I do like
to travel, even though I did rather too much business related buzzing around in
my middle years and do not now relish long plane flights. I suppose I feel the
greatest freedom when wild camping in my motor caravan, especially when the travelling
is unconstrained and the next destination decided at the current one.
Our latest
trip was a little constrained. I wanted to visit Ilkley, Yorkshire on one
particular day for a scratch performance of The
Armed Man and we had to visit Margaret’s relatives at the tip of Scotland
for a few days. The rest was a blank sheet - great.
We had time
to explore a little of Yorkshire Dales and the Northumberland National Park on
the way up, but I think my high point was a boat trip to the Farne Islands to view
the mass of birds jockeying for space on the rocks and observe the fat seals
lazing contentedly on their own rugged island.
In Scotland
we spent a night in Kinross, parking the van within sight of Loch Leven. Sounds
idyllic, but there is a reason for that long stretch of water – it rained must
of the time we were there. In the bleak weather Kinross seemed a bit of a dump
and none of the pubs seem to sell my favourite tipple – real ale. Yet things
can turn. In one of the town’s pubs we were told that a brewery had a bar with ‘that
handpumped stuff’ further down the road. We found it and it was great. There
they told us that there was a good place to eat further down the road, and it
was, and also that there was great little pub a mile or so further on and there
was. The Village Inn was perfect: friendly people, animated chat, excellent
ale, traditional décor and more. We found nothing like it further north.
On our
return we had a tyre blow-out on a narrow busy road near Fort William.
Nonetheless we had a good night in the Rod and Reel public house further
south where the two ladies behind the bar served us with a Scotish scowl and
politeness verging on the acidic, but the beer was excellent and so was the
raucous company of two couples from Australia who were also making their way towards
the Cotswolds.
Interestingly,
our own town of Stow on the Wold has a counterpart in the north of England. It
is called Appleby and the thing the two places have in common is the great
gypsy horse fairs. So, almost magically, Appleby appeared on the blank sheet as
a our last overnight stop. It was also our wedding anniversary.
Whereas
Stow begrudges the influx of gypsies with their horses, caravans, trucks, gypsy
queens and followers, I had heard that Appleby welcomes them. I knew that most
shops and pubs in Stow close their doors whilst the fairs are in progress, yet a
one-time resident of Appleby had told me that villagers set up roadside food
stalls and throw open the doors of its many pubs. Why, I had even been told
that horses were taken into the pubs there!
Stow and
Appleby are very different places: one on a hill, the other with a river
running through it. One is constructed of warm yellow Cotswold stone, the other
of brick and render. And, while Appleby is overlooked by a castle, Stow looks
down on one and all. And yet they are inextricably linked by the travelling people.
The horse
fair had just finished when we arrived, signs were still up indicating the many
parking areas allocated to the gypsies and much of the rubbish that they always
leave remained to be collected. It was no surprise to find 'No Overnight Parking’
signs at all of the spots that we might have overnighted, but a friendly local told me
that motor caravans often used the swimming pool car park so we ignored the
sign and made camp.
Appleby is
a nice village with plenty of pubs and, though the first we tried was closed, we
did find a quiet hotel next door willing to serve us dinner (just us) and then we crossed the road to the Hare and Hounds for a complete and utter
contrast. As I opened the door music almost blasted us back into the
street, but the tall blonde landlady beckoned us in and we were soon settled next to the jukebox with a pint and a spritzer and a view of the raised part of
the pub where a large group of left over gypsies sang, danced and laughed uproariousl
fueled by a constant supply of drinks bought by one of their number – the
treasurer presumably.
What a
night, if I can think of two numbers which spilled loudly out of that
constantly fed jukebox which characterized the music then these must be Tom Jones’
Delilah followed closely by Cher’s Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves. The dancing
was flamboyant, suggestive, irresistible: some of it was led by the landlady
joined by the short muscular man in the blue Tshirt (which he removed at one
point to dance topless, the landlady did not object yet did not follow). We
were drawn willingly into the party, dancing and holding hands with the gypsies
whilst ‘Hands’ belted out of the machine.
Yes, what a
night. We are now truly twinned with Appleby in Westmorland and have become proper
gypsies.
