My bro just started watching an obscure collection of Italian sword and sandal movies from the 50s and 60s.
http://roman-movies.blogspot.com/
Tuesday, 29 November 2011
Monday, 7 November 2011
Hadrian's Wall Path - Day 6
The best thing about B&Bs is the free full English breakfast you get in the morning. Well, technically it’s not free, but I like to pretend it is. It’s a good start to the day.
From Carlisle the walk is totally flat, and it gets flatter. It’s so flat, every bump above 5 feet seems like a mountain. On such bumps one finds villages huddled like desperate sailors on desert islands, usually including a medieval church built from Roman stone.
One of the last sections of the path follows the course of a 3-mile long dyke built to protect against flooding from the Solway. I think I saw more people along that stretch than anywhere else on the walk – it was a Saturday in July, so a lot of hikers were just starting the hike from west to east.
A mile or two before the end I stopped at a pub and had a steak and ale pie for lunch. When I first walked in the barman saw my rucksack and said, “Bloody hell, have you brought the kitchen sink an’ all?” So I replied no, that would be a stupid thing to take on a hike, and he was an idiot for even suggesting it.
Then I walked to the finish line, which is in Bowness-on-Solway, a village on the edge of the known world to which nobody ever goes for any reason at all, except walking Hadrian’s Wall Path. They’ve made a cute hut and terraced garden overlooking the windswept mudflats of the Solway Firth.
And then I went for a pint of Guinness in the village pub, where I saw a big cardboard cutout of a Roman.
And then I went home.
From Carlisle the walk is totally flat, and it gets flatter. It’s so flat, every bump above 5 feet seems like a mountain. On such bumps one finds villages huddled like desperate sailors on desert islands, usually including a medieval church built from Roman stone.
One of the last sections of the path follows the course of a 3-mile long dyke built to protect against flooding from the Solway. I think I saw more people along that stretch than anywhere else on the walk – it was a Saturday in July, so a lot of hikers were just starting the hike from west to east.
A mile or two before the end I stopped at a pub and had a steak and ale pie for lunch. When I first walked in the barman saw my rucksack and said, “Bloody hell, have you brought the kitchen sink an’ all?” So I replied no, that would be a stupid thing to take on a hike, and he was an idiot for even suggesting it.
Then I walked to the finish line, which is in Bowness-on-Solway, a village on the edge of the known world to which nobody ever goes for any reason at all, except walking Hadrian’s Wall Path. They’ve made a cute hut and terraced garden overlooking the windswept mudflats of the Solway Firth.
And then I went for a pint of Guinness in the village pub, where I saw a big cardboard cutout of a Roman.
And then I went home.
Sunday, 6 November 2011
Hadrian's Wall Path - Day 5
Not much of the Wall survives above ground after Banks, but the walk follows its former course across pretty rolling meadows and babbling brooks, passing through occasional hamlets.
Shortly before the hamlet of Walton I came across some picnic benches and a sign pointing through a hedge to ‘The Haytongate Hut: Drinks and Snacks’.
Fearing a trap – my enemies are never far behind – I crept through gingerly. Luckily my enemies had not yet prepared themselves, for the place was deserted. I saw one hut filled with chocolate bars, crisps and refrigerated drinks. There was an honesty box and the inside walls were papered with post-it notes on which people had scrawled little messages of thanks or celebration or mutual encouragement.
I smashed the place to bits, pissed in the corner, ate all the free chocolates and used the wrappers to spell SUCKERS on the floor, and moved on.
After Walton the path veered off into some dark and damp woods. Deep in these woods was a farm offering bunkhouse accommodation. This is the sign erected by the farmer to lure weary hikers into his snare.
I think he needs to hire some advertising advisors. I'd been warned about this sign in advance by some other hikers who'd stayed at the bunkhouse (and survived) while walking the path in the opposite direction. The farmer had told them that he nailed dead crows to the sign "as a warning to the rest."
At lunchtime I lay down to rest under a tree in a graveyard. All in all it was rather a morbid day.
It always seems to happen that after about four days of hiking I start getting proper muscle strains, and this time it was my achille’s tendon that left me limping the last seven miles to Carlisle, stopping every mile or so to let the pain subside (I forgot to take anti-inflammatory drugs with me). I basically need to start doing longer hikes, going more slowly at the start, so I don’t always spend the final couple of days hobbling.
Carlisle is pretty; I went for a walk after I checked into the B&B but forgot to take my camera, so you’ll have to take my word for it. Carlisle cathedral is weird though.
The B&B owner was very nice. He upgraded me to a double room because the place was almost empty, and recommended a great curry house where I sat reading a book about Hadian’s Wall and stuffing my face.
Then I went back to the B&B and turned on the TV to be confronted with the early reports on Anders Breivik’s shooting spree in Norway. That wasn’t such a cheerful end to the day.
Shortly before the hamlet of Walton I came across some picnic benches and a sign pointing through a hedge to ‘The Haytongate Hut: Drinks and Snacks’.
Fearing a trap – my enemies are never far behind – I crept through gingerly. Luckily my enemies had not yet prepared themselves, for the place was deserted. I saw one hut filled with chocolate bars, crisps and refrigerated drinks. There was an honesty box and the inside walls were papered with post-it notes on which people had scrawled little messages of thanks or celebration or mutual encouragement.
I smashed the place to bits, pissed in the corner, ate all the free chocolates and used the wrappers to spell SUCKERS on the floor, and moved on.
After Walton the path veered off into some dark and damp woods. Deep in these woods was a farm offering bunkhouse accommodation. This is the sign erected by the farmer to lure weary hikers into his snare.
I think he needs to hire some advertising advisors. I'd been warned about this sign in advance by some other hikers who'd stayed at the bunkhouse (and survived) while walking the path in the opposite direction. The farmer had told them that he nailed dead crows to the sign "as a warning to the rest."
At lunchtime I lay down to rest under a tree in a graveyard. All in all it was rather a morbid day.
It always seems to happen that after about four days of hiking I start getting proper muscle strains, and this time it was my achille’s tendon that left me limping the last seven miles to Carlisle, stopping every mile or so to let the pain subside (I forgot to take anti-inflammatory drugs with me). I basically need to start doing longer hikes, going more slowly at the start, so I don’t always spend the final couple of days hobbling.
Carlisle is pretty; I went for a walk after I checked into the B&B but forgot to take my camera, so you’ll have to take my word for it. Carlisle cathedral is weird though.
The B&B owner was very nice. He upgraded me to a double room because the place was almost empty, and recommended a great curry house where I sat reading a book about Hadian’s Wall and stuffing my face.
Then I went back to the B&B and turned on the TV to be confronted with the early reports on Anders Breivik’s shooting spree in Norway. That wasn’t such a cheerful end to the day.
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