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Costa Lotta

Posted on by John Curd Posted in Life@Home — 2 Comments ↓

We like coffee. Real coffee, that is; industrially processed instant concoctions don’t count. Instant brown beverages are banned, even in our caravan. How much more difficult is it to pour hot water onto real coffee grounds than onto powder or granules? Carol is particularly fond of cappuccino and I’ve got a soft spot for espresso. So, to feed this one of our addictions, we have a half-way reasonable Gaggia coffee machine taking up counter space in the kitchen together with a Dualit grinder to keep it supplied.

Supplied with what raw material, though? Clearly to make a decent concoction one needs some decent coffee beans. “Decent” is, of course, a matter of taste but, for espressos, I seem to favour something from the Java/Sumatra region. Originally I had settled upon one of the standard stock items from Whittard’s, their Santos and Java blend. However, with the relatively recent problems experienced by Whittard’s, supplies approached impossible and I found a very pleasant alternative called Blue Sumatra at our local coffee roaster in Leighton Buzzard.

This morning my stock of Blue Sumatra was running low and I didn’t think we had enough to last the weekend. If Carol doesn’t get her cappuccinos tomorrow morning, I’m dead, so I popped into town to buy another 500g. While the nice man was weighing out my purchase, I glanced over his shelves to see if anything else looked interesting. I was somewhat taken aback when the words “civet” and “cat” leapt out at me from a rather lengthy descriptive sentence on the label of one relatively small glass jar of coffee beans. Curious! I looked closer. The coffee beans were called Kopi Luwak. I can’t remember the exact words but the descriptive sentence read something like this:

Coffee beans from Sumatra that have been passed through the digestive system of the civet cat.

Now there’s something you don’t see every day, certainly not in Leighton Buzzard. Looking even more closely, I noticed that the price printed on this small jar, £11.25 or thereabouts, was for 125g. These golden nuggets of roasted civet excrement retail for £90 per kilo. Yikes! Little wonder that the glass jar was quite small. I hope the turnover is reasonable ‘cos I wouldn’t want to pay £90 a kilo for coffee beans that had lost their essential oils. Certainly not.

A swift dive into good ol’ Wikipedia tells the story of Kopi Luwak and reveals that it is supposedly the rarest, most expensive coffee in the world – and who could wonder at it? Judging by the Wikipedia article, our price in Leighton Buzzard is a steal. Stick that in your house-blend and watch the customers come flocking in. Maybe if Whittard’s had stocked civet shit coffee they would not have suffered financial problems?

Time for Java/Sumatra fans to start saving. 😯

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Interlude de France

Posted on by John Curd Posted in Life@Home — No Comments ↓

During this final week of the Tour de France, ITV4 has scheduled several additional days of live coverage on their main channel, as opposed to screening it via the interactive system (the “red button”). This is a mixed blessing. The main ITV4 channel coverage comes swamped with extremely irritating American-length-and-frequency commercial breaks whereas the ITV4 interactive coverage is unexpectedly and blissfully commercial free. The interactive coverage provides 3+ hours of live action with absolutely no breaks whatsoever. On one day there was a notable exception to this rule when there was a terminal break in the final kilometre of the stage apparently caused by an automatic cut-off to transmission. That little glitch has not recurred and the one and only advantage that I can see of the main channel’s coverage is that it is accompanied by the incisive, dry wit of Gary Imlach.

Commercials on most of these “fringe” channels are doubly irritating because the same handful of inane commercials seem to be repeated at every break; there’s little or no variation. An already irksome device becomes insufferable. For sanity’s sake, it’s necessary to find something more appealing to do in these commercial interludes, such as scrubbing the kitchen floor or visiting the dentist for that overdue drilling of a cavity.

Peacock butterflyToday I was lucky, the sun had emerged after our obligatory downpour, and our buddleia bush was attracting Peacock butterflies. A couple of days ago it had been attracting Painted Ladies and Commas but now it had moved on to Peacocks. Marvellous! Since the Peacock is one of those cooperative butterflies that settles to feed with its wings open, I was in a position to avoid a trip to the dentist by grabbing my camera and sneaking outside to try and snap one. The butterflies were clearly at pains to save me from several trips to the dentist because, initially, they insisted on settling high up and at angles unsuited to portraits. Eventually, however, one did decide to eat on a sunny lower branch and I managed to add it to my Lepidoptera catalogue. Nothing difficult about the shot but it proved to be a good clean specimen.

I wonder what might be next? Red Admiral butterflies are partial to buddleia, too.

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Chasing Cleopatra

Posted on by John Curd Posted in Life@Home — No Comments ↓

It’s a rainy day that would have been perfect for watching the lads race over a few hills in the Tour de France. However, what with one thing and another, I’ve been out most of the day and missed them. Thank homo sapiens for ITV4’s highlights programme this evening.

Butterflies have been featuring in my life recently. This is not unusual as, when driving the roads of rural France, I am prone to slamming on the anchors, leaping from the car and chasing an unrecognized butterfly across a field or two in an attempt to identify it. I love them; killing them for the purposes of identification is unthinkable.

Comma butterfly Painted Lady butterfly France has a few more exotic species than we do but some do make it across the English Channel. One such is the Painted Lady butterfly which is apparently here in larger numbers than usual this year. Given our weather since Wimbledon fortnight, were I a Painted Lady, I’d lift up my skirts and high-tail it back to France, it has to be said. Be that as it may, our buddleia was visited by a Painted Lady just yesterday and, though it wasn’t a perfect specimen (it had a slightly ragged hindwing), because I am not used to seeing them at home, I snapped it. At the same time, our buddleia played lunch to a Comma butterfly, which is also less than usual, so I snapped that, too, though less successfully (not the best angle).

Brimstone butterfly Some butterflies are relatively easy to photograph because, when they settle, they do so with their wings open so their markings are readily visible and snappable. The Painted Lady and Comma fall into that category. There are other butterflies that habitually sit with their wings tightly folded shut. Our delightful yellow Brimstone butterfly is one of these less cooperative photographic subjects and the usual readily grabbed picture is of the underside of the wings as shown on the right.

During our trip to Corf in May, we were surrounded by masses of Cleopatra butterflies whilst hiking the Corfu trail. Cleopatras resemble Brimstones in that they are essentially yellow (the males, at least) and, when settled, they sit with their wings firmly shut. This is irritating because the upper surface of their forewings has a striking orange blush. A picture without the blush would be pointless but that meant snapping them in flight. I thought I’d use my day of rest from walking to try.

Cleopatra with neat proboscis Cleopatra butterflyArmed with my camera and trusty 300mm lens, I dialled the ASA rating up to 800 to get as fast a shutter speed as possible, about 1/2000th, before zooming in on several settled Cleopatras and waiting for them to take to the wing. It quickly became apparent that automatic focus was not going to work. Butterflies are simply much quicker than the reaction time of the lens. I have to confess that my reaction time was also somewhat lacking trying to follow them. I switched to manual focus, focussed on the settled critters and waited for them to take to the wing again. The trouble with this approach is that they fly UP,  out of my narrow plane of focus, and are fuzzy. Finally, I tried focussing on the settled Cleopatras and then backing focus off a tad so that, when they flew, they flew up into the plane of focus. I was still personally slow and missed several but I finally managed to catch a few shots when luck and timing were running in my favour. Both shots are in flight, honest. 😉 One shot shows the Cleopatra’s colours well but I love the shot with the wings partially closed showing the curled proboscis and shadow of the legs on the plant.

From about 70 attempts, I kept four. Thankfully it wasn’t film; I was only wasting reusable pixels.

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Le Day Off

Posted on by John Curd Posted in Life@Home — No Comments ↓

I was feeling a bit lost today. It’s a day off in the Tour de France so there was no racing to watch this afternoon. Mind you, after a particularly exciting start to Le Tour last week, the weekend’s stages in the Pyrenees didn’t seem to provide much actual racing, either. All but one of the main contenders seemed uninterested in chasing down any breakaways and were content to plod home (relatively speaking) and maintain the status quo. Everyone seems to be waiting for a showdown, hopefully in the Alps but at least up the killer Mont Ventoux on the penultimate day. Somebody should inform the team managers that cycling is of itself worth absolutely nothing and that the entire team becomes worth something only when/if entertainment is involved. Fortunately the Pyrenean scenery was stunning in the glorious weekend sunshine. Let’s hope a few flat sprint stages back across France in the coming week inject more life into the proceedings.

Since we also had clear calendar and were effectively thumb twiddling, we decided to brave the forecast showers, some of which might be heavy, to go and see if there was any activity at Whipsnade Zoo. It would, after all, be one of our last chances for a civilized visit as it is fast-approaching the time when it becomes a no-go zone courtesy of the summer school holidays. I can’t help but think that Wimbledon fortnight was summer and that, since the weather now seems to have resumed normal service, the poor little rugrats have rather missed the boat, but I digress once again …

An emu clearly having a bad hair day Most of Whipsnade’s inmates appeared similarly unimpressed by our blistering July temperatures and were mostly subdued. A group of people on what I imagine was a keeper experience day did get the small-clawed otters jumping around with excitement as they threw them pieces of dismembered rat for lunch. I decided I didn’t really want a picture of a painfully cute small-clawed otter rather ruining its image with a rat tail dangling from its mouth as it chewed its way through the pelvic girdle. Patience was rewarded by a decent photo opportunity as we made our way towards the exit past a few emus that were clearly having a collective bad hair day. Mind you, the rain probably wasn’t helping their coiffures.

Sail-finned lizardAfter the emus became bored with posing, we added a completely new critter to our collection when we made a rare excursion into the so-called Discovery Centre, which seemed like a reasonable place on a relatively quiet day to escape the cool and damp. In a pleasantly calm and quiet atmosphere, an impressive sail-finned lizard was basking under its sun lamp, and who could blame it. I didn’t really notice the stunning blue colour of its eye until we returned to process our efforts.

We’ve had more interesting days at Whipsnade but I did come away with something. 😉

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Independent Movement

Posted on by John Curd Posted in Life@Home — No Comments ↓

The Tour de France is managing to keep the excitement level up. Two days ago I watched an incredulous Frenchman survive what became an independent breakaway from the peloton to take a stage win. It was delightful to watch: as he approached the line he kept glancing around and shaking his head in utter disbelief that the main bunch of riders had messed up their chase and failed to catch him. Yesterday the Tour moved into its second foreign territory, Spain, and headed down to Barcelona. It looked for a while as though another independent move from 30 kms out would survive but it was not to be; this time the peloton reeled him in for another frenetic sprint finish. The really weird thing yesterday was that it was raining in Spain. Shock, horror! The weather is supposed to be better south of the Pyrenees.

I can’t quite believe today’s stage. The organizers, who can only be described as sadistic, send the hapless competitors up into Andorra (foreign territory three) and the heights of the Pyrenees. Not only is this said to be one of the highest finishes ever at 2240m/7350ft, but there are four further climbs to warm up the legs along the way covering a total distance of 224 kms/140 mls. 140 miles with a killer finish – strewth! It should be fascinating.

All this French activity is making me champ at the bit to get back to France myself. With that in mind I have managed to find time in between Tour de France coverage to spend yet more money. I have finally weakened and ordered a caravan mover from Powrwheel Ltd. This will enable the van to be positioned independent of our tow car, even up quite steep slopes. Whilst I pride myself on my caravan reversing abilities, it should give a lot more flexibility when choosing a pitch position. There have been occasions when we’ve had to reject an appealing-looking pitch simply because there wasn’t room for the combined car and caravan to manoeuvre. Movers are also very handy accessories for the elderly and infirm, so I should be fine. 😆

Now, on with Le Tour.

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Tour d’Europe

Posted on by John Curd Posted in Life@Home — No Comments ↓

With no fewer than five excursions into foreign territories, this year’s Tour de France seems more like the Tour d’Europe.  It kicked off in the Principality of Monaco before whizzing across southern France whence it heads into Spain. Things start favouring the maniacs who like cycling up mountains as it heads back up the Pyrenees into Andorra, before crossing France again and popping into Switzerland and Italy for a couple of stages, just for good measure. The guys are going to have to change money – Switzerland doesn’t do Euros. Due to the overall distances covered, It also seems quite a disjoint route with many transfers using trains and planes between finish and start points.

Be that as it may, with the added spice of the return of Lance Armstrong, it’s been a very exciting first few days. Watching live TV coverage of the tour for several hours a day is largely about regular doses of stunning French scenery to sate the desire to be in France oneself but, being quite keen on cycling myself, I do like watching the professionals at work. Having already given me a good injection of Provence, yesterday’s team time trial, the first I’ve seen, was particularly nail-biting and spun us through some very pleasant scenery in one of my favourite areas, the Languedoc. [Note for the future: Montpellier looks worth a visit.]

The team time trial was sandwiched between two very long flat stages of 196 kms/122 mls. I can’t help but wonder at the ability to cycle such distances day after day at average speeds I can only dream of, subsequently to finish at sprinting speeds that I certainly cannot dream of, even going downhill with a following wind.

With what is currently effectively a dead-heat for the yellow jersey, one featuring that man Armstrong, I wait with bated breath for today’s 196 kms of stunning scenery towards Perpignan.

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Provence by Proxy

Posted on by John Curd Posted in Life@Home — No Comments ↓

Well, there goes another Wimbledon and another Great British hope. I’m not sure Andy Murray actually wants or appreciates English support given his previous comments concerning English football but thanks for the nerve-racking, Andy. I spotted another comment on Twitter that made it quite clear that there is at least one Scot who vehemently dislikes the English supporting Andy Murray. According to this idiot, it’s OK for the Scots to (mis)manage the country’s parliament but the English are not allowed to support a Scot. So much for a United Kingdom. Oh, and this ardent Scotsman so loves Scotland that he lives in New Zealand. Go figure! Actually, I much prefer to watch a tense final in which I don’t have a partisan interest so it’s better for both parties that Andy Murray didn’t make it. Unfortunately, the somewhat extended Wimbledon Mens’ Final rather scuppered my plans to watch the first road stage of this year’s Tour de France live so thank technology for video recorders.

Today, with Wimbledon a distant memory, I settled down to enjoy unfettered live coverage of Stage 3 of the Tour de France on ITV4’s interactive satellite service. We’d normally have been enjoying La Belle France ourselves over June and into early July but this year we changed our behaviour and enjoyed a terrific walking tour of Corfu instead. As a result and as a Francophile, I’m feeling a little starved of French scenery and culture. Today’s stage from Marseille to La Grand Motte was to go through some very appealing Provençal scenery that would address at least one of those addictions.

The usual form of a flat (non-mountain) stage in the Tour de France is a leg in which a handful of riders breaks away for most of the race, gets caught by the pack (le peloton) just a few kilometres from the finish, then the sprinters take over in a mad scramble for the line. One has to admire these guys; they can ride 100+ miles cruising at 25 mph, then finish at speeds of 40+ mph over a short dash. I can sometimes cruise at 15 mph over considerably shorter distances.

Today’s flat stage did not follow the usual form. After 3½ hours glued to ITV4’s interactive satellite coverage, cross-winds resulted in its building up to what has to be the most exciting finish I was about to see. The peloton split and the speed built inexorably as the leading contenders began jostling for the upper hand. The excitement of the commentators built up, too. I was on the edge of my seat with less than a kilometre of the 196 kilometres remaining. Then, suddenly … BLAM – there it wasn’t. Cataclysmic change! An inane episode of some ancient series drivel replaced the Tour de France coverage. I pressed all the buttons I could find that would do anything on the controller but all to no avail, it was gone. Ended. Cruelly snatched away in the dying seconds.

At 5 o’clock the transmission apparently automatically switched itself off. Brilliant! Does the BBC break transmission in the middle of the 5th set at Wimbledon? No, of course not. The BBC reschedules other programmes, switches them to another channel, does anything but destroy the excitement of the finale. Would someone care to note the lesson from the professionals?

Still, I got to see a lot of Provence.

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Over Networked

Posted on by John Curd Posted in Life@Home — No Comments ↓

Some time ago I started blogging using a wonderful piece of blogging freeware (WordPress) introduced to me by a propeller-head friend and former colleague (Steve Blasdale). I didn’t really know what blogging was then but, having recently retired and feeling somewhat technologically starved at home, extending my own web site to incorporate my own blog gave me something constructive to do over and above writing and receiving emails.

I have never kept a diary in my life. I got half way there once at work when I began writing appointments and so on in an electronic diary. I say “half way there” because I tended to write things in it but kept forgetting to check in it to see what I was supposed to be doing and when I was supposed to be doing it. Duh! However, being something of an online diary, blogging seemed to fulfill some hidden desire to write and I began to enjoy posting blog entries, so much so that we eventually began travelling with a laptop and, horror of horrors, frequenting McDonald’s to use their free Wi-Fi to blog on our travels. (A big thank you to McDonald’s for a great service as opposed to a great hamburger.) The big advantage of a blog over a diary is that, given a digital camera, photographs can be posted, too, and, as we all know, a picture speaks a thousand words.

A few months ago we booked to go on a walking trip to Corfu. No way were we getting anywhere near blogging whilst in Corfu – no laptop and very little Wi-Fi. Blogging withdrawal symptoms loomed. I can’t remember how I found out about it but, a few days before Corfu, enter Twitter and, of course, a whole new set of silly terminology. Twitter: a social networking and micro-blogging service. The micro it seems, refers to the fact that entries (tweets – oh good grief) are limited to 140 characters. The critical thing was that I could tweet via SMS on a mobile phone whilst in Corfu. People who tweet tend to be referred to as tweeps. It seems I have become a tweep as well as a blogger. Arghh!

For such a simple idea, a web-based 140-character text message, there appears to be a surfeit of Twitter client applications. There’s little wrong with Twitter’s own web site for sending and reading tweets. Still, it’s fun trying new software so I’ve given some a go. TweetDeck enables multiple panels with tweets, @replies, direct messages and searches for tweets on specified subjects side by side. Twitterfox extends Mozilla Firefox to show tweets but you don’t seem to be able to search for topics/keywords. Twhirl looks similar to a standalone Twitterfox but includess the search bit. For what it’s worth, I prefer TweetDeck. It’s clearly tough to get anything substantive into a 140-character tweet and that limitation shows when you see most of them. Given the majority of what I’ve read on Twitter, twerps would be a more appropriate term for those who tweet. Still, for anyone prepared to put in a little thought and effort, it is possible to tweet real content and it does seem to have its uses. The service is somewhat plagued by senseless advertizing tweets, though.

Today I’ve signed up for something I’ve been avoiding for ages (don’t ask me why): facebook.  It’s all very new to me but it seems that you can update facebook with SMS text messages, too. TweetDeck enables facebook status updates as well as Twitter tweets so somebody must think they are useful to have co-existing. Facebook clearly has loads of users ‘cos it found a bunch of friends from my email address book, including Carol’s niece, Vanessa, in Scotland. Naturally there is yet more fun terminology with which to become familiar. I seem to have a wall now. [Aside: Could this be the Wonderwall beloved of Oasis that I’ve never understood? Just a thought.] My favourite piece of facebook terminology so far came when, as part of my learning experience, I went to look at Vanessa’s facebook entry. Beneath her profile photo, as well as being offered the chance to “Send Vanessa a message”, facebook also offered me the chance to “Poke Vanessa”. Well, really! What terrific software! I’m quite sure neither Vanessa nor Carol would be thunderously impressed. I’ll leave that hyperlink alone.

With the growth of this plethora of so-called social networking tools, we could all end up never having to meet people face-to-face again. It’s just you and the computer now, kiddo. How sad a world would that be?

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Service Week

Posted on by John Curd Posted in Life@Home — No Comments ↓

This week turned into something of a week for services. I began by making a booking for Billy Bailey’s next service way out in the future (1st Feb 2010). This was just because the caravan agent is apt to get very busy and Billy’s next service is time-critical.

On Thursday it was the turn of my mountain bike which had, since my slightly embarrassing excursion on it into the Grand Union Canal, developed an irritating noise related to the pedal speed, cadence in cycling speak. I’m happy to report that, after a “B service” at Phil Corley’s in Milton Keynes, which included a new chain, new rear gear set and new bottom bracket, all now seems well. Memo to self: try to stay on the canal tow path in the future.

On Friday it was the turn of our much loved but recently somewhat neglected Mazda MX5. He’s 10 years old now and had had neither his 9- nor 10-year service. Tut, tut! In our defence, though it’s technically no excuse, we do only about 2000 miles a year in Mazzie these days. Now he knows we still love him.

Most of the services this week have, of course, been thundering over the nets in Wimbledon at the “All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club”. It’s typical isn’t it? The Club’s world famous, show case tournament is frequently plagued and delayed by good ol’ English rain. The year after the Club eventually bites the bullet and installs a multi-million pound retractable roof over its exhibition Centre Court, we have yet to have a rain delay. Great stuff! In a change to the norm, this year I can sense all the commentators almost willing a thunderstorm to occur just to provide the brand new television spectacle of watching the roof mechanism swing into action. What a fickle world. Worry not, Wimbledon is unlikely to have a completely dry fortnight.

Actually, I can’t see how much help keeping play going on a single court would be to the scheduling of a tournament occupying 20 courts for much of its time. Still, I’m sure it will help with other events. We’ve also noticed that the extra overhanging structures supporting the roof seem to worsen the high contrast between bright sunlight across one half of Centre Court and shadows of the retracted roof cast by the westering sun across the other, when, as this year, said sun actually deigns to shine. Some of the players, dazzled by the brilliant northern European sun, seem to be struggling to see balls screaming at them at 120 mph out of the relative darkness. I can’t think why.

One such player yesterday was the inventively named Mardy Fish. Having been fortunate enough to spend a considerable time in America, I’m familiar with the difficulties caused on the west of the Atlantic by the letter “T”, pronunciation of which is frequently transmogrified into a “D”: water becomes wa-d-er, for example. Mr Fish’s parents have clearly been very farsighted in solving this pronunciation issue and, rather than calling their son Marty, changed the spelling to match the pronunciation that would inevitably result: Mardy. Very clever.

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House Hunting

Posted on by John Curd Posted in Genealogy — No Comments ↓

After last week in East Sussex grave-hunting, this Wednesday I took my mother out for a ride house-hunting. As a teenager my mother lived in Little Heath, near Potters Bar, Hertfordshire, which is where she met my father. I’d been threatening to take her to see her old childhood haunts for some time and it was a sunny day so off we set. I was also armed with what I thought was an address for my paternal great grandfather’s house from the 1891 and 1901 census records: 6 Heath Road. A quick pre-departure check on Google Earth showed me where Heath Road was and I fixed that in my mind as a destination.

Mum's childhood house in Little Heath A jam-free spin round a couple of junctions of the M25 soon saw us clambering off at Potters Bar. After a  swift right turn up the Great North Road, mother started recognizing places from back in the 1930s. “It’s all changed a lot”, she remarked. “I’m not surprised; they’ve had 80 years to change it, after all”. She soon had me turning right into her old street but seemed to be having trouble remembering her old house. An old sweet shop opposite no longer existed (as a shop) so some visual clues were missing. Round the corner, though, she immediately spotted the cottage in which my father had been born and raised. A bit more family history and a second trip down mother’s road jogged the 91-year-old memory cells and she found her old house. A happy customer.

Time to go and look for great granddaddy’s pad. I crossed the Great North Road, found Heath Road and started driving down it. “Ah, there were some cottages beside that pub”, remembered mother as we passed a hostelry. “But I just passed house number 76; we’re at the wrong end of the road”. Actually, the entire road seemed wrong; the houses were far too large to have been lived in by great granddaddy who was, apparently, a nursery gardener. We found a number 6 but it was relative mansion and far too modern. We decided that his old cottage had probably been flattened to build more lucrative executive-style housing. Poor mother thought her memory must have been failing her.

As I started heading homewards, we passed another hostelry where mother had apparently “drunk many a Guinness” in her youth. “Do you fancy another one for old times’ sake?”, I asked. Of course she did. It took the barman about 10 minutes finally to pull an acceptable half-pint (nearly empty barrel and dead Guinness in the pipes) but that gave me time to tell him that my mother used to drink here 70 years ago. He was a bit taken aback but not enough to offer her the drink on the house.

Spencer Curd's house (the left one) from circa 1891 After our refreshment I wanted one last look up Heath Road for g. grandfather’s cottage. This time we drove the opposite way along the road. As we neared the hostelry again, beside it I spotted a narrow turning labelled “Heath Cottages”. The 1901 census sheet suddenly made sense: it was headed “Heath Road” and the first entry said “7” but, in parentheses was scribbled “Heath Cotts” which I had neither paid much attention to nor understood. Now it made sense. Sure enough, down this tiny side alley we found a row of delightful old cottages and number 6. I snapped a picture.

A lady approached from another of the cottages and said that she’d seen me with a camera and wondered if my family used to live here. She was apparently writing a history of the cottages and had a copy of the 1901 census form with my great grandfather’s entry. She knew little about him. Unfortunately, neither did we. My mother didn’t even know he was called Spencer Curd until I started rummaging through the family skeletons. Our new friend, Mabel, seemed keen to introduce us to the current inhabitants of number 6 who, she thought, were in. We were soon having a guided tour around a much-modified great grandfather’s cottage.

It seems there’s not a lot wrong with the 91-year-old memory cells after all. 🙂

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