Covid Chronicles: December

 As is typical with any year, I neglect to update this space until I have a decent chunk of time off. There's a strange psychology in my perfectionist mind that if I can't write several entries in one go, it's not worth writing. But 2020 is no typical year. I've had a lot of downtime, I've done very little travel and my last foray onto an airplane was in February. 

At the start of this mad pandemic journey, when the government suggested a 12-week lockdown, we all wondered how that would even be possible. 12-weeks inside our houses. Nope. And now it's December. We've been in and out of lockdown, been out of school for four months, out of offices for much longer and watched the death count rise exponentially. Concerts, events, parties of more than 6 people outdoors seem like a thing of the past.

Ongoing restrictions are contradictory. I've been at school since August but I'm not currently allowed to sit indoors with the same people I share an office with in a pub or restaurant. Several 'grade bubbles' have been collapsed and sent home due to positive covid tests and I'm currently at the end of a 14-day self-isolation period after being in contact with a staff member who went on to test positive. I've cancelled my annual Thanksgiving party, won't be going to Michigan for Christmas and don't even know when to begin feeling hopeful about getting on an airplane.

On the wider world scale, we've watched protests, riots, a divisive US election and Brexit proper is just around the corner. For a year I've spent largely inside my flat, it feels awfully eventful. It's difficult feeling to put your finger on, knowing that you're in the middle of a historic period that students will learn about in school one day. 

With all of this in mind, and as much as I've felt trapped this year, 2020 has also forced to to do something I'm bad at: stop. I may even emerge from this pandemic with a Covid type of Stockholm Syndrome. I doubt that will stop me from booking a flight for off this rainy island as soon as is safe. 

With a vaccine on the horizon, 2021 sure does have a lot of expectations to live up to. Fingers crossed.

Haslemere, West Sussex

A far cry from previous summer holidays, Paul and my summer 'travels' took us to Haslemere, West Sussex. Given Haslemere is a London commuter town, Paul was happy to go from door to door in roughly 1.5 hours. Our four-day stay saw us shack up in an outbuilding of a very rich family's mansion which happened to be miles away from any proper amenities like shops or a bus stop. But they had a pool so it was all good. 

And because it transpires that it's not where you go but who you're with, the trip turned into a hilarious series of misadventures. From not realising our outbuilding didn't include a kitchenette, only a microwave and kettle, to having to cross an A-road at a blind corner to get anywhere, we actually had a very memorable time. 

Most importantly, cooking pasta in a kettle works. It may take awhile and you will need to boil the water repeatedly but our first hot meal of the trip was a success. 

We spent one day in the room, hiding from the bucket down rain, and then proceeded to discover walking trails, polo grounds and farm shops of the surrounding environs. Cowdray Farm Shop and Cafe gets my vote for best place to people watch with cake. The villages of Midhurst and Easeborne also became easily walkable, though the gps dot on my All Trails map occasionally thought otherwise. 

A fifteen-minute walk down the very darkened private road and around the corner, the perfect countryside pub awaited. The Duke of Cumberland Arms is the pub of your stereotypical British dreams. There's a perfectly cozy garden, a charming dining room and an open patio out back. It's so lovely that, in fact, if you don't have a reservation for dinner at least a week in advance, good luck to you. 

The surrounding sub-village (is that a thing?) of Henly, Haslemere, also looked as if it were plucked out of a film like The Holiday. Between thatched cottages and old red phone boxes, we understood the appeal. As did a range of wealthy Londoners who now call this village home. 

So our trip might not have had the verve of summers gone past but we laughed a lot. And given the continued madness of Covid, it felt like enough of an adventure for a man with a kidney issue.

North Devon: Mortehoe to Clovelly

Our next resting stop took us to an old converted heritage property in the village of Mortehoe, just up the hill from Woolacombe Beach, somewhere the summer hordes HAD found. We stayed away from the crowds and opted for more walks and wanders slightly to the north. 

Mortehoe and Woolacombe

Between meals at the pub, literally 20 metres from our accommodation, and leisurely picnics on our little patch of grass, Mortehoe was a fabulous haven of calm. 

We had scones the Devon way, cream first and jam second, and appreciated being away from that big London after so long locked up in our flats. 

Clovelly
Since my days of dating Dave, I'd always meant to go to the village of Clovelly. It happened to be close to where we were staying and so we made our way one foggy morning, white knuckling the whole drive there. Without us realising, it won the 'Britain's Most Instagrammable Village 2020.' Go figure. 

Tucked into the cliff and down to the sea, you must pay to enter this National Trust Heritage village. A day pass will set you back £8.75 and is well worth the visit. Clovelly was once an estate owned by William the Conquerer and slipped into another family's hands before being 'officially' discovered in the middle of the 19th century.

There's a few pubs, sweet shops and bougie tat shops that lead the way down to the harbour. It's a steep journey but a beautiful one. We spent an hour or so wandering the village before launching ourselves back up the hill and onto the significantly less foggy way back. 

Coastal Walk: Croyde to Georgeham

On our final day, we took one more big walk winding our way past Woolacombe to Croyde and beyond. The views speak for themself. 

On the trails, we largely had the surroundings to ourselves. But the village of Croyde was markably busier and if Summer 2020 is a barometer, I can only imagine what a non-covid summer might be like. Comparing this second half of the summer journey to its first half counterpart, I must admit Northumberland still has my heart. But Devon gets a stunning honourable mention.

Covid Wanderings in North Devon

I write this from the vantage point of well past post-2020. And what a weird, difficult year(s) it was. But silver linings did abound including a summer jaunt from London to Devon with two of my former Hornsey colleagues turned friends. In a sentiment that best encapsulates the madness of 2020, Lindsay also contemplated bringing her sourdough starter on the trip. In the end, her brother promised to feed it at home. And so, we travelled without ready-to-bake bread. 

Lindsay arrived one early Monday morning to pick me up in her mum's rather decrepit car. Despite it passing its MOT, the speedometer started shaking and then stopped working when she exceeded 50mph on the motorway. We eventually made the four-hour journey down to Braunton, Devon via Somerset, where we dropped Lindsay's mum off at her friend's house. 

Our uneventful journey took us past Stonehenge (really just a stack of rocks in a field off the motorway)

and to our rented cottage and resting place for three nights. In a world of Covid restrictions, we met our hosts outdoors, were promised strict cleaning guidelines had been followed and then were given lots of recommendations for outdoor eateries to enjoy what turned into the most glorious British summer in my memory.

Every day turned into a different coastal path beach walk. From Saunton Sands to Westward Ho! (the exclamation, I assure you, is part of the place's name) and Woolacombe we were greeted with many quiet places to walk, gaze and pause. 

Without a car, this would have been nigh on impossible, which is why I really must take steps to get my UK driving license. Then again, hedgerows really are a thing...

Dartmoor National Park
On our one rainy day, we took the car down to Dartmoor, one of England's ten national parks. The wild and vastness of the park is impressive and although a road bisects the park, animals rule the roost. Wild horses roam the moor as do the odd sheep, some that seem to have strayed from their last few years of haircuts.

Towards the Northwest corner of the park, the village of Widecombe in the Moor, does a good job at being quaint and feeding people. We stopped for a pub lunch (they even let us inside, but at a distance!) and browse, deciding not to join the British proclivity to collect Toby Jugs. Google it, they're creepy. 

From there, we moved on to our next destination, the village of Mortehoe, where we moved into another quaint cottage and picked up Clara along the way. More to come! 

The Nothumberland Coast: Warkworth, Amble, Craster, etc.

With our eyes on the forecast, we cautiously, optimistically hoped for the best. And because pandemics are brutal, England played nice this time around, giving us its (mostly) best. 

On days 3-6 we chose different versions of similar walking adventures starting with an amble to the village of Amble. 

This was not without its dramas. After not finding a trail, we found ourselves stumbling down the side of a winding B road with very little hard shoulder to dodge quick-moving cars. We were briefly stopped by the police who decided to yell at us instead of pointing us in the direction of a trail head. This is how we found ourselves playing limbo with a barbed wire fence; post, near skewering ourselves and getting lost in a bramble-filled path we finally made our way to another beautiful, nearly-empty beach. 

The sun was shining and Frank was free to roam lead-free.

Armed with our google maps, Dawn and I pointed ourselves towards the harbourside town, walking the beach for ages in search of lunch at the end. But the sun was in our eyes and we managed to overlook the massive estuary separating our beach with Amble town. And so, we walked and walked, the town getting closer and closer. Only when we'd made it to the mouth of the estuary, 1.2 miles past the closest turnoff, did we notice there was no bridge, no way of fording the fast-moving waters at high tide. 

Frank sighed, loudly. I swear this. 

And so we trekked back up the beach 1.2 miles to the path's start. From there, our journey took us another 1 mile into the ancient town of Warkworth where we promptly fell upon the first pub with an available table. It may have been my hunger but the Warkworth Arms is home to the best fish and chips I've ever had. 

Dawn and I learned our lesson and gave up on attempting the on-foot journey to Amble. We took to the bus and were greeted with a small, cute town on the sea. It was hardly worth the 5-hour thwarted walk but it was also a nice place to while away a few hours. 

Berwick upon Tweed 

The next day, we woke to a rainy forecast, our only one of the week. We hopped the train up to Berwick upon Tweed, England's northernmost town. The city's history, of fights with Scotland, of land disputes, makes the town quite atmospheric. There's a castle and city walls and a big, big bridge. But it was raining, grey and miserable and so between running between historic sites, eating a big English breakfast, a beautiful lunch and the odd pint, we didn't see much. This photo sums it up pretty nicely. 

Craster to Low Newton-by-the-Sea

The weather returned to beautiful the next day. And so for our last big adventure, we took the bus (only people on said bus) up towards the dog-friendly National Trust Dunstaburgh Castle. On the way, our single decker transportation wound us through another seriously beautiful part of the region. We stopped in the village of Craster, a fishing village famous for its smoked kippers. 

From there, the castle was another 1.3 mile walk up the coast built on a remote headland for the express purpose of being a lookout/fortress/imposing structure.

Work started on castle in 1313 but its owner, Earl Thomas of Lancaster was executed in 1322 before he could ever see the fruits of his labour. The castle later featured in the War of the Roses and was besieged before it fell into disrepair. To me, that made it all the more beautiful. 

We wound our way down to the other side of the castle, onto Embleton Beach. With views of the castle in the background, we continued our journey another 4.8 miles, Frank occasionally having a sniff of passing dogs or chasing seabirds. 

In all honesty, we were chasing the myth of a magical pub in the village of Low Newton-by-the-Sea. And although the indoor section was closed, the Ship Inn did not disappoint.

There, we discovered where all the people were. Cute seaside cottages dotted the outdoor grassy courtyard, people sat lounging on their beach blankets and lunch options were plentiful. We enjoyed a glass of white wine looking to the sea while Frank passed out on the grass. 

It was another moment of pure bliss and after four months of lockdown madness, it was the perfect antidote to our melancholy. Perhaps it was this melancholy that made Northumberland so magical, although I think it had a lot more to do with the beauty of the place and its relative peace and quiet. Having a beautiful beach to yourself is pretty dazzling, having a local bus to get there makes it even better. 

Four hands and four paws enthusiastic up in excitement for the magic of Northumberland.