March 2026 - 20 February 2022
Trump and Israelis bomb Iran, despite Peace Talks going well. Want to cry when I see photos of the wanton destruction.
Jocelyn at u3a wittily remarked, 'Andrew 'the man formerly known as Prince '. Jay related this on his return home, he was suspiciously happy. I must check it is a Current Affairs discussion group he attends, not Tinder for OAPs.
Middle East war; no doubt petrol prices will rocket too.
Radio announcer lugubriously reports decline in British healthy life expectancy. This has dropped in the past three years by three years for women and two for men, due to the Tory government's austerity progrom, plus its Covid mismanagement. Not to worry - there's a spoilt toddler with his finger near the nice red nuclear button across the Pond.
Morecambe's glorious sunset has emerged from behind the old Battery [military] building. By the time BST occurs this month, the days will have lengthened and lightened so much it feels de trop. Switch BST to Valentine's Day: it will help us regard others with love.
Good job I filled up with petrol last week as garages are hiking up prices, despite being accused of profiteering.
A three-year-old playing with my phone while I chat with his Mum takes one of the best photos ... Who needs AI?
Fantastic Wales v Ireland rugby match, which Ireland won at home but it could have gone either way. ITV's commentary is rubbish compared to the BBC's. When French TV films games it's worse, with interminable shots of kids' gappy grins and players' derrieres, while viewers miss action on the pitch.
France won the English game at the last minute, literally. Thank heaven for Slugignon Blanc on special offer in Sainsbury's.
Order online Rory Stewart's The Places in Between from Used Books, having enjoyed his candid memoir Politics on the Edge about his time as a politician. Pity he's a Tory.
I see an email from someone called Myrtle at HMRC stating I can see how my Tax has been spent. Obviously Junk.
Today Donald Quixote veered off on a tangent about windmills after slagging off Nato and Starmer for not supporting his and bestie NetAYahoo's war against Iran. Very diffy for them, and everyone else, now the Strait of Hormuz has been closed by Iran so no oil can be shipped.
The war on Iran has already cost the US 12.7bn and it's only day six: I don't feel so bad about my profligacy now.
We go to our remote caravan at Silecroft and renew the LPG bottles we use there for power, now Farty and Yahoo are bombing oil fields in the Middle East. Fuel scarcity will probably mean no cooked breakfast by the Irish Sea, or any heating next Winter. I'm willing to bet these wars won't be over by then: Farty-Crump is at a loss now he's released the Demons of the Apocalypse. We have matches and plenty of candles - it'll be just like retro 1970s power-cuts.
King Charles has inaugurated a new footpath made by Natural England, that stretches around the coast of England, [don't they mean Britain?] 'King Charles III England Coast Path' is 2,689 miles long, so we can all wander in a loop. A wonderful free way of seeing our beautiful and varied island. Better keep schtum, Farty-Crump might decide he wants it!
A beautiful unseasonably warm day again so we drive round t'other side of the bay. We'd be able to spot Morecambe except we're behind Black Coombe, visiting our static mobile home for the first time this year as the site's closed from January until March. Unfortunately Big Weather has hurled the lid off a large plastic box on deck - which was clipped down - and it's full of water. In which has drowned: bbq charcoal supplies, a tent, a big plastic tablecloth and a shovel. Also, the legs on the sturdy deck table have rusted through.
Something has exploded inside in the bathroom, black splodges cover every surface including the fortunately low ceiling. I speak to Paul, who drains down the caravans' water system in Winter to check he didn't have a mishap: he's reassuringly pleasant.
'Oh no, it's weather blowing through the air vent. Saw someone's shower before now and it was black. The thing is to check your vents are closed.'
They look closed but after I've cleaned up, I tape kitchen roll across to impede dirt during the next Gale Force 9. Probably lucky our caravan has a raised bank behind it so is still in situ.
The tent is now up and drying in the spare bedroom here at Morecambe. There's still room for Christine to sleep in there when she comes to cat-sit soon. The bed I mean.
In common with Mr Geldof I don't like Mondays: this morning Eileen and I tried for ages to cajole a violent feral kitten into a nice cage to be taken to the vets. This is vital for spaying before Lily gets out and comes home pregnant. Not an analogy for parenting, even if bleating, 'It's for your own good,' got me nowhere.
Us humans surrendered when Lily performed Wall of Death effortlessly round the picture rail, We weren't tall enough to trap her, even waving a mop, and Eileen felt dizzy. I almost brained myself holding the cage aloft like a butterfly net. The vet won't issue tranquilisers, not having seen the kitten. Catch 22. Or 0 in this case. And before you suggest a disguised trap, forget it. Lily saw her hell-raising sis trot into one after Dreamies, only to reappear several hours later with a bald patch and boring attitude.
I've spotted a new trend in Marine Road West: two well-built chaps in worn black leather jackets sauntering along the pavement, at separate times, both with long straggly beards.
Man I's was dyed Magenta, along with his moustache. Punk memories of my hair being that colour, in Camden in '78. Unfortunately it rained and I gained a Magenta face and neck - but I expect things have moved on. Man II's Lilac beard was more luxuriant but his moustache wasn't waxed into points, so it is hard to decide which was my favourite.
Jonathan nips off to the French house he has with his brother in rural Lot e Garonne for ten days, after which I meet him at Toulouse ready to explore northern Spain by public transport. We go via ritzy immaculate Biarritz. The citizens are unfailingly polite apart from inside the vast crowded food market where, understandably, dawdling tourists are a nuisance.
Fantastic if slightly exhausting eight days follows: what I did easily while back-packing when younger now proves strenuous. But it does burn up calories from delicious croissants and pastries consumed at the many relaxed cafes.
We aim to fly back from Santander, so change accommodation and cities almost daily. Spain's transport infrastructure of buses and trains is comfortable, reliable and clean. I could see my reflection in the spotless floors of underground bus garages.
Northern Spain is a revelation: green cities with turf placed between tram and rail lines, and beautiful lush countryside. We now want to live in San Sebastian ... I love the Basque region, so much to see and learn. Signs are in Spanish and Basque. No-one seems to vape here, but many people smoke cigarettes. I haven't smelled Cannabis once, which is striking after Morecambe.
We arrive by tram which resembles a scrubbed Tube train. Drivers, as in Toulouse and Biarritz, are very courteous towards pedestrians and cyclists and there are large pedestrianised areas.
People like their dogs here: today we see a philosophical dog in a cafe, lying on the floor waiting for his owner to stop chatting with friends. As Jay says: 'Dog full of Sophocles'.
On Easter Sunday, many shops and bakeries are open and we take a short popular boat trip to the nearby hilly island. The indigo Atlantic dramatically bashes rocks, hurling up clouds of silver spray into windy sunlight. The boat lurches round on muscular waves to a landing quay, where two bored men semi-lift passengers across the watery gap on to narrow steep steps.
The view from the top of the steep-sided island is glorious, city and ocean in technicolor.
Spanis hotel receptionists are very helpful plus tri-lingual; this in not very posh accommodation. We're embarassed, as neither of us speak Spanish. I've been learning Italian on DuoLingo while Jonathan brushes up on his French - both redundant on Spanish streets. It being early April, we haven't seen many tourists. Cue to swap Italian for Spanish before our next visit.
The relaxed vibe continues in Bilbao, big city. As in Biarritz and San Sebastian, people do not drop litter, in fact I saw a man grab a wrapper blowing across the path near the station and put it in a bin. Again, we see well-behaved small children and pet dogs everywhere. Maybe their presence stops rowdiness. People wait obediently at crossings despite little traffic in town, to the point where we wonder if jaywalking is illegal. Graffiti is ubiquitous but doesn't really impinge; anyway it seems a small price to pay for the civilised quality of life.
We visit the iconic Guggenheim; Jonathan loves the architecture, inside and out. The silvery building appears to float, seen from certain angles, and the way the public wanders round it or sits to chat reminds me of London's Tate Modern - but am I the only person to hate the intrusive interior structure? I am blown away by Ruth Asawa's hand-made wire sculptures on exhibition.
guard outside the Guggenheim.
