Shining Hospitality

A recent trip to "The North" has yielded a bountiful harvest of note-worthy scenes for these pages. Alas, I failed to pack the camera so this picture from some fifteen years ago will suffice - nothing has changed in the world of Scottish commercial hospitality. On the family's return trip from Inverness we were treated to a "Shining" experience at a very run down and tired "Country House Hotel". The plastic garden furniture arranged on the worn tarmac driveway at the foot of the grand entrance stairs was an accurate gauge of just how far fallen this establishment was. Thoughtfully placed in such a prominent position, this was obviously the smoking zone for the chef, a liberal sprinkling of Lambert & Butler stubs garnished with squeezed tea bags was all the clue we needed. Upon approaching the reception desk we were greeted by the sole staff member, whilst the desk was graced with a flat screen monitor and 'phone, neither appeared to be plugged in and the lilies in the dirty vase were well past there sell by date. Out of a sense of adventure and with a thought to Stanley Kubrick's feel for what a deserted hotel should offer, we decided to take a room for the night. The enormous, once glamorous, hotel was devoid of life and much stair climbing and marching along endless corridors lead us to a pretty average, though unkempt, room. To conform to expectations the bath tap was dripping profusely producing that distinctive brown streak on the enamel and the lino had retreated from the skirting like mould in a tea cup, revealing that half inch gap of musty, damp, dust gathering matter that is best not investigated too closely. In an attempt to change the stale air I enthusiastically hauled at the sash windows, having cracked away the painted seal the rotted cords let go and with a crash, fresh air rushed in - a nearby '70s hard-wired hair dryer had just enough flex to serve as a sash prop. I'm sure you can imagine the scene. I'm very pleased to have dug out this earlier picture from the previously blogged Beattock House Hotel - the carpet here is a fine example of the sort of thing we're up against. I called at Beattock only to find the BHH now closed.

Cat Trouble

It has come to my attention that there is a cat resident in Diploville. The evidence presents itself in the form of foul-smelling deposits, often secreted, like antipersonnel mines, slightly below the surface. I have indeed been rendered powerless by the dastardly booby traps on more than one occasion. Revenge, it is often said, is a dish best served cold - that'll be the little bowl of milk then, placed strategically in the middle of the lawn 25 metres from the Diplo back door. The chosen killing zone benefits from good morning light, a clear and safe backdrop and is easily hosed down. Much discussion has taken place on the subject of weapon selection, I have been in touch with a retired SAS officer friend of mine and in the true spirit of "who dares wins" we settled on this basic selection from the Diplo armoury. My own personal favourite would be the Marlin 30.30 for it's sheer brute force, the Martini action Greener GP is a handy piece with a very tight choke producing a solid pattern at the range we're interested in, the grenade, frankly, is a distraction and not really appropriate here. In the interest of good neighbourly relations I plan to serve notice on the cat's owner. Ooh, the Expedient 9mm submachine gun isn't ready yet or that would have top slot - obviously. MORE FIREPOWER!

Genesis 1:5

Sorry about my absence - couple of weeks at the plantation and a spot of skiing in Chile. Back to the grindstone. I share this picture with my readers out of desperation. I mentioned previously that we are blessed at Diplotown with a very sparse distribution of street lights, unfortunately one of the three is just opposite Diplo Hall - this has not been a problem since it packed up nearly a year ago. Guess what ? I was awakened from a post-prandial snooze with a start, massaging the keyboard imprint from my forehead, I peered out of the window of the front office to see a Lights-4-U wagon pull up and make preparations to fix the street lamp. I tried to point out to the operative that this was entirely unnecessary and that I would be happy to damage the bulb for him before it was installed - "not on your life - more than my ...." .. I ran inside and started sewing up black out curtains. Surely in these days of environmental concern and budgetary constraints we'd be doing the world a favour if we left broken street lights well alone.

Turn Left For Adventure

Last weekend I immersed myself in the awe-inspiring world of flat track racing. Having seen some racing on 1/4 mile speedway tracks it seemed wise to slope off to South Wales and enjoy the spectacle laid out on a full 1/2 mile oval. This facility was purpose built for the equally hairy sport of trotting, is blessed with fancy new floodlighting and enables us to witness full ton-up dirt racing as has been keeping our friends in The States on the edge of their seats for years. Interestingly enough, the track layout used on Saturday left a little to be desired because as darkness fell it became apparent that chucking the bikes sideways at 90-odd miles an hour into turn one would have to be done blind - didn't seem to put anybody off much. Having spent the day in the pits and pointing inquisitively at patches of oil and broken bits of motor cycle I came away with the fuse lit - this has to be what motor sport is about. Quite apart from anything else, flat track bikes really do epitomise bike style, this is what proper motorbikes ought to look like - the Dutch Brothers' Harley XR pictured here says it all really.
I was particularly struck by the way a bunch of the most approachable interesting and friendly people you could wish to meet hurl themselves, at the drop of a flag, into five minutes of the most violent, bone shaking, grit chewing, spleen wrenching and down-right terrifying maelstrom - as would a quiet infantryman going "over the top" at the Somme. This adrenalin fueled frenzy is followed by a few minutes recuperation in the pits, an opportunity to evacuate the mud and grit from mouth, nose, & ears, rip through a Marlboro or two and, in the case of our pit neighbour, bandage a swollen knee and fettle a new footrest from a lump of wood and some gaffer tape.
I include the pic of the blood waggon in honour of poor Johnners who spent most of the night in a Swansea hospital, he's now had steel-work installed in his knee and is off games until further notice. MORE SPEED.

Your Usual, Sir ?

Still in shock from the realisation that I'd missed Ian Fleming's Dr No on the wireless this arvo (David Suchet as the twisted Dr No) I have taken treatment in the form of woodsmoke and wine. A crisp, cold Viognier has taken care of the cooking with a sturdy Chilean Cabernet to cut the fat - marvelous.
Fried garlic and new potatoes on the fire along with cob-corn (cooked wrapped in foil with butter, salt and pepper)and a bit more of Mary's hogget really did the trick, Dr who ? Fresh-cut salad from the garden only helps to complete the heavenly feast. Very hot Provencal garlic rubbed into that toasted ciabatta, soaked in oil and sprinkled with salt keeps the thirst from waining and proves a great accompaniment to the Viognier whilst tending to the fire. Sorry to go on about it - BUT - that meat is something special and deserves attention. MORE FIRE !

Centrifugal Fiction

The existence of the "fictional" force that we all know as centrifugal is obviously crucial to Ken Fox and his team. For practical purposes the force is measured in newtons and the number is arrived at by multiplying the mass by the square of the angular velocity and again by the radius of the arc being described - all we really need to know is that enough F is generated to overpower the only too real pull of gravity. The Ken Fox Wall of Death operation runs a fine fleet of Indian Scouts and three rather ropey CB200 Hondas, the latter (I presume the Scouts are too heavy for a three-up) can be seen ripping around this 'drome, three abreast from top to bottom of the wall, the "fictional" force only too apparent as the whole structure sways and creeks under the strain. The fairground showmanship that is such an important part of the scene here is truly a delight and we must do everything we can to stop it being lost. I believe there are only two or three walls travelling the country now. The monotonous, very well worn draw-patter of the ring master employed to entice passing trade into the tent is beautifully dated and no attempt to jazz things up or dumb down the experience has been made. When under way ".. starting any minute ladies & gentlemen - just room for a handful more - .." the performance is truly thrilling, a mixture of awe and fear can be seen on the spectators' faces, nervous applause as the dare-devils tease the top wire with the wheel rims. The Fox troupe is a truly family affair and I strongly recommend you look out for them before the H&S boys kick 'em into touch. MORE FICTION !

Cul-de-Sac

I'd be more than happy for South Oxfordshire District Council to "Listen" and "Learn" but I'm very worried about letting them "Lead". This quietly spoken epitaph to Brakspear's Henley Brewery just about sums it all up really. Obviously the sign ordering department went for the expensive re-con' plastic post style, only to find nowhere to plant it - "..saw them posts off Alf and we'll screw it to the wall.." - marvelous - unrestrained initiative at work in the local authority. Brakspear closed the Brewery in 2002 when they fell into the hands of REFRESH UK Plc - you couldn't make that one up could you - and moved, complete with a few bits of plumbing to the site at Witney. Dev's been in, and across the road is some top security residential operation going on. I asked a passing copper if the bars were intended to keep people in or out and he couldn't be sure. The only clue as to the goings on was the vast collection of Porsche Boxsters being watched over by jittery estate agents twitching in the Meadseyesque, Rayban-wearing look out post in the old hoist loft. The main entrance to the old brewery offices and nerve centre has been gastro'd and I couldn't bring myself to photograph that. On a more happy note - an enterprising farmer near to home has started up his own brewery and is doing good trade, he now plans to open a private tasting club complete with straw bales for seats, serving wenches and, seeing as he has smoked 60 a day for as long as I've known him, we'll be able to enjoy a Capstan with a pint of Digfield March Hare. MORE BEER !