Here we are in the Midlands, set up in
a delightful club site, so very rural despite its proximity to Birmingham of which
Halesowen is a satellite town. But I have jumped ahead of myself, because when
I last posted to this blog, we were still in Northern Ireland.
The night before we left our camp near
Markethill, we became involved in a family crisis back in New Zealand, and with
the wonders of technology, matters could be co-ordinated in New Zealand from a
farmlet in Ulster. While we suffered that terrible sense of helplessness, when
our personal presence would have been preferable, we were still able to be part
of the situation. Needless to say, with time differences from the other side of
the world and worry, sleep was scant, and we were up before the crack of dawn
to address our own challenges of the day.
We were on the road south all too early, soon across the border
into the Republic and on down the M1 past Dundalk and Drogheda, here faced with
a small toll charge, then on through the Dublin port tunnel where we paid
another toll, this the €10 we had been so horrified to
pay when first arriving in Dublin. Again we were early at the Stena ferry terminal
and waited for some time in the car along with dozens of other early birds
reading our e-books before eventually disappearing into the bowels of the Stena
Superfast X, their newest vessel 203 metres long which can carry five hundred
cars and up to 1,200 passengers. The day was fine, the conditions relatively
calm and having taken a couple of seasick tablets in a timely manner, we
arrived in Holyhead at 6.15 pm after a three and a half hour uneventful voyage.
It was after 6.30 pm that we finally
disembarked, and by the time we reached our little certified site at
Llanfachraeth near Valley, dusk had fallen. Our hostess came out to meet us as
we arrived and directed us to our camp site, leaving the choice of grassy field
or gravelled hard stand to us. Chris chose the field thinking he would be able
to leave the caravan hitched up for a simple getaway on the morning. Alas the
field was very sloping and after driving in several circles trying to find a
level spot, we parked up, unhitched and levelled with a series of high blocking
systems, by which time darkness had arrived. There we were fiddling about in
the dark not able to see the hole in which to insert the brace for lowering the
legs. Chris suggested I fetch the torch, but this was near the bed, at the back
of the van and without the legs down, not accessible. Eventually we were done,
making do with jerry cans of water rather than setting up the whole water tank
system. Meanwhile we were ankle deep in freshly cut grass, trudging it into the
van despite our efforts to keep the interior clean and tidy. Finally we were
set up well enough to cook dinner and settle in for the night. I went to bed as
early as circumstances allowed and slept like a log.
This morning with a long journey of about 180
miles ahead of us, we were away promptly, after lowering the caravan back down
to a towable level and waving farewell to Mavis who watched us from her front
window.
Halfway across Anglesey, as we descended from
what little upland the island has, with the skies above clear, we had the most
splendid views toward Snowdonia. Soon we crossed the Britannia Bridge to
mainland Wales and continued on across the northern coastline on the A55, a
road we travelled twice before crossing to Ireland at the end of July. We
pulled over to check our route when I realised that the M56 would take us further
north than we needed to be, however when we considered what appeared to be a
more direct route, the mileage was only marginally lower and the time longer.
We reverted to Tomtom’s Plan A and continued on until we intersected the M6, turned
south and continued on until we turned onto the M5 west of Birmingham before
turning again toward the Clent Hills in which we are camped.
At least half of the distance travelled on
the M6 was through road works where the speed limit was down to 50 mph and the
traffic often reduced to a crawl. The congestion was probably not helped by the
fact that the M40 was closed to traffic all day after a couple of horrific accidents
early in the morning involving several trucks and one fatality. And of course
we are back in England where the traffic is one hundred times that of New
Zealand or Ireland.
My main efforts for the rest of the afternoon
after setting up camp were concentrated on several bags of laundry, the last
lot having been done when we were in Coleraine; needless to say we carry a
large amount of underclothes and socks. We are here for a couple of days; the
forecasted fine weather should complete the drying process and offer
opportunity for a successful outing, yet to be decided.
Despite the mutterings by the television weather
girl about the cold, after Northern Ireland we find the weather almost
tropical. I am wearing half the amount of clothing layers.
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