (or perhaps remnants from the burnt holiday homes era) but it wasn’t the quickest. Waiting at some temporary traffic lights, we realised we would miss our scheduled train, leaving a two hour gap until the next one was due to depart.  We headed to the Portmerion tourist village instead.  Here there was a visible amount of classic cars and a rally was taking place.  I first became aware of the existence of the village during the screening of Prisoner repeats in the early nineties on Channel Four.  This ushered in a brief vogue for the sixties drama and those penny farthing stickers turned up on the walls of my college with the accompanying words I am a free man.  Today, I fulfilled a twenty year old wish to visit the place but instead of striding around, chin up, in modish gear or driving a classic car, I ill humouredly chased the boys around as they ran their separate ways.  ‘Ed is too far away from you…by the colonnades’ yelled Jan on a bench before rejoining a mobile phone conversation with  Mum.

With the next train ride from Porthmadog looming, we left after an hour.  It became quite a dash. Actually there was a train stop close to where we were at Portmerion that would have been ideal and allowed us more time at the village.  I’ve read some travel writer’s accounts on this railway service.  It doesn’t get warm write ups – the likes of Bill Bryson and Paul Theroux are usually several weeks into their UK journey and  weary of steam train enthusiasts ('Lets play at trains' the former said).  Having seen it featured on CBeebies, we were coming at it from a different tack, something that the children may enjoy.  Dolphin shows and steam train excursions seem to have become our away day outing of choice.

The train had first class and third class carriages.  We used the latter, small habitable benches that faced each other.  I had a look through the windows of a first class carriage.  There were detachable chairs positioned around tables for a more pub snug feel and, indeed, drinks could be ordered.  Our hour long ride revealed a picturesque panorama of greenness and Sam, two, remarked ‘the ride is bumpy’.  Coming up to Bleaneau Ffestiniog we went into a darkened tunnel for quite a period.  Our talk halted but perhaps we should have seen how long we could hold a conversation in such pitch blackness.  I enjoyed the expressions  on the boy’s faces when we emerged back in brightness.   

The TV tonight was wall to wall Jubilee hideousness.  We didn’t come to Mid Wales to get away from it but feel glad that we did at this time of the year.

Thursday 7^th June 2012

We took the coast road and modest toll bridge north in anticipation of  kids' entertainments at Barmouth.  We stopped at Aberdyfi, and on the promenade watched some grandparents and kiddies partake in some crabbing activity.  Excitement beckoned when the wind blew a bucket of the said crabs over initiating a chase and netting of the errant crabs.

At Barmouth, we decided to eat at the Pavilion Café.  There was a big sign which warned against outsiders using the toilets with words more or less stipulating that there is eagle eyed monitoring of this.  It looked like that it had been designed by the same people that manufacture army range warnings.  Jan had been in earlier and committed some civil disobedience in not paying the requested 10p.  Service at the till was surly but the place looked well maintained and we heard some people saying of the lunch ‘this is actually ok’ which was about right.

It became very windy and the rain was relentlessly coming down.  We headed to the amusement arcade and filled a plastic tub with twopenny pieces which Jan and Ed fed into the Penny Falls Machines.  I took Sam out towards the rides, got some tokens from to the booth, and led him to the carousels where the lad working them dashed from one ride to the other to pull the lever.  As the rain (and probably chip lunch), lowered our spirits we went back to the car park to decide what to do next.

The list of other options such as castles and dank caves lacked appeal in the weather and we decided, for the second day running, to go on a steam train at Tywyn.  It was actually a children themed day with ‘Duncan’ train, one of Thomas the Train Engine’s clan to be present.  When we got there, however, there was a notice saying Duncan was poorly and wouldn’t be with us today.  This seemed unsatisfactory; we needed some American kid to step forward, look the period uniformed staff member in the eye and say ‘Now tell me the real reason why we can’t ride on it’.  After yesterday’s long journey, we stayed on for a mere one stop from Tywyn, waited in the sheltered train stop for a bit before thumbing down a packed returning train where we were allowed in the guard’s carriage.

In the evening, sitting tired while some exhaustive Royal coverage played out on TV, we heard a gurgling sound from the kitchen which sounded like a lot of water going down the plug hole.  In a way, this is what happened.  While rain water was plentiful outside it had run dry inside. Our tap supply of Amber coloured Cambrian Hills produce was gone. I rang the number on a laminated card and was told that this was a site problem and the water people are looking into it.  Couldn’t say when it was coming back on.  This meant problems for washing up and pulling the flush but we had a bit of bottled water for the kettle.

Friday 8^th June 2012  Exit, pursued by some rainclouds

We managed to pull the flush – just, but, like the previous people who stayed here, left a ‘present’ some dishes, cutlery and mugs that we were unable to wash.  Then we departed an hour early. To put things in perspective, the next day, this part of Mid Wales hit the national headlines  when it was hit by some horrendous flooding with people having to be evacuated from their homes and caravans, leaving a whole lot of damage behind.

Footnote   This was the response from the people with which we rented the bungalow:

Many thanks for your email, apologies for the delay in replying but I have just arrived back from Plas Panteidal due to the problems caused by the weather

If I can answer point 2 first, the water went off I understand between 8 -10pm. The reason being due to weather conditions the water pipes became blocked and caused a disruption to some of the bungalows, the water was back on again around 11 am the following morning, because of the severe rainfall experienced the pipes had to be unblocked several times over the next few days as the debris the water was bringing down was incredible, we are glad to say that all bungalows had water throughout the horrid weekend that Wales has just experienced especially where the bungalow is situated.

We apologise for the loss of water but it was totally beyond their control, we hope that the enjoyment of your holiday was not marred although they can understand the inconvenience encountered.

With regards to the oven this should have been reported immediately to Lesley in housekeeping so she could have come down and sorted the problem out, with regards to the fire/smoke alarm I visited no 8 yesterday to check and all was in working order, so not quite sure what happened with the smoke you encountered. I understand from Lesley that all appliances are checked before new arrivals, could you advise if their silver foil in the grill pan was new or had been used??

In summary we apologise most sincerely about the water situation and the oven problems you encountered,if the oven problem had been reported they would have been able to rectify for you, the water was a little more difficult.

We do hope that you are able to visit Plas panteidal again and hope that we can be of service to you.

James Yorkston Manchester Deaf Institute May 23rd 2012

I once got a random text from a friend stating ‘Moving up Country – a classic from beginning to End’.  He was right.  Tonight James Yorkston is performing this 2002 album from beginning to end.

Bright evening May light shines through the venue’s dormer windows.  To attend a indoor gig in broad light feels unusual, let alone one whose person’s music conjures up sessions on a wind lashed night in a rural outpost pub. Other dates on this tour have been played with the album’s original band, the Athletes, but tonight is a stripped down affair.  James and his support, Seamus, stayed in the same B & Bs and take turns behind the merchandise stall.

I rued it a little when I read that James was without the Athletes, his former backing band.  The album opens with a wistful tune great as a stand alone acoustic number but there is a point, track two, where the band’s arrangements move in,  lifting things. Come that point, tonight, the harmonica gets an airing; other times there’s a little foot propelled percussion all brushing the tunes along with modest embellishments.

 Always a personable and good humoured stage presence, James is on a high with some hearteningly positive family news and an announcement of a new LP in August. In the same buoyant spirits he revealed that he cocked a snook at a mouthy Adey Beecroft type on the train journey by catching him with the tip of his guitar.  It was accidental but something that would have merited a round of applause if it also took place, in front of an audience.

My music is not always up to the minute but, if I like something by an act I try to follow their output.  Watching them live, I like to have a certain amount of familiarity with the songs. This playing of a one such LP from beginning to end is better still. We hear all of Moving up Country in its warm resonance.  Instead of taking a bow and going away until encore time, we hear a more recent and some new songs. One of which is a reflective number, referring to a time when he felt a more  unkempt look made him a magnet for those marginalised and fallen on difficult time.  As dusk descends, throwing the stage into focus, I have to depart, missing the last of the tunes, including a version of ‘Ace of Spades’ as I sought to catch the last train home.

Return to Gran Alicante

Sunday April 1st 2012 

The five day forecast for Alicante had predicted rainclouds. The day time temperature was to be in the late teens and it was to be cool in the evening. Our apartment’s owners had testified that, on a recent visit, the region had been cool at night. This perturbed some of our travelling group.  Still, in comparison, I'd only to consider a rainy day in Stockport with its steady drone of traffic and kerbside sprayed water, some of which I’m usually at pains for me and the boys to avoid.  Besides, much of the Spanish region looks like it could do with a bit of rain.

It was a fraught time in the run up to catching the plane. While returning from picking up Jan's Mum (who was also travelling), Ed was sick in the car. Did he have a tummy bug? If so, we may have had to rule out getting on the plane. When everyone arrived back, I took Ed for a bath and washed his removed clothes. An hour passed with no further signs of illness from him. The holiday was on but this hiccup took away some momentum. The taxi arrived early, and in the rush, I forgot Sam’s turtle shell ruck sack which was to be debuted on this holiday. Parts pinged off the fabric car booster seat, also newly ordered. At an airport lift, while I was holding Sam’s hand, the closing lift doors came close to catching the cusp of his heel. For the first time, I heard a critical utterance from J's Mum.

On the plane journey,  J's Mum spoke to her co-passenger, with too much enthusiasm, of how it's set to be a rainy set of days ahead. By the time we left the plane, they looked like they were anticipating the holidays a little bit less. We collected our bags and, as we left, there was a traveller left looking concerned in the direction of the one remaining bag doing laps on the carousel circuit, not a bag that was hers.  J's Mum said to her ‘I lost my bag on a plane once – it ended up in Singapore’.

Our taxi driver dropped us off to the apartment, we off loaded our baggage and headed for an evening meal at the local Mexican restaurant, EL Texicano. A solitary member of staff was running the show here. Indeed, with the holiday season just beginning, this would be the case for most restaurants within the town.  I was forced on my feet more that I'd have liked but he waitress was relaxed about Ed’s habit of collecting and lining up table restaurant numbers.  J's Mum spilt some red wine my way which splashed over my top. I waved off apologies and thought I’m happy to take this if it lifts the Mum in Law critical commentary just a little. However later, while reading today’s newspaper in bed, a complaint came from the next room: Mum in Law said the rustling was keeping her awake.

Monday April 2nd 2012

The best introduction to Gran Alicante is to catch the road train.   We weren't able to do it at first attempt. A choo choo sound careering away indicated that we missed our intended timetable stop so we called in at O Duill’s. The Irish bar has some competition from Molly Malone’s (‘est. 2011') having recently opened at the other end of the block.  However, O Duill’s proved to be well placed as the would be passenger’s convenient stop gap when the train was missed or didn’t turn up. We discussed the weather with the barmaid. The predicted rainfall hadn’t yet materialised. ‘It’s a micro-climate here’ the barmaid said. An hour later, the road train turned up and we lugged our things on. Ed smiled, happy to be reacquainted with the train and there were similar responses when the driver waved to people out and about the town, including some holidayers unloading their car, their broad smiles anticipating the week ahead.

After a tapas lunch in the town centre (where Ed gave notice that sitting still might be a challenge over the holiday), some pay rides and a shop we caught the longer journey back via the beach. In the evening, after an evening tea at the under-rated Sand Hills, I found myself having to change a rather explosive nappy of Sam’s. Jan lamenting how I handled the changing and bagging of this nappy hardly made the point with precision and laid on layer after layer of rather abject analysis. My response was to suggest that there were discredited world leaders who get a more congenial hearing at the Hague War trials that the damming tone that greeted my nappy changing. I listed some at which point J's Mum roared ‘That’s enough nations’ and declared that she was going to bed. It was 9:30pm. I thought to myself that I mustn’t allow myself to answer back from criticism, however withering. Take it on the chin for the sake of having a harmonious holiday with all family members.

Tuesday April 3rd 2012

We visited the nearest park. It was still well maintained with visible gardeners, exercise equipment and, especially pleasing, an open kiosk that served beer in frosted glasses. On the way back we called at the supermarket where much word of mouth is generated at the latest round of soft warm baguettes brought out of the bakery. We bought two of these but on the way back down the hill, I let one slip out of my hands onto the pavement. I remembered my vows from last night and took the laugh free withering criticism that followed. Jan's gritted teeth utterances suggest a career as a ventriloquist if able to muster up some good humour. Why not some whimsy here I wondered, something like ‘I would say you dropped a bloomer there, Mike, but in fact you dropped a French loaf’.

In the afternoon, we visited the terrace side pool after an attendant (who initially argued that we were still in Winter) eventually agreed to open up. We expected to be the only ones at the site but some people from Stoke turned up who we remembered from the last time we were here. Jan and her Mum are usually quite adept at getting the stony faced to open up and talk but not on this occasion. The Stoke foursome appeared unmoved by this poolside reunion and recollections of last year. They lingered nearby for a moment then appeared to think better of it and moved further down the opposite pool end. I recalled that it was about Day 12 from last year when they opened up and spoke at any length.

Jan was looking forward to going to the Los Belgos restaurant tonight but we found it closed. As we debated where we could go, things got heated. We were outside a place which advertised its paella with a blown up photograph of shiny prawns within a bed of rice. ‘…and if I have to look at that any longer, I’ll be sick’ said Jan.

Wednesday April 4^th 2012

When we earlier heard that there would be rain in the first few days, we decided to pencil in one of these to go to Elche zoo. We took a taxi to its off the beaten track destination.  At the entrance we declined having our photos taken with some animals for a fee and took a modest safari trail ride, seated on some truck trailers.  A bilingual talk was given over a microphone on animals that we were passing.

We decided to catch a parrot show in an outdoor amphitheatre style set up.  This was pretty good: the parrots (the one name I noted into was introduced as ‘Michael’ from Venezuela) performed various tricks like riding on a miniature bicycles, some of the presumably tricky penny farthing variety.  The guy presiding over it, feigned eye rolling exasperation when the parrots didn’t proceed as planned, playing it for humour in that visual Euro style. I’d assumed I’d enjoy this more than I would the later sea horse show.  In five years of children, we’ve seen more than our fair of mammal tricks but it was for the children to enjoy seeing a sea lion bound out of the water and balance a ball on the nose in between deftly catching fish treats in the blue water.  Music blasted overhead to accompany the tricks and there was some toing and froing exchanges between guys when the odd trick didn’t proceed as planned. I’m no fan of power ballads but that Dinah Carroll song was marginally improved by seeing a guy do some dance steps to it with a sea lion.

We had a look at the animals, but with our previous frame of reference being Chester Zoo, the site seemed small and cramped in comparison.  Chester Zoo’s large enclosure funded by the car company of the same name made the one jaguar’s roving ground here seem diminished and restrictive.  A lot of the animals were only one of a type (they would have been turned back from Noah’s Ark) which induced an air of sadness to their predicament.  The large farm environment, while being as parched as large parts of Spain, could surely have invested some of the entrance fee on a bit of greenery for some animals.  When we returned, the taxi driver said that the local papers were saying that the zoo may be closed due to unease over the animal’s welfare.

Later in the evening, Jan and I got to enter a pub quiz team at the ‘Phoenix Nights’ Bar.  We had a middling finish – joint second out of four – but we entered the raffle and had our number pulled out of the hat.  This gave us the chance to unlock the box for some rollover cash if we picked the right key which, alas, we didn’t.

Thursday April 5^th 2012

We caught the road train to town for some shopping.  In Lidl, we decided that we needed a shopping trolley.  I tried to back out through the opening barriers but only succeeded in setting off the alarms which sounded like a beginner trying to play the foghorn at great volume. If any of the shoppers were to wonder who the guilty party was, they were directed to me by J's Mum who uttered ‘Stupid Man’.  When we got back to the apartment, I unclipped and lifted Sam out of the buggy.  With its handle hanging shopping bags, the buggy collapsed backwards resulting in two broken eggs.

Besides two less eggs  there were  other items that we had forgotten to buy like oranges. As we were putting out lunch in the veranda, a van pulled up outside and a guy came out and addressed me in Spanish.  My response was as uncertain and uncommitted as it would be when someone in dark glasses gets out of a van and seeks to engage me in something I have no idea about.  However, when he pulled open his van door to reveal various native fruit and veg, I elected to buy some oranges. Good service.  What’s the equivalent in the UK?  There was the ‘Corona Man’ twenty years ago with its money back for returned pop bottles.

Friday April 6^th 2012

We walked to a funfair that had been set up nearby to mark the Easter period.  Jan and Ed went on the rollercoaster and for a euro got a loopy rollicking rollercoaster ride.  Within the rail route someone in a Micky Mouse costume moved to the music and brushed passing kid’s faces with his balloon.  Sam was vocal in wanting a turn but, at the end of the ride, Jan could not be swayed that he was big enough to go on it. We had an unproductive look around the fair for anything he could go on then returned home.

During lunch outside, the house’s cleaner, a bloke, introduced himself over the gate.  He advised us that the cost of cleaning (something that we were previously advised was voluntary) was fifty euros, ten euros more than what we paid six months ago (Rise in cost of cleaning 20%; Spanish inflation 2.1%).  He went on to talk about the fair (‘It’s mainly Spanish there’) so I suppose we got something of local guidance for our extra ten Euros.

We went to O Duills for tea.  J's Mum told the waitress that she traditionally didn’t eat meat on principle on Good Friday and asked after the fish options. We got out the pub’s shoebox of toys for the boys and read the ex pats produced paper.  I’d expect it to be full of columns lamenting aspects of British life and it mainly was: a front page editorial ran pictures of this week’s snow (the sort of thing that had members among us texting: ‘Thinking of you while we’re sitting out in the sun’) and contrasted this with the simultaneous ‘drought’ going on in parts of the UK. It asked how Spain can maintain a water supply with a fraction of the UK’s rainfall.  Elsewhere in the paper, George Galloway, the ‘anti-politician’ was lauded and questions were raised over how Chelsea could represent Britain in the Champions League with just one UK born player.

We picked our meals which were pretty good for a pub set-up.  Mum-in-Law again relayed that she wasn’t eating meat on Good Friday in a way that suggested Camilla, the bar maid, might argue back, rubbishing such beliefs.  ‘That’s okay’, said Camilla. ‘I respect that’.

Saturday 7^th April 2012

Jan and Mum went to Santa Pola Market, taking Sam with them.  I stayed in Gran Alicant with Ed.  We called in to O Duills while deciding what to do. In the beer garden a bloke with a pulled down sun hat was sitting with a beer and feet up shouting in a splattergun kind of way.  Ed and I escaped his wrath although a family arriving for breakfast were not spared - they scurried past him and inside the confines of the pub.  Inside, staff member Lisa lamented being landed with the nutter.  No-one was sure what his gripe was in Spanish whether it was tourists, austerity cuts or his life status.

I decided to take Ed up the hill to the park, feeling I’d inherited some of my Dad’s leaning towards walking the kids to places through thick and thin. At the top of the hill it was exposed and I had mislaid my shades. Figuring that I’d left them at the bar, I later went to collect them.  While there, I asked what happened to the vocal drunkard.  Things had apparently got really out of hand when he attacked a member of staff from next door’s Sunset Bar in the early afternoon.  Camila, last night’s waitress, was just starting her shift and was compelled to sit on the offender until the police arrived.  Not a regular incident, said Lisa.  Camila, the professional, worked on looking very unruffled.

In the evening, Mum in Law agreed to babysit and Jan and I went to the Dutch restaurant taking a candlelit table for two.  This seemed the most grown up, up market place on the block.  I’d imagine staff would have looked dimly on Ed running round lifting table numbers or black market DVD man popping his head around the door like he does at every other eatery here.  My meal, that staple the veggie lasagne, was different to the usual shallow dish. Piercing the lasagne was a skewer with a suspended filo pastry sheet.  On top was a sesame seed layered cherry tomato.  Jan talked lyrically of her dish in a way that I couldn't match with vegetable lasagne.  The walls bared pictures of skinny canal side Amsterdam houses which reminded us of pre family life.

Sunday 8^th April 2012

I walked up the hill again with Sam to shop at MaxCoop before it closed early for the holidays.  We called in to L’Espigo greeting some staff members for the first time since August, little blondie boy Sam still being a big hit.

In the afternoon, I took Ed to the funfair at the top of the street. We had several tokens left from Friday and I was keen to have a go on the rollercoaster. Inside it was more Hammer House than fun and frolics. As the ride took us within the public facing décor, we passed Micky Mouse now lifeless.  His grinning head lay disturbingly on the floor and his ugg boots stood upright alone.  More care had been taken with his tailed coat and waist jacket which at least were hanging up on a hook.

Monday 9^th April 2012

Temperature levels began to rise this week and we headed to the pool.  Outside the pool confines, in the street, a small gazebo had been set up and from it would waft the aroma of barbecued paella. Locals converged from surrounding houses, voices rose, got animated and it all had the feel of a community bank holiday occasion.  Back at the pool, I looked forlornly towards the Stoke family who were still monosyllabic and looking towards the pool behind inscrutable dark glasses. I discussed, and was dissuaded from, turning up at the outside festivities with a bottle of rioja and a hopeful expression.

Over the bank holidays, we would be wrapped up in bed when live music from the Easter festival would be performed into the night and early hours. I had read of these events in the run up to our holiday and envisaged being there when the boys were in bed and getting a taste of some native music.  But I was exhausted and always on early rising duties.  Travel hadn’t broadened the mind in this case.

Tuesday 10^th April 2012

In the total of three weeks that we have stayed in this place, I had wondered about the steep bank which rises then presumably dips towards the sea.  Plenty of tower blocks loomed high which suggested some high density holiday place.  I hadn’t heard anyone talk of going there.  We had earlier in our stay discussed visiting Benidorm but ruled it out due to time and travel costs. Thus Jan, I and the boys walked in the direction of Arenales de Sol.  We joined the coast road path which widened into a chequered patterned promenade with lined palm trees. Information boards highlighted the beaches notable sand dunes. There was the a fly poster for a fashion brand but whoever posted it up must have had a target demographic of an elderly dog walker or cyclist as that’s all we saw during our extended walk as we looked to find the place’s centre. 

We passed a closed bank and, ominously, a closed tourist bureau.  The apartments generally looked vacant with many a for sale sign.  Beyond the tower blocks the sea front looked reasonably attractive but it was obviously built during a more optimistic time, pre Credit Crunch. Eventually we found some open café bars and settled at one called Terrace 38.  There was a few Spaniards at the next table, dressed and jacketed in contrast to our now self-conscious T Shirt and shorts. We had a drink, the boys an ice cream, and stopped at some play facilities before heading back. The same display stand which advertised foods, specifically close ups of paellas and pizzas (the same picture which threatened to turn Jan’s stomach last week) was on display here. For anyone who wanted to go somewhere with less tourists, this most touristy designed of areas, was the place to go

Wednesday 11^th April 2012

After mutterings of changeable weather, the second week in particular shaped up to be bright and sunny.  This was our last full day and we were winding down, but we made it to the beach.  I did chores that would be familiar from home, washed clothes and put them out to dry. I bagged the recycling and rubbish and took it to the street based banks.  I was kept away from packing duties.  With everything bar immediate essentials bagged we headed off to Los Belgos and sat outside a restaurant for the first time.  This was the third time we came here as Jan was a fan of the mixed grill.  Kelly, who served us was pleasant and friendly. Just when I was beginning to suspect that my choice cuisine on the complex was stir fried vegetables by any other name, they volunteered to make me a curry. Our party remunerated the staff with a handsome tip, although I think drink may have had a say in just how handsome it was

Thursday 12^th April 2012

At the airport we joined our queue, an altogether slower one than the ‘bag drop’ queue going to the same destination.  When we were eventually poised to be the next group to be checked in, a member of a travelling company turned up with a bagless passenger, mumbled something about her requiring to be seen next, and then fled, into the crowd of the airport, like someone trying to lose her chasers.  As the lady stood in front of us she would have heard sensed the evil eyes, heard comments about ‘pushing in’ and discursive sentiments about Brits not complaining enough.  Whether she was in front of us for the right reason or not, I felt some empathy with the woman and thought ‘Go Girl! Piss off all these sour types!’ When the lady was called next for checking in, she turned round and thanked us, a dignified response.

With all the money spent on the holiday, I sometimes console myself that we save money on energy costs for this period.  We hadn’t run the boys’ bath for 12 days on the water meter.  However, when returning, we found out that our house’s en suite water tap had been running for the duration that we’ve been away, turned on, un-noticed by us by one of the boys.  I checked the water meter reading by that on the last bill and felt like weeping.  To answer that Spanish paper’s poser as to why we may struggle to get by with the considerably greater rainfall we have than Spain, it may be because of bunglers like me not checking that they have turned their taps off.