Poetry - 2

Motorcyclist prayer

To the gods of rubber, petrol and steel,

But most importantly of all, the god of two wheels.

We don't need a church, of timber and stones,

All that we ask, is that we break not our bones.

We're not exclusive, if you've the gear and the skills,

Our temple is a road, with bends, curves and hills.

We don't ask for the faithful to bow way down low,

Just drop one knee down, and go, go, GO!!!

Crazy men and a really big fish - TT week on the Isle of Man

As soon as I knew I was going to be travelling through the UK on a motorbike I looked up the dates for the Isle of Man TT. Start of June? Awesome, this was right in the middle of my 3 months to explore UK and Ireland. Bookings for the ferry and camping were challenging to arrange as at this time I was at a fishing lodge in Namibia on an small 'island' isolated by the rampaging Zambezi river and it's steadily rising floodwaters. The ferry was an issue with the security process requiring my credit card to be linked with a UK post code, many thanks to my friend Simon who was capable of meeting this ridiculous demand and secured a berth for myself and a two wheeled machine I was yet to find. When I requested the camp spot I was given an address to post a cheque to cover the camping fee. I explained my situation of strandedness and isolation from the western banking world and its ability to supply me with a cheque I could post to the Isle of Man. The reply "Under the circumstances, you can just pay when you get here" solved my dilemma.

So a few months later, I was equipped with a motorbike and my travelling gear, and I was all set for my 4am departure from Liverpool. Four in the morning is a challenging departure time, do you get somewhere to stay the night? Is it worth it? I decided not, found myself a bar that would be open until 1am, had dinner, got onto their wifi and wrote a blog post from my time in Africa. Once the bar closed I headed to the ferry terminal, was 2nd in the queue, to a guy also riding a slightly older Triumph Tiger. More bikers appeared shortly and we kept each other company for an hour until they allowed us down onto the dock and into the waiting room where we could stay cosy and warm for the next 1.5 hours until we could load onto the ferry.

The ferry loading exercise and for that matter everything I did for the next ten days was a repeat of fitting an amazing number of motorbikes into small spaces. Everywhere else I went on my trip, it was rare to have more than a handful of bikes. This ferry was full, yet only a small number of cars.

For those not familiar with the Isle of Man TT, it is a series of road races around a 37.5 mile circuit with something like 500+ bends varying from gentle sweeping bends to tight hairpins. There are a number of different categories in terms of engine size and whether it is a stock bike (as per factory manufacture) or modified (aka supercharged rocket disguised as a motorbike), so the serious riders might have 3 or 4 different bikes they are racing on, more if they bring spare bikes in case of accidents or equipment failure. There is a week of practice sessions followed by a week of racing with two or three races on, with racing every second day.

The mad men on two wheels push themselves and their bikes around this course right on the limit. It takes a couple of years of racing here to really get a handle on the course and remember the sequence of turns to be competitive. There are at least three places on the course where you fly, if you're not getting airborne, you're not going anywhere near fast enough. Fortunately the 2013 TT had fantatic weather the entire race period, and there was only one accident. The rider was fine, however his bike bounced through a fence and twelve people were taken to hospital, one injured seriously enough to need surgery. The last and most prestigious Senior Race restart was delayed five hours until the surgery team was finished and were again available for emergency response if required.

Outside race times the circuit is open to regular traffic, with the mountain section restricted to one way traffic only. This is also the part of the track that never has a speed limit, not even for regular guys.

Each year there is one afternoon, known as Mad Sunday, when the entire circuit is open to anybody with no speed limits. There is occasionally carnage, and as I was arriving on the morning of Mad Sunday, having had no sleep, I wasn't planning to take any part in it. As it turned out, due to delays from poor weather during practice sessions the week before, the 1000cc Superbike race scheduled for the day before had been postponed. I'm sure many many riders were disappointed to miss their opportunity for a tilt around the track, but I was really quite happy to get to see a race I thought I'd missed out on, and found myself somewhere to sit and watch, with food and coffee nearby.

Throughout the week, each race day I went somewhere new to watch the race from. You could watch every race from a new location for ten years and still not get to all the viewing places. I was also trying to capture a number of different styles of photo, including a side on panning shot where the bike was crisp and sharp and the background all streaky and blurry from the speed, this turned out to be harder than I thought it would be, and needed the right section of track where the bikes would still be upright, but not travelling at supersonic speeds.

I finally found somewhere suitable on the slopes of Snaefell in the mountain section on the approach to an 'S' bend where the road crossed over the railway line.

In addition to the regular motorbike racing, there was also a few races with sidecar motorbikes. Whilst the regular riders are pretty damn crazy, (riding a couple of hundred miles an hour, round a bend, six inches off a stone wall just being a normal day at the office), I felt that the insanity award was really won by the guys in the side cars. They move around constantly, leaning in, leaning out, hanging off the back or over the front, all while the bike is bouncing and turning, with only a couple of hand grips to hold on to.

On the non racing days I went exploring the Isle, including the old castles of Peel --->








and Rushen (in Castletown).

Rushen was one of the most intact castles which was entirely open for viewing, with the ability to visit almost every room. Most old castles are either partly in ruins, or the fully intact ones are still somewhat in use, and only a small section open to the public.

A week before coming to the Isle of Man I was at a party for a friend from the UK who now lives in Australia, and was home visiting for a few weeks. While chatting to one of the guys there I found out that his sister lived on the Isle of Man, he gave me her contact details and promised to warn her that a random stranger was going to give her a call. As frequently happens in my travelling life, the connections I make and the kindness of complete strangers is both delightful and humbling. A call was made, and a plan hatched for them to take me sea kayaking on the Tuesday afternoon. On my way there, with spare time in hand, I went to the nearby Spanish Head which looks over a small island known as the Calf of Man. An excited group of people looking down the small rocky cliff drew my attention, and there, almost immediately below us was a 6+ metre long Basking Shark, happily cruising around. There was a second one a few hundred metres further offshore.

When I got to Chris and Janette's place to join them kayaking I mentioned the sharks, and so our paddling route was revised, we were going to see if they were still there. When we got to the spot the sharks were gone, and the local basking shark volunteers who'd been notified had also come for a look, but were also too late. Janette is a marine biologist, so we paddled over for a chat, and they mentioned they were working on a tagging program to track the movements of the sharks and see how far they travel around. I mentioned meeting a guy in Mozambique running a similar program for Whale Sharks. "Is that Simon?" "Yes", I replied, "Do you know Claire?" "Yes, I met her a few times".

It just goes to show that the world really is a rather small place, it seems that seven months earlier and many thousands of miles away I'd met another marine biologist who used to volunteer with this crew during her summer breaks from university. [Surnames omitted to give the relevant people some semblance of anonymity].

The paddling continued along the calf, and we acquired a passing sea lion who found us more interesting than the rocks and ocean and decided to follow us (or rather me), and see what we were up to. Beyond the calf, there was a narrow passage and then a group of rocks with a harem of much less interested sea lions basking in the sun. Chris and I decided to paddle around the rocks, while Janette chose the sensible option and decided to pass on having to paddle back through the tidal currents washing around the rocks. I used to own a surf ski and am a fairly strong paddler, so I decided I'd be ok with the conditions. My confidence in making this decision did not however take into consideration that I hadn't paddle much in a few years, and that I wasn't in a long narrow surf ski with a rudder, but rather shorter and fatter craft of the rudderless variety. To quote a friend when I told her about this afterwards "It would be like trying to steer a wok".

A mile or two further out to sea was a lighthouse, located on the last substantial rock platform available known as Chicken Rock. I turned to follow Chris and paddle back through the passage, I was making good progress, right up until I came out from the shelter of the calf and got hit by the main current, which turned me sideways and I was being pushed towards the rocks and sea lions. I could see there was no way I would get through the current to make it clear of these rocks, so I stopped paddling and took a breather while the current pushed me back, once behind the rocks I tried again. This time I was going to have to be serious, in the shelter of these rocks I paddled as hard as I could to getas much speed as possible. The lazily basking sea lions were suddenly much more interested in my goings on and decided to avoid the crazy flailing beast of plastic, flesh and cloth by launching themselves from the rocks into the water. A head popped up a few metres in front of me, and if I wasn't working so hard I would have laughed at the look of utter surprise on it's face as it saw me bearing down.

Once again I cleared the shelter of rocks and once again I got hit by the current. This time, I was working so hard, and happened to be in entirely the wrong part of my stroke, so that as the current turned my kayak, I stuck my paddle in the water and pulled myself straight in after it. Earlier when we were kitting up I'd nearly declined the safety vest as I'm a good swimmer and I find them a bit restrictive when I paddle. As I came up gasping for air, and slightly stunned from the shock of cold water immersion, I was rather glad I had it. Behind me, a sleek grey head popped up looking rather amused, and I felt that it was probably the one I'd just about run over pointing out to me I was clearly doing it wrong, and was now the one laughing at me.

The only solution was to paddle with the current, out to sea, and as at became less focussed steer around to where I wanted to be going. Twenty minutes or so later and very little progress made Chris threw me a tow line to give me some assistance. The assistance made a big difference, not just with the pull, but by keeping me pointed where I wanted to go which saved me wasting half my energy pulling the kayak back around every second stroke. Once clear of the current and reunited with Janette the tow line was retracted and we returned at a steady pace to the harbour at Port Erin where we started. All up I had a solid 3hr plus workout, got to entertain some local wildlife and finished up with drinks and pizza on the beach with a live band playing. A better day could not have been planned.

Throughout the TT race week there are plenty of forms of entertainment, including professional stunt riders doing jumps and flips, and a guy doing stunt car tricks. The show was interspersed with the obligatory tall, skinny, well endowed models wearing slightly more clothing than the average teenager.

There was also the local version, a group of old guys who have been performing the same show, on probably the same bikes for over 20 years. Known as the Purple Helmets, they truly were a bunch of dicks, and while moderately funny at times, nothing they did inspired me to want to capture the moment with a photo.

The last place I went to explore was the old tin mining region, and the very impressive and still intact water driven pump, the Laxey Wheel. 

There was a walk with a lot of information boards about the days of tin mining. With limited resources for energy, no coal, not much wood, the power of water was utilised everwhere. There was a comment that no raindrops falling on Snaefell would reach the ocean without powering at least three operations along the way. Over centuries the mines reached hundreds of metres underground, and miners could spend nearly a third of their shifts just climbing down and up the ladders. The shaft wasn't vertical, so a cage lift could not be used.

A simple but ingenious form of lift was developed with a long shaft studded with small platforms for one person to stand on, which slid up and down like a piston. This piston lift meant that the people would just step on and off the lift at every platform, and ride the lift up or down in 12 foot stages. This saved about 40 mins climbing down, and well over an hour climbing back up, most importantly it saved the miners a lot of energy which could be used digging out tin rather than climbing ladders.

After the completion of the TT Races, there is an afternoon of racing a short course track around Castletown. There was one guy that blurred the lines between crazy and impressive, in that he was racing (and not coming last) whilst using only one arm, the other arm was in a sling to keep it out of the way. His bike had been modified so that the clutch was still accessible without using his left hand.

On my second last morning I went for a run along the creek that ran behind the rugby field where I was camping. The trail I was on was along the old rail line which ran across the width of the Isle, all the way to Peel on the west coast. It was such a pleasant trail I wished I'd discovered it sooner, and had a mountain bike so I could go all the way to the end and back. By this stage there were very few people left at the camp site, the food van had left, and the rugby club was locked up. There was still a portable shower/ toilet block that wasn't as unpleasant as I'd expected it to be after 600+ people had spent more than a week using it.

The fine weather had continued for my entire visit, and on my final morning when I got up at 4:30am to break camp was the first dull grey sky I'd seen in the 10 days I'd been there. The soft rain didn't start until I'd packed up camp and arrived at the ferry terminal, it was still falling when I arrived in Dublin a couple of hours later.

Magic Roundabouts

Whilst I was visiting my friend Jennie in Swindon, she took me to visit one of the well known locations in Swindon.

The fact that she was willing to do this riding pillion on the back of my motorbike shows a lot of trust, or craziness.

I will let the pictures highlight this one.

Imagine coming up to a sign like this at an intersection without being warned of it's nature first....

If you are anything like me, at this point you would be a little concerned. I of course had been warned, plus I had a local sitting behind me to give me advice, loudly.

This is what it actually looks like...

There are about 30 places within this intersection that you have to give way to other traffic also within the intersection. Oh, and with the direction of flow for the five small roundabouts, that big one in the middle, flows the other way (counterclockwise). To get to the other side, you can go all the way around, through the middle, or for the bold and skilled local you can do S bends and figure 8's all the way around and back again.

Or you can try this to see if you can make sense of it.

I was told on approach, "follow the sign to Stratton, there are two of them" (meant as two possible exits). With so many exits and possible destinations there were two signs like the first image on the approach to the roundabout(s), so I assumed the comment related to the two signs, yet neither of them mentioned Stratton. The signs for Stratton were at the exit options, not on the way in.

So at this point I am moments from entering this intersection with absolutely no idea which way I need to go or which exit I'm taking.

This prompted me to shout, "the signs don't mention Stratton, where the bloody hell am I going?" The response, a few (very unhelpful) seconds of laughter, followed by, "take the second left".

I was later to revisit this roundabout solo and had no problems negotiating my way now that I knew the way it was done, and which way I wanted to go.

Not satisfied with just one of these monstrosities, the English have built a second (bigger) one at Hemel Hempstead (which I found myself encountering later in my travels).

Wanting to be bigger and better (or scarier), the Hemel Hempstead version has not 5, but six tributary roads and mini roundabouts.

It is however a much less daunting intersection. Instead of 3 lanes of traffic throughout, there are only two, and the centre circle is actually a small hill covered with trees, and thus blocks out 2/3rds of the intersection from view, so it becomes a circuit of roundabouts rather than one enormous mess.

But seriously, how can this possibly be a good idea? Apparently it works (or at least is better than what was there previously). The locals know what to do, and most visitors are scared off by the approaching road signage.

I was told a funny story about the launch of the Swindon roundabout. At the start, instead of white lines, they marked out the lanes with safety cones to direct traffic and make sure it all worked. After a few weeks the locals seemed to have the hang of it, and the designers were happy the flow worked as planned. So they painted all the white lines and arrows and took the safety cones away.

That night it snowed, heavily, and the lines were covered and there was no safety cones to guide the way. I can only imagine the havoc at this point. 

The closest I know of in Australia is the Melbourne Haymarket Roundabout on Elizabeth street.

With 5 roads, 3 tramlines, and 3 pedestrian crossings. I always avoided this one when cycling into Melbourne to university.

Manifesto

Last year before I set off on my trip to Africa, I looked up the website of Robyn Scott, the author of Twenty Chickens for a Saddle (a great read about her family growing up in Botswana).

I was looking to see if she'd written another book, what I found is that she has much higher aspirations than being an author and is managing far more worthy projects. I also found her Manifesto, which I found very interesting, and being a very personal thing was not quite the same as how I would approach this, and so I was inspired to write my own.

(Check out Robyn's website for her Manifesto, and details of what else she is doing [http://robynscott.org]).

And now, the point of this post, here is my Manifesto, which took a long time to start, and months for me to complete to a standard I was happy with. And an awesome friend to make it look interesting.

Savoury Cheese Sauce on Toast (aka the rare Welsh bit)

After leaving Swindon I set off west skirting Bristol and on towards Wales. First I had to cross the Severn River Bridge. This is a toll bridge where you have pay to get into Wales, though people have suggested the toll should be higher to get out of Wales. 

Motorcycles often have reduced tolls, and in some cases are exempt altogether, as was the case here. However being exempt from the toll did not mean the guy at the toll booth boom gate controls would just open up and let me through. There was apparently a narrow gate through which motorcycles could pass, and presumably be counted, which had no gate. I would have to turn around, in the tight one lane toll area and go back (against and across the flow of a number of lanes of traffic) to the (poorly signed) place I was allowed to use if I wasn't going to pay their toll.

As I approached Cardiff I realised I had ridden off the map that was visible in my tank bag, however the edge of the M4 is not an ideal place to stop a bike to fiddle around opening bags and changing maps around. So on the vague memory I had of which part of Cardiff I wanted to get to, I guessed which exit to take, and then when I found somewhere suitable to stop, set up my ipad with the free sat nav program I was using (nav free) and realised that I had come two exits further than necessary, but Cardiff being pretty small, this was only going to mean an extra 5 minutes in town on top of the extra 5 minutes spent on the motorway.

I was visiting Kerry, a friend I met in Zanzibar last year at Rupert and Kelly's wedding. She is a fun, bubbly and friendly person and I was looking forward to catching up again. That evening Kerry jumped on the back of the motorbike for a ride up to the Castell Coch (a castle on a hill surrounded by forest), however the gate was shut, so we went to the Gwaelod Y Garth Inn nearby, which was our plan for after visiting the Castle.

There was a guy and his dog in the pub that looked like they both spent a lot of time there. In fact there was a sign above his seat declaring it to be reserved, and I assumed he was the named holder of this reserved domain. Every time he returned to his seat with a full pint, the dog would get himself off the floor, and nudge the guys leg, every time he would get a scratch on the ear, and he would nudge the leg again until he received a splash from the pint on the floor (about 10-15%), which he would lick up, then satisfied he would promptly lay down again near the fire and avoiding the renewed wet spot on the floor. The colour of the eyes of both man and dog suggested they partook of this activity on a basis more regular than was healthy for either of them.

The next day I set off into the centre of Cardiff to explore. One of the first things I headed for was the waterfront area and the Roald Dahl Plaza. I read a lot of his books when I was young, and hadn't realised he was of Welsh and Danish heritage. What I'd really gone to see however was the plaza, as it was for anyone who watched the first couple of seasons of Torchwood, the location of their secret underground headquarters.

 

Nearby was also a very large building dedicated to all things Doctor Who which I thought I'd have a look at. However I've never been a particularly big fan, and have only watched a few episodes, so paying £15 seemed a bit excessive, and I was happy to just take a picture of a full sized Dalek made from lego ...

And a Tardis replica outside, above the jetty, so if you were coming by boat you'd know that you were in the right place, in case the bright blue aircraft hangar sized building wasn't clear enough.

On my way back to the centre of town I passed a portable lighthouse, or more accurately termed, a lightship. I found this an interesting concept (which I have since seen repeated a few more times), as I thought the point of light houses was that they were constant, and could be relied upon to be in the same place to warn mariners of hazards and show the safe way to harbour. It was also not going to be doing much guiding to safety whilst in the harbour and attached to the dock. I can only imagine a seaman getting his ship safely into harbour, then seeing the light from the ship, and thinking, "Thank goodness you were there, or I'd never be able to tie myself up to the dock." Or could this be the marine version of the pied piper, and when he turns on his beacon, the ships all follow along merrily?

The arse view of the stone elephant was entirely accidental.

There was a big red brick cathedral that was in some way important to the locals, though not being a churchy kind of person, I always think, imagine how many useful houses could have been with all those bricks.

It does look pretty though, in an over bearing, excessive kind of way.

On the topic of overbearing and excessive though, I was in the land of castles (referring to Britain in general at this point), so I figured I'd take a look. I was once again hard pressed to justify paying the entrance fee, so I again satisfied myself with a few photos and left.

That night I joined Kerry for a couple of her classes. In addition to being a talented singer, she is also a personal trainer and does classes at a gym. I did an hour of pilates, followed by an hour of yoga, and was extra bendy and stretched after this. I was also rather sore for the next two days, but figured this was worth getting in some exercise.

From Cardiff I set off a short distance north into the Brecon Beacons to get a dose of the countryside and do some hiking. My jaunt into Wales was turning into a good dose of healthiness.

From this vantage I felt following this path would be a bit like Alice going down the rabbit hole.

After a few days of this, I needed to leave Wales and return to England. A couple of good friends (of UK origin, now living in Perth), were returning home for a couple of weeks to catch up with friends and show off their daughter.

Going from south to north Wales via London is not the most direct route, but when you are away from home and friends so long, it doesn't feel that much of a hardship. I managed to catch up with 6 good friends that week, one I hadn't seen since '07 when she was travelling around Australia. I also made a few new friends which was going to be helpful the following week when I went to the Isle of Man. One of the guys was also going and another had a sister who lived there.

A week of catch ups done, and I was now on my way to the Isle of Man, with a couple of days in north Wales before catching the ferry from Liverpool. With limited time I stuck to the Snowdonia mountains and the island of Anglesey.

(Unfortunately the photos for this period of time are only stored on a hard drive with a broken plug, and will be added at a later date once they can be recovered, along with any required explanations or stories).

Medieval Artistry and Archery

Leaving the South West corner of England behind I went to Swindon to visit Jennie, a good friend of mine, who had promised to take my out for a bit of old fashioned archery.

Before I get into that, I'd like to give a plug to the amazing artistic talents of this lovely lady. Check out her website http://www.jennieanderson.co.uk & / or her facebook page http://www.facebook.com/JennieAndersonArchaeologicalIllustration

I'm sure you will agree with my summation of her skill and her amazing work.

OK, on to the activities of the day. We met up with Andy, who owns the facility, and who was very kindly giving up some of his Sunday afternoon, and also letting me play with not one, but two of his precious longbows.

First off, a few test shots on a lightweight 30lb bow. My technique was reasonably good for a complete novice, and I was able to achieve full draw with this bow.

After shooting off the full complement of nine arrows, Andy decided I was ready to move up to a more serious weapon. First though, a few tips, just to make sure I didn't then go and hurt myself.

A few minutes later, after a few more sets at the indoor targets, and we went outside for some serious archery. I was now on a 70lb bow, and whilst I came very close a couple of times, never quite managed to get full length draw on this bow. (on a side note, Jennie's brother shoots a 110lb bow, and the world record is something insane like 215lb). Firstly, we shot artillery style, like what you see in the movie Braveheart, the idea being to put as many arrows into the air as quickly as possible. Andy could have his third arrow launched before the first one landed, the best I could manage was two in the air and would be only just grabbing the third when the first one landed. I love this shot Jen took just as the arrow was being launched. 

Shooting back down the hill on the second artillery firing, I managed to shoot about 200 yards, maybe a little more. The second style of shooting is known as lobbing. 

The idea being that the archers fire in a very high arc with the idea being that the arrows land immediately behind the edge of a castle wall, to hit defenders either on the wall (on the palisades) or just inside it (guarding the gates). Our wall was simulated by a stack of hay bales, and we were firing from about 40yards away. One of my arrows landed behind the bales, in the middle of the stack, less than 1.5m from the 'wall'. Needless to say, even if it was beginners luck, I was also rather proud of myself.

After the field archery we went back inside to the indoor range. The expectation was my style would have improved significantly, and I would find the target shooting easier. The reality however was my muscles were getting fatigued by now, and any potentially improved skill was offset by lack of muscle control, and my accuracy was if anything worse than at the start. I did however manage to hit a bullseye on one of the targets.

It was however behind the one I was actually aiming at. Still, you have to claim a shot like this, even if it was an accident.

The final session was the woodland shoot, in amongst the trees. I was not particularly good at this, though I did claim that this was because their targets were endangered animals, and being a good enviro such as myself, I could hardly hunt endangered critters. I'll include two photos from this part of the day. The first shows me shooting through the woods, and if you look closely you may be able to find the arrow about halfway between me and the target (which I missed). The second photo, showing a slightly damaged target bear. At most my efforts may have tripped up the bear, if he could run in his fragmented state, Jennie however, speared him in the arse, thrice, in quite a neat line.

Many thanks to Jennie for organising the day, and especially to Andy of Black Cat Archery, for such a fun afternoon, and helping me do something I'd wanted to do for years.

Dartmoor

Between my two visits to Dartmoor, I managed to get out to a number of places on the moor.

It is an interesting landscape, not what I expected, and surprisingly diverse.

There are not many people living within the moor area these days, but there is a lot of evidence of large neolithic communities having been based here.

This is a view of Grimpound from the top of a nearby Tor. Grim would be a good description for living here In winter I feel.

 

There are plenty of horses living on the moor, and on my way up the Tor where I took the above photo I saw this little guy.

One of the most interesting little spots was a really cool patch of woodland, with really old gnarled trees and lots of boulders all covered with enormous amounts of moss and lichens. The Wistmans Wood was definitely a good spot for taking photos, unfortunately there was a large group of photographers doing exactly that when I was there, so it was hard to just get a photo of the trees and rocks without the people.

I found myself a nice camping location on the east side of the moor just near the river Dart (hence the name of the moor), and quite a lovely forest area. I went hiking here for about half a day, and while I was at it, I composed a poem. I have posted the poem with some photos on my blog, if you haven't seen it check out the recent post entitled Poetry - 1. It was my first attempt at poetry, so it is a very basic effort.

I like checkng out some of the old buildings and ruins, so I went to the nearby town of Totnes to find the old castle. It was an old Mott and Bailey style, which I think basically means a big circular wall on top of a hill that you hide inside. Despite being on top of a hill, it was actually hard to find in the narrow twisting streets, but I eventually found Castle St, and figured I had to be close.

On the way back to my campsite I saw an interesting train off in the distance, I could see the track and the road I was on followed the same path, so I pushed ahead until I could find a spot to park and get a photo of the train as it came by.

There are a number of small tourist railways that aren't part of the national passenger rail network, and I saw these trains on a few of them, I'm sure it makes for a great day out for the kids.

The next day, on my way out of the area I went to a town called Bovey Tracey, because I had seen an information brochure for a house of marbles and was intrigued enough to go and check it out.

They have a number of old style marble runs, which I had to admit, I watched all of them run long enough to track all the possible runs a marble could make. Here is couple of them.

And some really, really, big marbles.

They sell a wide array of old toys, puzzles, board games etc., and also have a glass blowing set up out the back, where I watched a vase being made. All in all it was an entertaining visit to a somewhat unusual place dedicated to simpler times.

Leaving Dartmoor I was off to visit some friends just north of Exeter who I hadn't seen for a few years, when they were living in Perth for a year. Since then they'd gotten married, and on my arrival was to discover the also had news for me that they would be expanding the family later in the year.

I was then off to visit another friend in Swindon, which I will cover in the next post, as we got up to a bit of old fashioned archery.