We’ve pitched our tent up the back of a beer garden, the pub was—I thought until I just checked—the Cock Inn. It’s actually called the Castle Inn, and we picked it due to some punk connection that leap out when we were searching for places to stay…
Possibly the oddest coin-op ever:
On route to Southend, a spin on the M25. Wouldn’t be an English Journey without it.
Second night of the tour on which we have to camp out. We’ve one pretty big tent for all of us, it’s still cosy inside. Last night I kipped on a mate’s settee, but don’t really feel refreshed. As I left half of my clothes on the Isle of Wight I’m …
Navigating to Southampton pier on our wits and Diet Cherry Coke, we follow signs for the docks and eventually pull up outside. It’s now no more than a thai restaurant, I don’t even bother to get out of the car. We contemplate tearing up our copy o…
What makes a seaside take one path or the other? While Bournemouth had embraced the tat: bungee jumping (not from the pier, unfortunately) and market stalls selling tacky bangles (yes, Danny added to his wrist bindings), Boscombe, not five miles a…
Featuring a young Keith Richards
Those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it, Swanage Pier knows its history but than seems to doom it to show pictures of Ronnie Corbett to its visitors.
I’ve just explained to Dan what the phrase ‘pig in a poke’ means. Midge struggling to extract himself from the tent was like that somehow.
I’ve been trying to calculate just how many times I’ve visited Torquay, it’s posibly 35 or more. Each easter my extended family (very extended, extended up to a hundred friends and friends of friends) would hire a coach and book out an entire hote…