travel – Page 2 – Charlierobinsonbooks

Bempton Cliffs

A visit to Bempton Cliffs nature reserve

We don’t go out on Bank Holidays. There was a particularly nasty experience some 20 years ago which involved a five hour traffic jam and a few harsh words from both sides of the vehicle. This recent Bank Holiday was different though. A. We no longer live near Stonehenge and B. We are older, more tolerant. Plus the weather forecast clearly stated it was going to be overcast and chilly. Not ideal for lounging in the garden. As I am member of the RSPB we thought it would be good to go to Bempton Cliffs reserve. It’s free if you’re a member and as a Yorkshireman I like, free.

I’m not what you could call a twitcher, unless someone is being uncouth, which tends to affect the left eye. And, someone did mention over the breakfast table that they didn’t need to drive 26 miles to see a Gannet. 😂 The place is full of Gannets and Guillemots, but we all want to see a Puffin, don’t we? Sadly they were nesting which means they were tucked away. Although a nice young RSPB lady had a telescope pointing at one, who was bobbing around on the sea. You’re not going to get any birdy pics I’m afraid. The iPhone isn’t really any good on zoom as you can see below. But it was a lovely walk and the weather forecast was completely wrong.

Now here’s my favourite bit. Afterwards we decided to go on to Bridlington, and you know what that means? Yup, Fish and Chips with curry sauce (they couldn’t fit the mushy peas on 😂) I have to say, I do love a seaside town and if the English temperature rose by 4 degrees and the sun shone from June to September I’d stay at home for holidays.

The sculpture is by Emma Stothard, The Bridlington Lobster. Apparently Bridlington is the shellfish capital of Europe and lands more shellfish than any other port on the continent. Who would have known?

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 9

Gran Canaria, Mogan

If you remember, this all started because I asked Gillian if I should get therapy? Her answer was an emphatic, “NO! It would be too traumatic for them!” So I wondered why.

I read recently that Gran Canaria in 1976 was equivalent to a third world country. I remember the day we arrived in Mogan, and to be honest there wasn’t much there. We pulled up by the beach, Pink Floyd’s Wish You Here blared out from John and Mudgut’s van as we unloaded the inflatable and began to put our wetsuits on. A crowd gathered until the local police chief pushed his way through and they began to disperse. It turned out we needed a license to spearfish, which we should have purchased on the mainland! Then came the “but.”😂 If we sold our fish to only one restaurant, he would allow us to continue. A little baffled, but with a sigh of relief, we agreed, and with a slap on our backs he left.

The fishing was good that day, and after a rest we ate some Cambells Meatballs and potatoes, we couldn’t afford to eat the fish, that had to be hawked around restaurants, or in our case sold to just one. We arrived there early evening, and as always went to the rear door. Usually the chef came out, he weighed the fish, we agreed a price, and shook hands. Not this time! The owner appeared, told us what he would pay, and explained it was non-negotiable. We took his money reluctantly, and were about to leave when Peter noticed a kitchen hand smoking a cigarette. He went to have a word and came back frowning. “It’s his brother,” he said. “The owner is the police chief’s brother.”

We needed a new plan, but for now we’d agreed to meet John and Mudguts in one of the few bars, as I remember there were only two. We chose the fisherman’s bar which was more of a shack. Aussie John was standing at the bar with his hands outspread. “El biggo, el bottlo, el wino” he kept repeating to a bemused, rotund barman. Mudguts seemed impressed and commented how his brother’s Spanish was becoming better by the day. I heard Peter sigh. “Dear Lord,” he pulled John away from the bar and explained that A. He wasn’t speaking Spanish and B. The bar only sold beer in small bottles from a chest fridge. We settled down with some beers, and half an hour later the lights went out. The barman explained that the generator on top of the hill supplied power to the village. It was an old generator! “It is ok, Miguel will fix it,” he told us. Sure enough within an hour the lights came back on, everyone cheered, the barman reached for a beer, downed it in one, and there was another cheer.

After the third beer Peter informed me it was time for a run. “Say what?!” Apparently I wasn’t spending enough time underwater and we would soon be diving to 75ft. So, I needed a bigger lung capacity, and to achieve this, I needed to run. I explained we were parked at the bottom of a mountain, which seemed to have no affect. Apparently running two miles up a mountain and then two miles back down again, was good for you, and it was too hot during the day. I should be grateful, I still remember that evening, and I was totally unaware that I would still be hitting the trails fifty years later.

When I returned to the van there was a towel, soap, and note on the tailgate. “Get a wash in the sea, and don’t wake me.” It was December and we weren’t leaving until March. I was an eighteen year-old male, did I need to wash? Apprently I did. It was one of many lessons I was going to learn over the next four months.

Happy Trails, folks. x

Where It All Began 7

Javea

1976, Spain was a totally different Spain to what it is now. Franco had died one year earlier and much of his legacy remained. After the grapepicking we arrived in Javea, and the first thing we were told by the Guardia Civil was, “No es posible acampar aquí.” It was a phrase we heard often. Basically, no camping. Peter’s reply was always the same. “Pesca submarina.” For some reason spearfishermen had special rights, and we were left alone, although we were informed they would check on us throughout the night, which apparently was thirsty work. So, each evening we left a half bottle of wine and two glasses on the rear bumper step.

For a couple of weeks Javea was fun, there was a lot of diving, drinking and a few girls. Mudguts and I reverted to our feral nature, and I have to admit, looking back we were probably out of control. One particular night we had a disagreement with some American backpackers from the campsite. As I remember it, we were (entertaining?) two girls in the rear yard of a bar who, it turned out, were partners of two Alpha Male backpackers. It didn’t end well, we were outnumbered and felt some justice should prevail. Their campsite was at the bottom of a small cliff, so in the early hours, after gathering some ammunition, (stones and rocks). As Maximus the Gladiator said 😂

We only aimed for the tents, but to see so many people running around in the dark, half naked was a joy, until they discovered where the mystery stones were being hailed from, and so they began to climb. We escaped into the night and laughed all the way home. It was short lived! The Gaurdia arrived the following morning and after a long conversation with my mentor, Peter, and Mudgut’s older brother John they left. This, apparently, was the last straw (to be honest, as I said we had been a little naughty before) They took our money from us, explaining we were now to be given a small allowance, enough for maybe a beer. But we knew where we could buy bottles of wine for about 40 pesatas (30p) And the barmen were willing to swop beers for lightbulbs. Yeah, I know it was kinda inventive, but we became quite adapt at appropriating light bulbs from many sources.😂

Eventually we had to consider moving on, the fishing was still not good. But then our fortunes changed once more. We met Laurie and Ronnie, ex merchant seamen who owned a bar in the town, The Cave Bar. After a few beers they asked if we would convert their stockroom into a small eating area. Peter was an electrician and John the Aussie was a builder, whereas Mudguts and I were… well, we were just 18 years old 😂 In return they offered us a flat to stay in, they would feed us, and give us some spending money. So, we set to work.

There was a lot of chicken wire and paper mache used, that’s not the original photo, but its close enough. At least it kept us out of trouble, for now. When the work was done we set off once more. Next Stop, Almeria.

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 6

What To Do When There’s No Fish?

We were having a great time in Portbou, but we were spending money with no income. Too early for the fishing season, we needed a plan. As luck would have it our new friends, Jamie and Josephine were heading for Perpignan to apply for work on Le Vendange (grape picking season).

This sounded like a good idea. Three days later Peter, myself, two Aussies, three Welshmen, Jamie and Josephine found ourselves at the counter of a French Employment Office. The girl behind the desk had work in a village called La Tour, for eleven people. Quandary! There were only nine of us. Remember?… Mudguts and I were only eighteen, so we had already spotted the two attractive girls in the corner. Two hours later all eleven of us were seated around an old oak table in an equally old farm kitchen chatting to to the vineyard owner. Well, Josephine was chatting, we were nodding. The farmer must have been impressed, as he took us to a house in the village, told us we could stay there during our employment, and produced a wicker clad bottle, a demijohn, it must have held 5 gallons. He said when we had finished it we could bring it to the farmhouse and he’d fill it. I was happy already!

He did a lot of back slapping, used the word “Bon” a lot and appeared very, very happy. It was sometime later that Josephine discovered from his wife that he had a bad back and took pain killers. The Dr had instructed him not to drink alcohol. His wife said, with a shrug and a wink, he was French and a vineyard owner. Mudguts, who was quite an expert on narcotics (one reason he left Australia) said it was equivalent to taking ‘speed.‘ Three days later we were woken at 5am, taken on a tractor to a field, and instructed how to pick grapes. Interestingly we were joined by a band of gypsies, and told they were fast. Ah, competition time.😊

A porter working during the grapepicking season, France 1976

I’m not sure how I survived the next twenty days. We worked from 6am until 1pm and then 3pm until 6pm. This was the heatwave of 1976 and it was hot! But, we successfully picked more grapes than our Romany friends, and secured extra work for the Mayor of the village.

The nights were riotous, and we rarely hit the sack before midnight, often later. I recall a night when one of the Welsh chaps crashed early, a little worse for wear, and we manged to manoeuvre his bed down two flights of stairs and into the street. 😂 The following morning, as we gazed from the window, it was amusing to see the villagers starting their day. They sauntered by a bed in the street, with a snoring youth snuggled down, whilst chuntering to themselves. But all good things come to an end. In total we completed a 20 day stint at 10 francs per day, so with our purses refilled, we bid a fond farewell to our employer, and most of our friends.

Jamie and Josephine headed for God knows where, the Welshmen set off for Germany, while Peter, myself, two Aussies and the girls we found in Perpignan decided on Javea. Hopefully the fish had arrived.

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 5

Portbou

The ferry docked in St Malo, already Jersey seemed a long way back. Time was different back then. Maybe it’s because you’re only eighteen, and you have lots to spare? Eager to reach Spain, we drove the van through the day and night until we hit the Pyrenees. We camped in the heart of the mountains for a couple of days. I’d never seen mountains before. I have to admit come nightfall it was quite eary with those huge, black shapes towering above you. But over the next few months I was going to experience many things I’d never seen or experienced before. Kinda pinched these from the internet, in 1976 we didn’t have an iPhone, just an old Kodak camera, but they look familiar 😂

The first Spanish coastal town is called Portbou. Parked by the beach, and staring out over the sea I was looking forward to diving the following day. Suddenly a Volkswagon camper pulled up at the side of us and a large bearded man got. He ran round to the rear of his vehicle, lifted the tailgate, spat at the engine, kicked the bumper, and began to shout, inferring that the engine was a fornicating, illegitimate nuisance. Peter, my new mentor and travelling companion suggested I get out and ask if he was Australian. Remember, my first ten years were spent alone, on a farm with imaginary friends. Swiftly followed by seven years on a Bradford council estate where I had become feral and led a life not becoming of a young Englishman. There was no way I was getting out. So, with a sigh Peter went for a chat.

It turned out both the bearded man and his younger brother were in fact Australian and the swearing was fury, aimed at an engine that was burning oil. We introduced ourselves to John Mulhall and his brother Peter. It might have been confusing with two Peters but luckily young Australian Peter was known as Mudguts, due to his strange dietry habits as a toddler. It was several months before I discovered this, because of the Aussie accent I presumed his name was Maggots.

When you’re travelling, apparently, alcohol is the key ingredient for getting to know people. So we set up a table, cracked open one of several bottles of wine, and began to wave complete strangers over to join us. Within an hour we had a company of: 2 Aussies, 6 Germans, 3 Welshman, and a couple, Josephine who was French and Jamie an Englishman. The couple had completed a tour of Australia including the 200 mile cattle train hike through the desert. We went down to the beach, lit a fire and stared at the sky. Jamie was aquainted with all the star constellations, and pointed them out to us. If this was travelling? I was hooked.

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where it All Began 4

Jersey

So there I was, seventeen-years-old, sitting on a plane heading to a far away island. My first view of Jersey didn’t disappoint, but I had just left a Bradford council estate where, after my first happy ten years as a countryboy, it had been cold, raining and totally depressing, so the bar was pretty low. I had become a different person during the years in Bradford, and not a particularly nice one. All it seemed to have taught me was how to fight and drink, but I had escaped.

I wondered what kind of reception I would get. I had some ideas. Fantasy Island wasn’t released until a year later but that it was the kind of image I had imagined.

There was a distinct lack of hula hula girls with flowers in their hair. No sophisticated, enigmatic Mr Roarke or a helpfull Tattoo, just a copper looking at me as I trudged past with my battered suitcase and an old guitar on my back. I left the airport, caught a bus into town and did what any sensible person would do. I went to the Tourist Information Office and asked if they had a list of B&Bs. There was one priced at £2.50 per night (remember this was 1976). When I arrived I saw an attractive brunnette leaning on the wall outside, she turned out to be the owner. I was 17, I wasn’t going anywhere else.

Now they say you make your own luck, I guess that could be true. It turned out her husband was a self employed uphosterer and could do with some cheap labour. Even at £1 an hour I jumped at the chance. He was also a sports diver/competition spearfisherman. Now we were talking. I had been watching Jacques Cousteau for many years, so diving was right at the top of my list, even after experiencing Mr Spielberg’s Jaws.

One day a friend of my new employer turned up, Peter. He’d heard I wanted to learn how to spearfish. “Jump in the van.” he said. “Why?” I asked. “You’ll need some gear.” He drove me, one by one, to each of his friend’s houses. He told each friend which piece of equipment they no longer used or had never used, and they were to give it to me, and by lunchtime I was fully kitted out. The next few months I was in the sea at every opportunity. In a spearfishing competition you enter the sea at 10am and have until 4pm to catch as many fish as you can. I was hooked (maybe that’s a pun).

One Saturday after a gruelling six hours in the water we were relaxing in the Yatch Club when my employer told Peter. “You should take young Charlie on your trip.” Apparently he was planning to head to the Canary Islands in September living out of a camper van and fishing to survive. The trip would last seven months, returning the following March. “Wanna come?” he asked. Did I want to come? 😂

So it was arranged, six months after arriving on the island and three months after my 18th Birthday I was going to be travelling 3,000km and spearfishing in the Mediterraen and the Atlantic while living out of a camper van. The plan was to take the car ferry to St Malo, drive through France to Spain and fish our way down the Spanish coast to Cadiz. A ferry would then take us to our final destination. A small village called Mogan on the island of Gran Canaria.

Felices senderos mis amigos 😉x

Climb Every Mountain

Nope, you’re quite safe, I’m not going to dress as a nun and start singing. This year, or should I say last year, we decided to go away for the Christmas and New Year period. I’m not a Grinch but I’ve never really been much of a fan of either of them. I think I may have been traumatised as a child. Look at the photo and you may see what I mean. 😂

So… we decided to do some winter sun, training in Gran Canaria. Sunshine, runs, hikes and hopefully a bit of horse riding. Oh! did I mention the wine and the food? Although to be fair that was taken in the evening unlike some of my fellow compatriots, beer and cocktails at 10am isn’t really my thing. First up was a run every morning. I found a nice 12k run, to and, along the beach and another one around a great park, called Parque del Sur.

Once we’d settled in and my wife had achieved her 10,000 kilometers since she started running (yeah, I know targets, and all that stuff, but it keeps her happy😂) It was time for the gee gee’s. It’s years since I have ridden a horse, mainly because I don’t like the English way of riding. Whereas the American way is so much more comfortable. Probably why most of the rest of the world use it. We drove up into the hills and booked on for a trek. It was the only cloudy day so a good choice.

The food was amazing, but hey! This is Spain, right? What else would it be, so I was kinda over indulging. I decided to repeat my marketing idea from last year and took one copy of each of my books, and left them on the hotel libary shelves. I thought it was a smart marketing plan as the hotel caters all the year round and can accommodate 1000 people. I was quite excited when the first book disappeared and even more excited when the second did the same. Sadly six days later, they still hadn’t returned. Maybe I won’t write a note inside anymore, and sign them. I figured some fool thought they may be worth something and took them home.😂

It was time to get some hiking done. The hiking in Gran Canaria is excellent. We picked some great days. My favourite was a hike to Roque Nublo I was told by a friend on the hike they have a 126k Ultra race there in March. With a 22,000ft elevation gain. Now that sounded fun but it’s a tad pricy with a 200 euro entry fee and a 270 euro manadatory medical.

It was a chilly start but once the sun broke over the hills and you got out of the valleys it was a beautiful day. Although, someone commented that Roque Nublo appeared to be a long way away.

Apparently a lot of the pines had been chopped down before General Franco came to power. When he was in power he realised how important they were to the island. The needles gather moisture from the clouds and the mist and then they release water into the ground. Hence the nickname ‘Cloud Gatherers’. One tree will provide 150 litres of water per annum. Franco ordered a stop to the felling of the trees and implemented the planting of them which still goes on today. 90% of all the pines in Gran Canaria have been planted by mankind.

As we climbed futher the visibility was so good we could see Tenerife and the summit of it’s volcano Mount Teide at 3718m it is the highest peak on Spanish soil. Maybe next year? 😉

At another point we could see Roque Bentayga. It was here, in 1483, the native Guanche people won a victory over the Spanish Conquistadors. Sadly it was short lived and the Island was conquered soon after.

Roque del Fraile or the “Praying Monk” was our final view before we reached the summit and Roque Nublo. I’ll let you work out why it’s called the praying monk.

And there we were. Roque Nublo. It was quite a hike but well worth it. All we had to do was get back down. 😂

Happy Trails, Folks x

A Greek Hike and a Marketing Idea

I like Kalamaki on the island of Zakynthos because they have turtles. This means there are no late night flights. I guess if I was a turtle meandering up a beach, to lay my eggs, I wouldn’t appreciate being buzzed by a Boeing 737. Suits me fine as I like early morning flights in and out. I’m a lazy git on holiday, I lie around reading and soaking up the sun. Although I’ll fit in one run and hike, and so decided to hike up Mount Skopos to the monastery.

There’s something about a long run or a hike that frees your mind, but also helps you ponder. I guess that’s an oxymoron? Which as a child, I thought was a stupid donkey. Anyaways, I’d taken a copy of my first book, The Siege of Mr Khan’s Curry Shop on this holiday with a mind to read it. As I walked I had an idea, more of that later because this is the hiking part. It was a great trail, and so quiet.

I’ve seen some peculiar viewing points over the years but never graffiti and sunlounger halfway up a trail.

Once you reach the top there are spectacular views of the island and of course the monastery. The exact date the monastery was built in is unknown but 1453 was a guess by a local I spoke to. It was destroyed in the earthquake that shook Greece in 1953 and rebuilt in 1962-1963.

After a rest in the café, yup there is an actual café up there run by a lovely lady, who kindly offered us a glass of water when we reached the top. After a bite to eat it was time to head back down.

Getting back to the idea I had earlier, with my book. I wrote a note inside the front cover and left it on the hotel library shelf. It disappeared for a day then reappeared and disappeared again. It’s still there now. I’m not sure if this is a good marketing ploy or been done before, but I thought over a thousand holiday makers visit the hotel every year, so why not? I’ll leave a book in every hotel I visit from now on with a little message. 😉

Happy trails, folks. x

The Heat Is On

I should be able to publish my second book in August and my third book is underway, but I have another challenge in one weeks time. After six months of various injuries I have missed so many runs. This affects my writing because a lot of planning is done on long runs. Now I’m back, I managed to secure a place on the Yorkshire Wolds Ultra. It’s a 55k race with 4,100 feet of elevation. So, a little recce was required. The Millington Loop is only 34k with 3,000 feet elevation, but it gave me chance to assess fitness, the views from the top of the Yorkshire Wolds are lovely, and in 27 degrees of sunshine it was a warm one.

Needless to say five hours out in the middle of nowhere, on your own, certainly gives you time to think. I killed a character off and then resurrected them, changed the plot completely, reintroduced an old character, and decided on an ending for the next book 😂 I guess it’s a little like therapy, but on the move and without a therapist, haha. My wife has told me I could benefit from therapy, but never to do it. She feels I may leave the practitioner with some form of traumatic disorder 🤷

Five hours was a bit slow, but that’s what happens when you stop to take photos and admire the view. I thought the circles at Thixendale were a mystical, archaeological site dating back thousands of years. But they were created by the artist Chris Drury in 2011. Oh well, I didn’t waste too much time praying to the long lost God’s of my ancestors 😉

So, if you do ever feel a little down, I can suggest getting out into the countryside, wherever you live. Run, walk, crawl, if need be. But in comparison to concrete, tarmac and the facilitation of life, it’ll certainly help.

Happy trails, folks x

Whitby Wanderings

I was supposed to be running a 74k Race on Saturday 5th July, but missed the deadline for entry. It was at that point my wife asked what we were doing for our wedding anniversary? Ooops. I quickly booked a hotel Dunsley Hall just outside the seaside resort of Whitby. I thought a few hikes (which means I get to think about my own book), some good food and maybe a glass of wine or two, would get me some brownie points.

You may not have heard of Whitby, but you will have heard of Dracula. Whitby is most famous for, apparently, Count Dracula, Captain James Cook, and Jet Jewellery. Personally I think the stunning scenery, the Abbey, the fab hikes, and the Fish and Chips outweigh the other three.

What about Dracula, or should I say Bram Stoker? Good old Bram stayed in Whitby in 1890 and I guess he was rather struck by the Abbey and the graveyard. He’d read about Vlad The Impaler and six years later his book was finished. In the book there is a ship wreck and Count Dracula comes ashore at Whitby disguised as a dog, well you would wouldn’t you? The rest is history.

There isn’t much to say about the other two, unless you are a Captain James Cook fan or a lover of black jewellery. Capt., Cook went to Whitby to sign on to a boat when he was 17 and Jet is a black gem stone. So, moving onto the hikes. I love running, but you know that. I also quite like a hike. So this is what trundling around in the Whitby countryside looks like 😉

Happy Trails, folks x