Time really flies, and no sooner had Harry turned 12 – ensuring he qualified for adult airline fares – than we were at BA’s new Terminal 5 and onto Los Angeles.
A long but trouble-free journey later, we picked up our rental car. We had chosen a “large” car to accommodate all our luggage. This turned out to be a Ford Crown Victoria – a vehicle designed in the era that style forgot. Quite astoundingly ugly. Why did Avis stock this model ? I imagine, in practical terms, if they didn’t buy them then no one would.
Nevertheless, it went forwards, backwards, left and right and after a while was comfortingly quiet and homely. We negotiated a head-on conflict between what our sat-nav said and what common sense and road-signs said, and found our beach-house with only minor amounts of wrong-way turns and no actual traffic offences.
The house – one street back from the main Santa Monica beach – was a bit haphazard in layout, but large and well appointed. Some of the contents were very popular – for example the working vintage pinball machine and the 60” plasma TV.
The owners had stocked the property up with pretty much everything one wants or needs, but some things American still puzzle me greatly. The nation that put a man on the moon does not seem to have grasped the usefulness of an electric kettle or – even more bizarrely – the electric toaster. A gas kettle is – to my mind – massively inferior to its electric cousin. And the peculiar toast-enabled table-top “oven” thingy was just ridiculous.
And why is it that the main appliances are always so big and clunky ? The oven, dishwasher and washing machines were clearly styled (like most American models it seems) by Fisher Price. Definitely Europe 1 – USA 0 in the style stakes.
Three Men and One Wheel
On the first full day, Matt, Harry and I took out some bikes. Well, after discussion, Harry and I set out on a tandem whilst Matt opted for a skateboard.
Matt held on to the tandem to get a tow, and I did most or all of the actual pedalling. Something was not quite right, though! After some process of elimination, the cause was found. The front wheel was so loose that it was on the point of actually falling off. A pit-stop later, we resumed on a one man/one bike basis and enjoyed the 5-mile bike path in the Malibu direction.
Later all four of us checked out the pier. We saw one person fishing and wondered if that was allowed. We proceeded further along and ran into a hundred fishermen. Clearly, yes. We opted to buy rather than catch, though, and dined at the Mexican restaurant at the end of the pier which featured decidedly Mexican rather than classically American levels of service!
Rather better service was to be found at Shoop’s – a “European” deli on our doorstep, which we visited several times for breakfast during our 1-week stay.
Seal the Real Deal
We persuaded two reluctant children to get in the car for an open-ended drive up the Pacific Coast Highway. After an hour or so, we pulled over in a non-descript layby. Fifty feet away was a hidden jewel – a beautiful small beach of beautiful sand, chunky exciting rocks and fabulous waves. And only 4 other people (plus 2 dogs !)
Harry crept closer and closer to the waves and soon was fully submerged and nearly 2 hours of wave-chasing began. Some way through we spotted one of the dogs, or something, in the sea. A second sighting confirmed the swimmer as a dolphin!
In fact, several dolphins. Later, we saw seals just a few feet from the shore. The final score: Dolphins 5 – Seals 4.
We had spent so long at the unscheduled beach party that we had to hurry back across town to make it to Burbank in time for the Warner Brothers studio tour. You’d have to give them 10/10 (or an Oscar) for organization and quality throughout.
The following day, from the sublime to the ridiculous. We were booked on an LA city tour, which looked good on paper but which went wrong in so many ways that it would be tedious to recount them all. We were glad when it ended, although the distance of time since makes it seem not quite so bad in hindsight!
One bad idea, in hindsight, was roller-blading. I am not sure it was harder than I expected because I expected it to be nearly impossible anyway. I could stand up so long as I didn’t move. Once moving, however, it was just a matter of time before I hit the ground hard. Matt and Harry persevered a little longer but in the end we all gave up!
On the last full day, Harry and I finally tried out the beach proper. Santa Monica beach, it turns out, is a real class act. Beautifully smooth sand underfoot all the way out and a shallow slope so that one can get miles out to try all the waves. The only downside was that I was knocked over by a one-two, and lost my hat and sunglasses. The hat came back, but the glasses were lost to the sea forever !
We bid farewell to Santa Monica and made our way via Long Beach to the Royal Caribbean cruise terminal for part 2 ....
Wednesday, 13 August 2008
Thursday, 31 July 2008
Carping On
Harry's new interest in fishing took us, and a friend (Angus from Brickhill), to a new venue on Tuesday: Wold Farm Fisheries was located some way past Santa Pod raceway, in the middle of nowhere.
Tackled up to the hilt with early birthday presents and a further trip to the fishing ship at Bedford marina, we arrived just before 9am and soon took up station on Oaks Lake.
Dax, who runs the fishery, assured us we would catch. And before I could even finish setting up Harry's rod, or mine, Angus' rod was bent and he (somewhat surprised, perhaps) landed a small mirror carp.
A good sign, and one which prompted the hurry-up from Harry.
Angus moved to a different spot to allow room for us and soon afterwards a cry went up and this was a rather different fish. It is common experience that the feel of the fish tends to over-estimate the size of the catch but it was clear this was a big'un. It doesn't look quite as big in the photo, somehow, but I think it may be bigger than anything I have ever caught !
There were lulls throughout the day, but we really did have a decent haul - 50 fish between us with about half to Angus. In the morning, mainly common and mirror carp. In the afternoon, mainly bream (or what we thought were bream - maybe some kind of hybrid). I also landed a nice tench - first time ever.
Harry caught well over a dozen fish including both types of carp, and bream, and most were of decent size - very hard to judge without weighing, however. Unfortunately keepnets were not permitted on the day so we were robbed of a nice shot of the whole haul.
The slightly counter intuitive thing was that in catching so much, Harry seemed to be a bit disappointed we did not catch even more or bigger fish.
Still, it seems likely we will want to go back.
Tackled up to the hilt with early birthday presents and a further trip to the fishing ship at Bedford marina, we arrived just before 9am and soon took up station on Oaks Lake.
Dax, who runs the fishery, assured us we would catch. And before I could even finish setting up Harry's rod, or mine, Angus' rod was bent and he (somewhat surprised, perhaps) landed a small mirror carp.
A good sign, and one which prompted the hurry-up from Harry.
Angus moved to a different spot to allow room for us and soon afterwards a cry went up and this was a rather different fish. It is common experience that the feel of the fish tends to over-estimate the size of the catch but it was clear this was a big'un. It doesn't look quite as big in the photo, somehow, but I think it may be bigger than anything I have ever caught !
There were lulls throughout the day, but we really did have a decent haul - 50 fish between us with about half to Angus. In the morning, mainly common and mirror carp. In the afternoon, mainly bream (or what we thought were bream - maybe some kind of hybrid). I also landed a nice tench - first time ever.
Harry caught well over a dozen fish including both types of carp, and bream, and most were of decent size - very hard to judge without weighing, however. Unfortunately keepnets were not permitted on the day so we were robbed of a nice shot of the whole haul.
The slightly counter intuitive thing was that in catching so much, Harry seemed to be a bit disappointed we did not catch even more or bigger fish.
Still, it seems likely we will want to go back.
Wednesday, 30 July 2008
Venus Rising
Venus fish bar are having their annual and well-earned break, which leaves us with quite a problem where fish & chips are concerned. On their holidays, or occasionally on a Sunday when they are closed, we struggle to find an acceptable substitute.
Some are better than others - few are as bad as the one on Tavistock street. Most are actually OK in their won way, but do not measure up to the gold standard.
This time we tried a new one - "Nobby's Fish and Chips". Actually, not awful. The staff were friendly enough and the fish & chips themselves were not too bad. But it was obvious the place had been staffed with new recruits who weren't quite firing on all cylinders.
We'll be glad when Venus are back and we have taken the precaution of going away at the same time.
Some are better than others - few are as bad as the one on Tavistock street. Most are actually OK in their won way, but do not measure up to the gold standard.
This time we tried a new one - "Nobby's Fish and Chips". Actually, not awful. The staff were friendly enough and the fish & chips themselves were not too bad. But it was obvious the place had been staffed with new recruits who weren't quite firing on all cylinders.
We'll be glad when Venus are back and we have taken the precaution of going away at the same time.
Tuesday, 29 July 2008
Passing Bills
Karen just received a thank you note for here efforts in an unusual situation a few days ago when I was away in London.
She came downstairs after hearing a noise that seemed out of place, and found an unexpected visitor in the hall.
Bill, that was his name, had come in through the door which was on the latch. Apparently he was suffering a loss of short term memory and a cup of tea and a chat did not restore things. Neither did a circuit of nearby addresses jog sufficient recollections.
So, in the end, the other Bill (the Old one) were called in and they in time found out that his destination was a very short distance away in a residential home.
She came downstairs after hearing a noise that seemed out of place, and found an unexpected visitor in the hall.
Bill, that was his name, had come in through the door which was on the latch. Apparently he was suffering a loss of short term memory and a cup of tea and a chat did not restore things. Neither did a circuit of nearby addresses jog sufficient recollections.
So, in the end, the other Bill (the Old one) were called in and they in time found out that his destination was a very short distance away in a residential home.
Monday, 28 July 2008
Train Pain
I find that I rarely choose to drive into London these days. Not having two cars is one reason, but a combination of parking, congestion charge, cost of petrol, being able to have a drink and a snooze, and simply the time involved means I usually choose the train.
When I was commuting - either daily or weekly - I used to generally choose the train as well. But whichever mode one chooses, there are times when it feels like the wrong choice.
Both modes are capable of throwing up a massive problem - whether it be a motorway pile-up or the wrong type of body on the line.
Yesterday, travelling in for a game at the club in London, I elected once again to let the train take the strain. I took a precaution though. When Karen dropped me at Bedford, I asked her to ait whilst I checked the departure boards. All clear. OK.
Well, as I waited, the practised eye could discern some warning signs and - lo - at 18:06 (the exact departure time) the train was then, and only then, deemed to be running 18 minutes late.
Not disastrous yet. When it arrived, it sat ominously on the platform even though it was already late. It was also packed.
Eventually, they made a further announcement. "overhead live problems at Flitwick - no trains are running through the area". Well, why didn't you say so before ?
I decided it was not too late to abandon ship, get the car, and drive in after all. I stood up and tried to open the door. It was locked. We began moving - I was committed now. Two other travellers had also tried to take the same escape route, and likewise failed.
The fact we were moving should have indicated that the problems were resolved, but the sinking feeling was that we were simply moving into no man's land.
To say the journey was not without irritations would be an understatement. The clunk-clunk of the inter-carriage doors repeatedly opening and closing. The screaming children, the mobile phones, the ridiculous announcements ("we are closing the buffet bar so that we can have some turnaround time in London" - at least an hour away .... ).
The good news was that we did trundle more or less continuously towards London - via Flitwick (or Flit-Wick as they insisted on calling it) and arrived a modest 45minutes late.
The good thing was I was travelling to a tournament that I myself had organized, so they weren't going to start without me !
When I was commuting - either daily or weekly - I used to generally choose the train as well. But whichever mode one chooses, there are times when it feels like the wrong choice.
Both modes are capable of throwing up a massive problem - whether it be a motorway pile-up or the wrong type of body on the line.
Yesterday, travelling in for a game at the club in London, I elected once again to let the train take the strain. I took a precaution though. When Karen dropped me at Bedford, I asked her to ait whilst I checked the departure boards. All clear. OK.
Well, as I waited, the practised eye could discern some warning signs and - lo - at 18:06 (the exact departure time) the train was then, and only then, deemed to be running 18 minutes late.
Not disastrous yet. When it arrived, it sat ominously on the platform even though it was already late. It was also packed.
Eventually, they made a further announcement. "overhead live problems at Flitwick - no trains are running through the area". Well, why didn't you say so before ?
I decided it was not too late to abandon ship, get the car, and drive in after all. I stood up and tried to open the door. It was locked. We began moving - I was committed now. Two other travellers had also tried to take the same escape route, and likewise failed.
The fact we were moving should have indicated that the problems were resolved, but the sinking feeling was that we were simply moving into no man's land.
To say the journey was not without irritations would be an understatement. The clunk-clunk of the inter-carriage doors repeatedly opening and closing. The screaming children, the mobile phones, the ridiculous announcements ("we are closing the buffet bar so that we can have some turnaround time in London" - at least an hour away .... ).
The good news was that we did trundle more or less continuously towards London - via Flitwick (or Flit-Wick as they insisted on calling it) and arrived a modest 45minutes late.
The good thing was I was travelling to a tournament that I myself had organized, so they weren't going to start without me !
Saturday, 26 July 2008
The Joy of Golf
Golf has much in common with poker - masses of disappointment punctuated with moments of elation.
I have never played seriously nor consistently, but I have played on and off for a long time. Last year, during my sabbatical, I took lessons (again) and the improvement was dramatic (but very short lived).
During that time I played maybe 12 rounds in as many weeks. Since then - over the past 12 months - I have played exactly once.
So, I was very rusty, but when in Spain ....
Roger arranged for me to join his team in a regular team of 4 Stableford game. Best 2 scores of 4 to count on each hole. All very friendly he assured (which it was).
I played some good holes, but more bad ones. Roger was conspicuously generous in his assessment of my play, which was nice, but my game was weak indeed.
Still, I enjoyed it enough to play again on the following Monday. Wow ! Almost from the 1st tee, it was a totally different game. Objectively, it was still high-handicap golf - I scored a gross 98 strokes and achieved 35 Stableford points playing off 26. But it was probably my best round since records began (the records have been lost, but I can only recall one other sub-100 score).
But the manner of the 98 shots made it feel like a far better round. I regularly 3 and 4-putted, which is terrible of course. But the point is it meant I was hitting really well from tee to green. Even though those missed 6-footers are as costly in actual scoring as a mis-fire on the fairway, it feels so different.
Yes it is frustrating that I did not convert my play into a real blockbuster score, but the realisation that with even moderately good greens-play I could have shot 90 more than made up for it.
We had a team of only 3 on the day but with my run-of-form and with Greg (the third member) scoring 40 points, our combined score was a solid looking 85. On Friday, 80 won easily.
Roger "El Bandido" was rehearsing his excuses for the bandit-in-law need not have worried though as another 3-handed team turned in 97 (!!). Their "young gun" carding a net 62 playing of 15 (hmm...)
Golf, as we know, thinks nothing of building you up to knock you down, but I do expect to swap some green-baize time for green-fees time. It's such an easy game !
I have never played seriously nor consistently, but I have played on and off for a long time. Last year, during my sabbatical, I took lessons (again) and the improvement was dramatic (but very short lived).
During that time I played maybe 12 rounds in as many weeks. Since then - over the past 12 months - I have played exactly once.
So, I was very rusty, but when in Spain ....
Roger arranged for me to join his team in a regular team of 4 Stableford game. Best 2 scores of 4 to count on each hole. All very friendly he assured (which it was).
I played some good holes, but more bad ones. Roger was conspicuously generous in his assessment of my play, which was nice, but my game was weak indeed.
Still, I enjoyed it enough to play again on the following Monday. Wow ! Almost from the 1st tee, it was a totally different game. Objectively, it was still high-handicap golf - I scored a gross 98 strokes and achieved 35 Stableford points playing off 26. But it was probably my best round since records began (the records have been lost, but I can only recall one other sub-100 score).
But the manner of the 98 shots made it feel like a far better round. I regularly 3 and 4-putted, which is terrible of course. But the point is it meant I was hitting really well from tee to green. Even though those missed 6-footers are as costly in actual scoring as a mis-fire on the fairway, it feels so different.
Yes it is frustrating that I did not convert my play into a real blockbuster score, but the realisation that with even moderately good greens-play I could have shot 90 more than made up for it.
We had a team of only 3 on the day but with my run-of-form and with Greg (the third member) scoring 40 points, our combined score was a solid looking 85. On Friday, 80 won easily.
Roger "El Bandido" was rehearsing his excuses for the bandit-in-law need not have worried though as another 3-handed team turned in 97 (!!). Their "young gun" carding a net 62 playing of 15 (hmm...)
Golf, as we know, thinks nothing of building you up to knock you down, but I do expect to swap some green-baize time for green-fees time. It's such an easy game !
Friday, 25 July 2008
License to Kill (time)
Karen, Harry & I made a last-minute trip over to Spain to visit Hazel & Roger whilst Matt spent 10days with a friend in Slovakia.
As the in-laws (or parents, or grandparents depending on your perspective) live on the coast, fishing was clearly an option for Harry.
Our local experts kindly investigated the regulations concerning permits - one doubts that many tourists actually bother with this, but one expects there to be some local equivalent of our rod license.
The word was that a license should be obtained and - at 5euros for three years - cost was clearly not a consideration.
A couple of days into the trip we deemed it was time to pick up the permits. Based on experience in UK, France and Canada I had expectations that we would pop into a seafront newsagent or tackle shop and hand over the 5euros.
So, I was mildly surprised when Roger brought us to an official government building. Still, there was the sign "Licensia de pesca" and so it began.
The problems began right away. The clerk at this post clearly was not too familiar with the procedure herself and the language barrier was a factor. The all-Spanish form was reasonably self-explanatory but certainly dealing with a foreigner presented some issues for them (we had been warned to bring our passports).
Much photocopying an re-entering of data went on (it rather looked like the forms pre-dated the new IT system - and so everything on the paper form was re-done for the computer).
It did seem rather elaborate for a €5 transaction (and actually €0 in Roger's case as a 65+). Still, eventually it appeared we were ready to pay.
Oh. They don't take money at the government offices. We were directed to seek out a nearby BBVA branch - a few minutes stroll away. So, off we went, leaving the patient Karen, Hazel and Harry behind.
The branch was bright and spacious and not too threatening, but rather short on actual bank-tellers. After an inordinate wait behind just one other customer who was depositing rather less than €10 in cash (a transaction with considerable complexity, apparently) it was our turn.
The good news was that the clerk was familiar with the idea that we had come to settle the license bill. By the way - Roger had to come all this way to pay his zero Euros, it seemed.
Payment, though, was far from a simple matter. The bank had to rekey all the data into its own IT system to match that entered by the fishing authority. Now, in finance we would call this "trade matching" and it is a system with some merit although "STP" (straight through preocessing) is preferred nowadays.
Surely, though, I would not be alone in thinking this was some overkill for an average transaction value of about 2 quid?
The matching failed. It was OK for Roger who was able to settle his nought-euro bill satisfactorily, but my passport number caused a problem.
An explanation in Spanish was appended to a piece of scrap paper and we were sent back to the fisheries desk where we were asked to re-sign our original forms (yes, the ones that had been re-keyed already). Roger was in fact given his permit but I was invited to return to the bank and thence back once more to the government desk.
"manana" said I, and elected to cut our losses. I felt very strongly that having invested 90minutes, and made a genuine effort to pay, we had the moral high ground in the incredibly unlikely event of being challenged at the seafront.
I did not relish the thought of another hour (say) with the prospect of being still unable to complete the transaction.
In the UK, where the whole process is online and very straightforward, and where our banking and government services appear by comparison to be beacons of efficiency, it is hard to imagine this level of bureaucracy surviving nowadays. In Spain, I suppose it must be accepted although I do think it doubtful that many go through with this just to cast a few worms off the breakwater.
Perhaps noone has ever actually applied for one before?
For completeness, one must mention that Karen went back the next day and succesfully, and apparently painlessly, paid the fee at the second attempt and picked up the magic card which is now safely nestled in my wallet. Just 2 years and 50 weeks till I will need to brave the renewal process ...
As the in-laws (or parents, or grandparents depending on your perspective) live on the coast, fishing was clearly an option for Harry.
Our local experts kindly investigated the regulations concerning permits - one doubts that many tourists actually bother with this, but one expects there to be some local equivalent of our rod license.
The word was that a license should be obtained and - at 5euros for three years - cost was clearly not a consideration.
A couple of days into the trip we deemed it was time to pick up the permits. Based on experience in UK, France and Canada I had expectations that we would pop into a seafront newsagent or tackle shop and hand over the 5euros.
So, I was mildly surprised when Roger brought us to an official government building. Still, there was the sign "Licensia de pesca" and so it began.
The problems began right away. The clerk at this post clearly was not too familiar with the procedure herself and the language barrier was a factor. The all-Spanish form was reasonably self-explanatory but certainly dealing with a foreigner presented some issues for them (we had been warned to bring our passports).
Much photocopying an re-entering of data went on (it rather looked like the forms pre-dated the new IT system - and so everything on the paper form was re-done for the computer).
It did seem rather elaborate for a €5 transaction (and actually €0 in Roger's case as a 65+). Still, eventually it appeared we were ready to pay.
Oh. They don't take money at the government offices. We were directed to seek out a nearby BBVA branch - a few minutes stroll away. So, off we went, leaving the patient Karen, Hazel and Harry behind.
The branch was bright and spacious and not too threatening, but rather short on actual bank-tellers. After an inordinate wait behind just one other customer who was depositing rather less than €10 in cash (a transaction with considerable complexity, apparently) it was our turn.
The good news was that the clerk was familiar with the idea that we had come to settle the license bill. By the way - Roger had to come all this way to pay his zero Euros, it seemed.
Payment, though, was far from a simple matter. The bank had to rekey all the data into its own IT system to match that entered by the fishing authority. Now, in finance we would call this "trade matching" and it is a system with some merit although "STP" (straight through preocessing) is preferred nowadays.
Surely, though, I would not be alone in thinking this was some overkill for an average transaction value of about 2 quid?
The matching failed. It was OK for Roger who was able to settle his nought-euro bill satisfactorily, but my passport number caused a problem.
An explanation in Spanish was appended to a piece of scrap paper and we were sent back to the fisheries desk where we were asked to re-sign our original forms (yes, the ones that had been re-keyed already). Roger was in fact given his permit but I was invited to return to the bank and thence back once more to the government desk.
"manana" said I, and elected to cut our losses. I felt very strongly that having invested 90minutes, and made a genuine effort to pay, we had the moral high ground in the incredibly unlikely event of being challenged at the seafront.
I did not relish the thought of another hour (say) with the prospect of being still unable to complete the transaction.
In the UK, where the whole process is online and very straightforward, and where our banking and government services appear by comparison to be beacons of efficiency, it is hard to imagine this level of bureaucracy surviving nowadays. In Spain, I suppose it must be accepted although I do think it doubtful that many go through with this just to cast a few worms off the breakwater.
Perhaps noone has ever actually applied for one before?
For completeness, one must mention that Karen went back the next day and succesfully, and apparently painlessly, paid the fee at the second attempt and picked up the magic card which is now safely nestled in my wallet. Just 2 years and 50 weeks till I will need to brave the renewal process ...
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