Bats, hands and stairs.

I'd had enough of tramping it, so decided I should camp for the night.

After I left the beautiful view, one which the owner didn't appreciate, I continued through the Yorkshire Moors. Finally, at 7pm, I stumbled on a campsite. It was £10 for the night. I could handle that. Yes, I had a mini-breakdown, but he didn't need to know that.

After picking a good location, I setup my tent. I did a good job. I had to, I was representing every black person on the planet. Unless of course there was some other reason everyone was staring at me. Maybe they'd never seen such an awesome tent before? I took the opportunity to shower and wash my dishes. The only charger available was in the shower block. Just leave it there whilst you're showering, said the owner. I tried very hard to not laugh in his face. You can take the Londoner out of London, but we'll never trust the countryside. A woman offered to charge Nexy in her 'pod cabin'. Slightly better. I managed 2 hours, before I couldn't handle the stress any more. Minding my own business, on the way back to my tent, I was attacked by a bat. OK, so technically (I've been assured), the bat wasn't trying to kill me. Yes, I was mildly screaming, and yes, everyone was looking. In my defence, it flew round me THREE times. It's not the bats you have to worry about, shouted the neighbouring human, it's the deers and foxes. He pointed to the forest. Great. My damn tent was a mere 20ft from the woodline. Note to self, trees are not fun in the night time.

I had my first experience of midges. Tiny little flies, even smaller than fruit flies. The major difference to our, beloved, fruit flies, is that they bite. Yes, that's right. Tiny flying bastards from hell. I got bitten twice. Apparently they're attracted to dark clothing. Midges, the goth nemesis.

After surviving the night, I continued my northward quest. Today I discovered Whitby. Very nice town, overlooked by the ruins of Whitby Abbey. Ruins is hardly the word to describe it. The scale, the magnificence, the sheer determination. It's awe inspiring. I walk around these places and feel a sense of connection. I'm an atheist, yet cannot help but feel their devotion. Imagine how much they had to believe in God to sacrifice so much for him. Speaking of the sky fairy, I went into the adjoining church. One of the few, if not the only church, to still have boxed in pews. Each box, had two rows of pews [benches for the uninformed]. Each had varying levels of opulence. Outside each door was a sign, dictating who was to sit there. Most had names - Smith, Edwards etc. Those to the left were marked strangers. And at the back, with bare wooden pews was the free box. For those too poor go to church in style. Oh how I love the Roman Catholics. It was in the church, that I found out what Whitby was also famous for. The 199 stairs. Leaving the church, I stood at the top and looked down onto the town below. It was beautiful, separated by a river flowing horizontally, a large metal bridge to the left, and the alluring view of the winding streets ahead. Mesmerised by the view, I descended the stairs and delved into the depths of the tourist trap. Quaint, period shops, around a twisted cobbled alley. It was crammed full of gifts, both tacky and tasteful. Scores of jewellers, specialising in local jet. Jet is a black stone, which almost seemed to sparkle when polished. They were extremely expensive. Shockingly expensive. For that price it should be gold, expensive.

I moved on in search of a snack. Mmmmm, a sweet shop. The longest laces I've ever seen, fizzy, plain and all those in between. Green ones, blue ones, rainbow ones! So many laces. I was in sweetie heaven, and I was only looking in the window. I walked in. He was giving a customer change. He proceeded to serve the next customer. That one, she asked. He picked it up. Two of them and three of them. He picked them up too. He put them into a bag. She handed him £5 and he gave her £4 change. Next customer. Mmmmm, I stepped back and gestured for the next person to take my place. I couldn't eat them. Have you figured it out yet? If not, let me enlighten you. He was using neither gloves, nor tongs. This big, sweaty beast of a man was using his bare hands to pick up the sweets, handle money and in between wiping them on the back of his trousers. I went to the shop next door and bought a Snickers.

I explored some more and watched the swing bridge open. Two large boats went through. I searched for saveloy and chips. Found fried everything else, but no saveloys. They had red sausages. I asked what they were. The counter woman didn't know. She asked the cook. He didn't know. Turns out, no one in the whole place knew what they were. I'll just have chips then please. Chips eaten and diet coke drunk, I decided it was time to go home. Home being Oz. And that was the moment I remembered the stairs. One hundred and ninety-nine bastarding stairs. I began. By the time I reached 80ish stairs I'd given up counting. Now, it was time to concentrate on survival. There were periodic benches, welcoming the lazy and infirm. I...can...do...this. Encouragement. I will make it. At this point, I was struggling towards the next bench. I sat down just as two pensioners walked past. Dammit. I had to get up. I finally reached the car, and spent the following 5 minutes, astonished I'd made it to the car.

Camping and the Yorkshire Moors

I drove for 12 miles without finding any fuel. These are distances, that as a Londoner, we can not comprehend. Went to the Hornsea Mere. A mere, is a northern word for lake, or glorified pond. Oddly, there was a sign saying - no fish and chips. Would it offend the fish in the mere, to see their dead brothers in batter? I highly doubt it.

Saw a sign for Skipsea castle. Excited as ever. It was an unmanned castle, nothing unusual about that. Opened the gate. Hill to my left, expanse to my right, with the English Heritage guide board. Aim for board. Pass hill. Reach board. Look behind hill, see cow. Assess chances of outrunning cow to gate. Seemed positive. Ran for my life.

Went somewhere looking for a camp site. I say somewhere, as eventually they all blend into one green blur. I asked in a chavtastic caravan site if there was somewhere to camp. No. The security guard however, did enjoy explaining to me how the company ripped everyone off, and suggested I check at 'Bridge Farm'. After a slight detour [read lost], I found the farm. The owner didn't have a campsite anymore. But upon realising I was alone and destined to sleep in the car, he let me camp in his garden. It was my first night camping since leaving London. Oh how the sleeping bag slides. We spent time moaning about the city - how much it smells, the noise, the dust and how stupid its inhabitants are. I couldn't disagree.

We saw a hedgehog in the garden, I've not seen one of those in years. Was bigger than I remembered. I touched it too, screamed, and got laughed at, but I touched it. The farmer, told me that cows are inquisitive animals, and if you look at them, they'll look back. I still believe they're trying to kill me using brain waves. Combine harvesters are massive and their tyres are over 5ft tall. I felt like Alice in farmerland. Last random farm fact, cows sell for £1000, but the farmer makes £100 profit. What a waste of time, with that profit margin, no wonder they're all closing down.

Scarborough Castle - the chav at the desk was exceptionally rude, and didn't even offer me an audio guide. Worthy of complaint, but couldn't be bothered. Later that day I was tailgated for 3 miles by an old white lady in a minicab. I know, so many strange aspects to that statement.

Driving through the North Yorkshire moors. Astonishing. Undescribably beautiful. And yet full of flying bastards from hell. I'd stop the car, and within seconds, it was swarmed by flies - so much so, it sounded like rain. I've never seen so many files. I couldn't get out the car. Such beautiful things, and trees and forest parks. But you can't. As soon as I stopped, they descended, hundreds of them. So sad. Should've bought some Raid.

I drove out of a forest track, which I'm shocked they let cars drive through, and I stumbled into a hamlet [small gathering of human dwellings]. Holy shit, I nearly crashed the car. Seriously. I'd found the single most beautiful view I'd ever seen [at the time, Scotland is awesome]. Through a gap between trees, the lush green valley dipped down, and then rose up in the distance, fields separated by hedges and stone, creating alternating lines from left to right. The odd smattering of trees and sheep, just emphasising that this was real, and not a postcard.

Finally after experiencing the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, I went bird watching. I saw more rats than birds. And also learnt that squirrels, although larger, are scared of them too.

Peer Pressure!

Well I've been ordered by two friends to get my ass in gear, and write a new post. So, here it is.

I've been so busy since I've been back in London. I've started working part-time at the bar I originally volunteered in. It's not as awesome now. Mainly my own personal issues with expectations and taking orders. There are some stories to tell, but for now, I'll stick to the journey.

I went back to the Humber Bridge to take another look at the heritage park. Once again, I spoke to the woman in the information unit. I stayed for two hours, talking about my adventures and the bridge. She let me charge my phone and even made me a cup of tea. Her husband appeared - "Look Mike, this is the woman I told you about - the one driving around alone!" Well blow me down, I was like a celebrity. He was more fascinated than she was. Their son however, couldn't give a shit, he was 3, and incredibly busy destroying flyers.

After I left her office, I went back into the park. I'm so glad I did, now I had the time to really look around. It's almost magical, there is a lively quietness, a connectedness to nature and a feeling of mutual respect. One of the rare places I'd visit again.

Had to wash Oz as he looked like shit again. Hanging your washing inside is one thing, looking like a tramp-mobile is another. It was £2.60. What a bargain.

The first view of Hull is council tower blocks. Oh what joy. A nice reminder, that cities are still crap, even in the country. My illusion is swiftly shattering. You can tell all you need to know of an area, from the Asda customers. What we learnt from that experience, is to stay in your car, and keep driving. The area was run down and dry. Brown concrete buildings everywhere, unkempt verges and fencing. The entire place was reminiscent of an industrial estate. The defining feature is that it smells so bad, it makes Dagenham smell like a Glade plug-in.

As I was driving I saw a church steeple. It instantly struck me that I hadn't seen one in miles. Perhaps not since leaving London. The South and North have mainly square towers, whilst East Anglia has its rarer, circular counterpart. What was flat, was once again pointy. It looked odd and out of place, but after driving past 3 more, it seemed normal again.

I went to the Spurn Heritage Coast. It's a random sticking out thing near Hull - or Ull as it's known by the locals. Apparently we East Londers say it perfectly. They should change the name to Spurn Death Trap. First you pay £3 to park, but you must drive down a 'road' first. Holy shower gel, that was insane. Once you get going, the grass is long. Savannah long. Lions could hide in that shit, long. I walked along the path. Let me emphasise that path, is loosely defined as an area where someone has once walked, and the 4ft grass is merely 2ft. And then to discuss the nature. There were warning signs to not touch the blah-blah-blah caterpillar as it's poisonous. You don't need to tell London people not to touch a caterpillar - why the hell would anyone do that anyway? There were bees, flies, butterflies and all manner of flying beast present. And species of flowers, so tall they should be classed a trees.

I walked past railway lines that went off the cliff edge, abandoned military huts and a old lighthouse. The whole area stays the same shape, but moves left a few meters every year. Across the 'path' and eventually onto the beach. The amount of litter was shocking. It looked like a market at the end of the day. I walked a good mile around it and was tired. I stopped and asked two humans how to get to the carpark. Oh, one smiled, just walk up there and follow the path. So I did. Fool. What was I thinking? I'd already experienced 'the path'. At least I had the option to choose where I wanted to go. This, was a one direction path. And no, not the singing idiots. After nearly killing myself, I decide to scrap that idea and keep walking along the beach. After a total of 3 hours walking, I was back in the car, driving down the 'road'.

I went back to the man in the parking office. I asked him for my 'London Achievement Award'. He didn't know what I was talking about. Well, I explained, after surviving THAT, Londoners should get a prize. He laughed, but not before taking a moment to figure out if I was insane.

Getting there...

Beverly near Hull. Such a beautiful town. The church of St. Margarets is the most beautiful building I've ever seen. Nothing compares. Inside there is a rabbit statue, which was the inspiration for Alice in Wonderland. This church was so amazing, I was seriously contemplating attending service. Which was at 8am! With Jesus people. There were arches, 15thC pews, stained glass everything, magnificent paintings, and the ceiling. Oh my life, the ceiling is remarkable. I'm certainly going back.

After I, sadly, left, I drove past two traditional gypsy caravans. They were pulled up on the side of the road, with the occupants sitting on camping chairs, around a fire. That's one way of doing it.

Continued my factory tour. Quorn and 7 Seas make the list.

Stupid place names - Skidby and Swanland. Heard from a local that it was called Swineland [because of pig farms], but they changed it. Sounds worse, swans are evil.

Saw signs for a hospital with a hyperbaric unit, but no A&E. Priorities.

And finally, the woman who was having a breakdown [prancing and mildly screaming], because her dog ate dog shit. Oh my God, oh my God, oh how could you? No! No! Idiot.

Still Behind...

I've been back in London for almost a week now, and from your view, I'm not even in Scotland yet. Feeling pressurised to finish the blog. Although no one is harassing me, I don't like expectations.

Being back here is making me miserable. But I'm pulling through. For reasons you'll eventually know, I've not eaten artificial sugar in over 2 weeks. I don't think I haven't eaten sweets or chocolate that long, since I was physically able to eat them.

Sugar was my constant energy source. When I crashed, I ate more sugar. But now, I'm finding my energy elsewhere, and I'm cooking. Me. With a fire. And I've used the chopping board more this week, than I have in the last year. And that is not an exaggeration. I'm working up to the notion of doing some exercise. I want to do exercise, but I don't want to die. Combined with this 1 million times better diet, I could lose over a stone. It will be harder because of my PCOS, but not impossible. As well as being a problem with laziness, it's a problem with confidence.

Inspired

She broke the law. Or at least she should have done. Tesco carpark, through-and-through parking space. She didn't drive through. She just stopped, thus guaranteeing she'd have to reverse out. Foolish woman.

Backtrack to the flint mine. Little child is running in the shop with no shoes on. White people, again. EH woman advises he wears shoes, as it's a damn flint mine. It's fine, said the mum. But, said the concerned staff, there's flint everywhere and the stairs down are as rough as sand paper. Oh, he's used to it now, aren't you Edward, said dad. Yes, said Edward, as he almost crashes into a wall. And I wonder who would be suing English Heritage, once little Edward has a 3“ shard of flint embedded into his foot.

Bumper sticker - How's my driving? 0800-fuck-you. It was surprisingly good.

Best kept village of the year 2012 - Tetney. I visited in 2013. I don't know what happened, to the little village of Tetney, but those twelve months weren't kind. Drab concrete, broken garden walls, dying hanging baskets and a general disheveled, mismatched look. Could've featured in Crap Towns.

You know those signs you see, showing you that the road is slippery? Normally for 100-600 yards. I saw one for 8500 yards. How flipping far is that? I can't even guess a parking spot 300 yards away. I asked Google. That's 4.8 miles. Not that I could judge that distance either, but it would've made more sense. Slippery for fucking ages.

I went over a cattle grid and the car stalled. Cattle grids mean cows. I wasn't happy.

I've decided we should be able to volunteer as traffic wardens. I can't remember what idiot brought me to this conclusion (again), but it was enough to make me want a ticket machine.

I've decided to speed things up. I'm getting a little lonely now I'm back on the road alone.

Today I crossed the Humber Bridge - it was very impressive. Created in the 70s, at a cost of £93 million, it was a feat of engineering. For many years it remained the longest suspension bridge ever built, and experiencing that pleasure costs £1.50. The bridge connects the south, to Kingston-upon-Hull, named so in the maps, but all signs direct to Hull. I had to ask someone because I couldn't believe it was the same place. That was probably the most confusing place so far. In London, Kingston-upon-Thames, is known as Kingston, not Thames. The nature park under the bridge, is by far the most fantastic little area I've found. Not many know of it, and yet there is much to look at. In the basin of an old chalk mine, where the roots poke through the cliffs, exposed as they fall to the ground. The park is astoundingly beautiful. Cliffs, ponds, meadows and willow arches, with spaces to sit, places to climb and beautiful, sweeping views. 

This place was so special, it inspired me to write the first poem I've written in over 15 years. I was sat in the carpark, and took less than 5 minutes to write.

Inspired by the Humber Bridge

Watching as the sun sets
The trees begin to sway
The birds replaced by bats
Sign the end of the day

The bridge looms ever closer
Guiding thousands home
The country park lies under
A beauty that not all know

The people move so hurriedly
Preoccupied by life
But they miss they greatest pleasure
Of simply being alive

Skegness and the Asshole

Went to Boston. Just as embarrassing as California. We should be ashamed. They stole our place names, and made them better than we could ever imagine.
I've been driving through 'The Fens'. That basically translates to, dry-ass boring flat part. There was a sign for a hill and I got excited, essentially it was a glorified hump. It was the fastest I've driven since being on the road. Look left, flat field. Look right, flat field. Drive 5 miles and repeat. Not all countryside was created equal. God must have been distracted that day.

There are some strange place names in England. I drove past Old Leake, Ingoldmellis and Hagworthingham. I don't know who made this shit up, but I want what he was smoking.

I pulled into a forest carpark to cook some food. Made pasta and mackrell. No pineapple this time. A stoat ran past. Feeling all National Geographic and shit. As I was admiring the location, a family pulled up. Man, wife, two kids. He was emotionally and verbally abusing his wife. He sent a son to find his lighter; he didn't find it. You're so stupid, I bet you've fucking moved it, shouted the asshole. I was very upset on her behalf, and the children. When it was further away, I walked over to her, with a map, pretending to be lost. I told her what I needed to say, "You're a wonderful person, and you deserve better. Look after yourself." I know, she said sadly. And with that I left the area. As much as I wanted to confront the asshole, I knew I couldn't, as once I'd left, he'd take it out on her.

Important information; I've now driven 2000 miles :-)

Skegness. Wow. Just wow. I cannot express in words the sheer number of caravans. Why, for the love of all things blue, would these people chose to stay in a metal box. Next to hundreds of other boxes. As soon as I drove in, I encountered a Ford Fiesta with go faster stripes. Then there was a sea of Fiestas and Clios highlighted by the dilapidated walls decorating the seafront. More fish and chip shops than were humanly required; at one point 4 in a row. It was one of the worst places I've seen, and yet it was packed with orange people. There was a car park there with a sign, highlighting 18 parking contraventions, and the associated fees payable. Most were £70. Avoid Skegness at all costs. Most of the British seasides are run down, with mismatched, often garish signage. And the 'resorts' are laughable at best. No wonder people mock us about them.

Differences compared to London. No internet cafes, no halal signs and no £1 a bowl. Wooo! Pick your own strawberries are very common. From a field. On the side of a main road. The human is there till 5pm. But the field doesn't move. Why not pick them for free at 6pm? Another weird thing they do, is sell eggs from little carts at the end of driveways and farm entrances. Sometimes they'd have fruits, veg, jams and pickles too. With a note of the prices and a box to put the money in, with no supervision. The first time I saw one, I stared at it for ages. Imagine that in London. Not only would someone take the eggs, and the money, they'd take the damn cart too.

I'll end with two business names, they obviously chose whilst on drugs. The 'Linga Longa' fish and chip restaurant, and a pub called 'My Fathers Mustache'.