One
could argue that the better weather should be reserved for touring and days of exploration
rather than for the days spent travelling from one camp to another, but then
that would be ignoring the fact that the journey from A to B is just as
important and enjoyable. Today we woke to lovely weather which stayed with us
for the greater part of the day, and our journey of about one hundred and
twenty five miles was mainly along the M6, a corridor of busy lorries and other
traffic.
We
left Dumfries travelling east on the A75 to join one of Britain’s main north-to-south
arterial routes, the A74(M) which becomes the M6 near Gretna and we crossed the
border into England just after 10 am. We had spent two months in Scotland, with
mixed reviews depending on whether you were talking to the forever optimistic Blogger
or The Chauffeur who is less so. Certainly Scotland would have been better with
improved weather conditions and fewer midges, but I personally had loved our
travels through the land of my maternal grandmother and paternal many times great
grandmother.
Although
we had come north on the M6 last year, the southerly direction offered a new
perspective, and we delighted in the hills and valleys of Cumbria as we came
down on the eastern edge of the Lakes District. A little to the south-east of Kendal,
we turned onto the A65 and travelled through lovely rural land, the road much
reduced despite being an important route from west to east, twisting and
turning across the undulating land. Nowhere about Dumfries and Galloway had we
seen evidence of Aileen’s passing, and even beyond we saw no wind damage,
however today as we drove along the southern edge of the Yorkshire Dales National
Park, we noted the farmed flats still under water from the rains of the last couple
of days.
Reaching
Skipton, we had problems finding the camp, this leading to animated discussions
between The Navigator and the Chauffeur. This time the fault was not the
navigational device, nor the occupants of the car, but the writer of the description
in the directory; it was not clear whether the directions should be read as if
arriving from an eastern or western direction. It turned out they assumed the
club member was coming from the east, which we did after driving about for a
while. And let me say that the centre of Skipton is not really suited to
caravan rigs, all adding to the altercation.
We
finally pulled into the field, bare but for the electric hook-up stations and a
couple of rubbish bins, to find it a quagmire, which did nothing to alleviate
the mood. It also was not clear where we should park up so I telephoned the
camp owner who soon put me straight and we set ourselves up on a gravel space,
surrounded in mud, much of which made its way into the caravan.
Soon
we headed down into Skipton, which had suggested a vibrant charm on our earlier
entry, however this time we were better able to enjoy the facilities, without
the caravan in tow. We shopped at the excellent Tesco Superstore, noted the
Tesco fuel station nearby for future reference, then wandered about the town
centre looking for the Visitor Centre in the Town Hall, finally assisted by the
parking officer who was more intent on issuing a ticket to a motorist with a
disabled permit.
Back at camp,
our host arrived and we offloaded some of our Scottish notes. He did not seem
concerned that they were of that denomination, but then they are legal tender
throughout Britain, just seeming a little foreign to many English and a couple
of months ago, myself included. I was most surprised to learn that Scotland
printed their own brand of pounds stirling.
And high in
the sky, I watched a buzzard wheel about, perhaps eying up a vole; he flew off
without success.
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