Sun, Sea & Sex

August 2009

Location: Amsterdam

In need of a fun, cheap weekend away, Derek and I bagged a DFDS Seaways bargain to Amsterdam for a cheerful £47 each. Our 2 night mini cruise departed from Newcastle ferry terminal on a very blustery (but, thankfully, dry) Saturday afternoon.

Check in was nice and smooth, and in no time at all we were making ourselves comfortable in our compact, yet cosy, cabin onboard the MS King of Scandanavia. 

Although small it was very practical, complete with claustrophobic bathroom and a folding top bunk bed – of which neither me nor Derek wanted to volunteer ourselves to sleep on. The likelihood of us being able to negotiate the steps in the dark after a few bevies at the bar seemed too great a potential for one of us ending up in a full body cast – so in the end, we decided to compromise by spending one night each on the top bunk. Couldn’t say fairer than that!

So with sleeping arrangements sorted, we swiftly unpacked our clothes – and food (we’d smuggled a small picnic onboard just to keep costs down, after checking the restaurant prices online beforehand), then we finally relaxed with a customary ‘first drink of the holiday’ glass of wine as the ferry left the terminal. 

Considering how windy it was, we sailed smoothly out into the North Sea and were on our way. Venturing out of our cabin, we went on to search the maze of corridors and decks. Neither of us had been on a cruise before, so we were both eager to explore.

We’d expected the ferry to be crammed full of hen and stag parties, so were actually surprised by the lack of L plates and lager guzzling groups – though there were the odd few around, (mainly girls donning fluorescent leg warmers and other 80s get-up), but overall, the crowd onboard was a real mixed bag of elderly groups, young couples and families with small children.

After some extensive exploration of the ferry, Derek and I headed to the bar to do some serious relaxing – and just as we sat down with a couple of drinks (and a prime sea view), lo and behold, in wandered two friends of ours, Tracey and Dave – what a small world it is – and so the four of us spent the rest of the evening drinking and being merry.

When we turned in for the night, I decided to take first turn on the top bunk – since Derek had indulged in a few too many bottles of Grolsch! Thankfully I had no mishaps, so by the time we arrived in Amsterdam the next morning I was able bodied (albeit slightly hungover) and ready for our sightseeing coach trip into the city centre.

After being inundated with a good hour’s worth of historical and cultural snippets from the coach driver (unfortunately none of which I can remember), we disembarked the coach and were given four hours in which to experience our own Dutch mini adventure.

Derek’s head was feeling more fragile than mine (as a result of the night before), and so neither of us was in the mood for anything too deep or meaningful. We bypassed the Van Gogh, Rembrandt and Anne Frank museums and made a bee-line straight for the Sex Museum. 

And it was a canny good laugh for 3 euros each. At first we weren’t quite sure what to expect, but we found just about everything from turn of the century photographs, to a mack-wearing mannequin flasher and a couple of 10 foot phallic seats (which you could pose on to have your photo taken). 

 It was all good, light-hearted fun – a place where young couples and old couples were all giggling like school children. 

Apart from the last room, (which does carry a warning sign to suggest the easily offended should refrain from entering). Of course, this didn’t apply to us, so in we went – and all I will say on the matter is yuck!

Afterwards, we wove our way around the jam-packed streets of Amsterdam – managing to almost get ran over several times by trams and cyclists, and we also got a little bit lost. Stopping at a canal bridge to get our bearings it soon dawned on us that we had stumbled upon the Red Light District after we both noticed a scantily clad woman sitting in the window of a building called Moulin Rouge. We had a quick mosey down the infamous street, (it would have been rude not to), and came to the conclusion that Sunday mornings/afternoons must be a quiet time for the Red Light District because there weren’t many people about, and most of the women sitting in the windows looked over fifty! 

Retreating back to the main streets, we were suddenly hit by an overwhelming cultural urge (and a need to sit down). So we clambered onboard a canal boat and set off on an hour long cruise. Historic information spewed out to us from speakers, which wasn’t particularly insightful, but the experience was relaxing and quaint all the same. So peaceful in fact, I almost fell asleep – and I undoubtedly would have, had it not been for the little boy behind who kept kicking the back of my chair for the whole duration of the trip. The canal cruise was around 8 euros each, and it was worth every penny (or cent). It was nice to just float around Amsterdam’s network of canals, soaking in the sights and the sun.

All chilled out and relaxed, (albeit with a child’s shoe print on the seat of my pants), we popped into a restaurant for a nice slap up meal, which didn’t cost the earth. Then afterwards we paid a visit to a nearby bakery to get picnic supplies for the return journey home.

The coach journey on the way back to the ferry terminal was an experience in itself – and probably not rare either. A group of teenage lads were sat towards the back of the coach, and whether they were drunk, stoned, or both, I’ll never know – but one of them projectile vomited ALL OVER. I thank my lucky stars, even to this day, that Derek and I were to the front of the coach, because even the poor people sat in the middle were in the line of fire. Everyone from about five rows back had the backs of their heads pebble dashed with sick. The coach driver, a large Dutch woman, went berserk and threatened to kick us all out unless somebody cleaned up the mess. Anyway, suffice to say it got cleaned up – and I’m sure the youth in question was a marked man when we all stepped back onto the ferry.

The actual journey home was bumpier than the outbound one - but we didn’t mind because we were so worn out we ended up turning in early anyway. After all, it’s never a good sign when you’re sat cradling a cup of tea whilst on holiday rather than an alcoholic beverage (well, for us anyway).

We woke up refreshed on Monday morning, just in time to watch from the deck as we pulled back into Newcastle ferry terminal. All in all, it was a very interesting weekend to say the least!

Birthday Chills At Chilingham Castle

October 2008 (weekend before Halloween!)

Location: Chillingham Castle, Northumberland

For Derek’s 30^th birthday, I wanted to organise something special and exciting – something that he would remember forever. So, after much thought and consideration, I finally found the perfect solution - a two night stay at Chillingham Castle. After all, what better way to celebrate a significant occasion, than a couple of nights of thrills, chills and scares?

Chillingham Castle is situated in the Northumberland countryside, dating back to the 12^th century, and some say that it is one of the most haunted castles in Britain. With bags of history, it promised to be bursting at the seams with ghosts and spooky goings-on. I could hardly contain my own excitement, yet somehow managed to keep it a secret from Derek for weeks on end.

Finally the day of the trip arrived and, upon approaching the castle from the driveway, I told Derek the extent of his birthday surprise. We were both buzzing with excitement and, wasting no time at all, we embarked upon a tour of the castle’s dark and gloomy innards…

                                                                                                                               

And where better to start, than the torture chamber. According to popular belief, the infamous John Sage had been the castle’s executioner during the 1200s. He is said to have tortured and killed at least 200 captured Scots, on average, each month. The vast scale of death and suffering linked with the castle is really quite horrific, to say the least. With this in mind, I found the torture chamber to be particularly menacing and creepy. Grotesque torture devices and contraptions are strewn about in the dimly lit space, giving a brief glimpse of how it must have been in bygone days. From the iron maiden to the enormous human boiling pot, you can’t help but glance around at all the apparatus set out, and ponder which you would choose for your own demise, if you had to. None of it seems any less agonising than the next one. Each piece is masterfully designed, surely by the most sadistic of minds. Even the floor is on a gradient – for easy drainage of blood!

Other rooms of interest include the dungeon – not for the claustrophobic amongst us.  This miniscule room still bears prison cell markings on the wall from previous captives, who had most likely been counting down their final days.

The Great Hall, with its ornamental elephant head, draped in flamboyant armour, hanging above the enormous fireplace and the grand dining table that spans the length of the room. The Edward 1^st Room, where its namesake briefly resided on his way to the battle of Falkirk, just before he historically captured William Wallace.  The State rooms, with all their impressive ornamentations and museum style charm. The Chapel, which is small and eerie, and said to be haunted by the ghost of a young girl. Then last but not least the teashop in The Minstrel’s Hall – a nice hot cuppa and a slice of cake go down really well in the colder months, as the castle can get pretty chilly.

The castle boasts an Italian garden to the rear, in addition to plenty of other surrounding grounds to explore. A short walk will find you at a peaceful lake - though story has it, this was the dumping ground for the bodies of numerous tortured Scots, so even a stroll down by the water’s side is enough to give you the jitters.

There are a number of self-catering apartments within the castle, yet unbeknown to me at the time of booking, I’d booked the scariest of them all - the Grey Apartment. This particular dwelling has accumulated more reports of ghostly activity than any of the other apartments.

The Grey Apartment is reached via a narrow, stone spiral staircase, which adds to the overall haunted castle effect – if you are being chased by a ghostly apparition, there’s no way you could run down them in a great hurry (not without breaking your neck anyhow).

The apartment comprises a massive living/dining area which adjoins the kitchen, an adequately sized bathroom, and two bedrooms. Both bedrooms are very unsettling, but one more so than the other – in particular, I imagined its foreboding black fireplace might suck me into some great dark abyss if I stood too close.

Old furniture, creaky hinges, secret drawers, devilish-looking mounted cattle horns, portraits that follow you with watchful eyes and a cold chill, to tease your already growing goose-bumps, were all factors that made The Grey Apartment everything you’d expect from a horror movie. 

The dining room offers prime views to the front of the castle, and also down into the courtyard, which is at the heart of the castle. Ghostly mannequins stare at you from the State rooms across the way, and the torture chamber entrance is directly opposite. Even when the apartment lights are switched on, it always remains dingy. Shadows and dark crevices lurk everywhere; constantly tricking your mind and making you jump. I thanked my lucky stars that I’d gone well equipped with a torch and plenty of glow sticks.

A journal is kept in the apartment for recording personal accounts and experiences. And this offers great insight into what other guests had experienced during their stay – we found it excellent reading, and it had my nerves on edge.

Once we were unpacked, we settled in for our first night – which comprised of board games, vodka shots (for Dutch courage), and a sleepless night in the least scary of the two bedrooms. I insisted that we push the two twin beds together, because there was no way I was sleeping alone – and I still ended up stuck to Derek’s back like a limpet in his single bed.

During our second day, we walked around the castle grounds and surrounding areas – enjoying the fresh air and psyching ourselves up for the ghost tour we had planned for later that evening. Ghost tours are carried out most evenings, and these are a must! They begin at around 9pm and last for approximately 2 hours. The tour begins outside, where the guide takes everyone along the Monk’s Trail. Here you get to see the old yew trees that were used for hanging people, and the guide also encourages group members to use dowsing rods, in an effort to communicate with any lingering spirits.

Following on from an enlightening gathering in the woods, filled with shocking tales of hanging and brutality, you are escorted back to the castle to be guided around various rooms, which are far more distinctive by candlelight. Accounts of historic events and ghost stories are plentiful – and are sure to get your heart racing. Especially when you are taken into the chapel and told the story of the young girl who died in there.

When we were in there, our guide took the opportunity to blow out all of the candles, demonstrating how utterly dark and eerily quiet the room is. And I swear I would have jumped through the ceiling if anybody had touched me within those few moments, because it was hard not to imagine icy ghostly fingers reaching out.

We learnt that two of the most notorious ghosts of Chillingham Castle are the Blue Boy and Lady Mary Berkeley. Nobody knows the exact identity of who the Blue Boy really was. He adopted the Blue Boy title because his bones were found bricked up behind a wall in the Pink Room, swathed in blue cloth. The Pink Room is closed to the general public nowadays, however it is right next to one of the Grey Apartment’s bedrooms (yes, you’ve guessed it – the creepiest of the two, with the scary black fireplace). At midnight, it is said that you can hear the wails of a young boy screaming in terror, followed shortly afterwards by a glowing light – so understandably, when Derek suggested we try sleeping in that room for our final night I told him stop talking so ridiculous!

As for Lady Mary Berkeley, she reportedly still roams the castle grounds. It is said that she searches in vain for her adulterous husband, Ford Grey, 1^st Earl of Tankerville, who ran off with her younger sister, Lady Henrietta Berkeley. Mary, apparently, didn’t cope too well with this change of circumstances – which was hardly surprising, since she and her baby daughter had essentially been left to fend for themselves at Chillingham Castle. She fell into a state of despair and depression which lasted for the remainder of her life. It is believed that her spirit is a very troubled one, because she never stopped watching and waiting for her husband to return. On the dining room wall in the Grey Apartment hangs a large painting of Lady Mary Berkeley, which aptly portrays an image of anguish and sadness.

Once the ghost tour drew to a close, I far from expected a restful night of deep sleep and sweet dreams – (even in the least scary of the two bedrooms), and I was correct in my assumptions. My imagination had now gone into over-drive, so much so, that I couldn’t muster up the courage to go to bed (I even considered sleeping in the car!). Alas, Derek and I sat talking in front of the cosy log fire for what seemed like hours, until we could put off sleep no longer. Once tucked up tightly in bed, Derek drifted off straight away, yet I lay awake for at least half an hour, listening to doors and windows rattling in their frames, despite there being no wind! With the duvet pulled tight up to my face, and my hand touching a torch for comfort, sleep did eventually find me. By the time morning thankfully arrived, I was both relieved and proud to say that I had survived two nights at Chillingham Castle!

Did we see any ghosts during our stay? No, we didn’t. However, we did capture an orb in a photograph near the throne in the Edward 1^st Room (if you squint your eyes you can see it near the top right-hand side of the throne) – anyway,I’m sure Most Haunted would have been proud of it.

Overall, the entire castle is tremendously unnerving and atmospheric; you can feel the presence of ghosts, even if you don’t see them.

For anyone looking for an original weekend break idea, (something not for the faint-hearted), then I would highly recommend a stay at Chillingham Castle. And if you are brave enough, I dare you to stay in the Grey Apartment!

Doggy Jubilee

June 2011

Location: Epworth, Doncaster

(3 caravans, 4 nights, 6 people & 7 dogs!)

2011 marks the 60^th anniversary of when the German Short-haired Pointer Club was founded – and despite not owning a GSP ourselves, Derek and I decided to tag along with my mam and dad (who own 2 GSPs – Ruby & Duke), and their friends Fred and Maureen (who also own 2 GSPs – Meg & Jess), for the sheer hell of it.

To pitch our caravans in the farmer’s field, including use of the impressively clean toilet block and showers, it cost a grand total of £5 – and that was for up to five nights stay! Bargain!

Wednesday 8^th June

It was agreed that our convoy would set off at 10am – but in usual fashion, we didn’t hit the roads until 10:45am. I fear lateness is becoming a noticeable trend!

When we eventually arrived in Epworth the clouds had turned Armageddon black and were unleashing their fury upon us, and to top it all off we got rather lost at the mercy of Sat Nav. Tight roads, frayed tempers and fears of getting bogged down in a muddy field didn’t make for the best starting point of a relaxing short break – but when we eventually found the showground and got parked up, the sun came out with a vengeance, drying the ground as though the rainstorm had never even happened, and beers were cracked open...

And relax!

Thursday 9^th June

We took the dogs for a walk along by the dyke, where Marvin (our whippet) discovered a fondness for ponies. Thankfully the pony didn’t object to Marvin sticking his nose up its nostril...

The rest of the day was a mixture of sunshine, frolicking in the field, drinking beer and being downright lazy – rounded off nicely with a bbq in the evening.

Friday 10^th June

A day for visiting...

And rain...

My mam and dad, Derek and I (and the 5 dogs) travelled 29 miles to a place called Laneham, where my auntie is living the gypsy lifestyle for a few weeks in a caravan while her husband works nearby at a power plant.

By the time we got there, the rain had stopped and the sun was making occasional sulky appearances. So we headed off out to do a riverside walk – which entailed lots of doggy excitement, even from my auntie’s grumpy, unsociable dog Holly.

We also stumbled upon a Ford Probe festival in the field next door, strangely enough. I distinctly remember when Probes were out in the 1990s, and I get the feeling that they’re retro cool now – sort of like Capris, maybe.

When we got back to my auntie’s caravan we made pigs of ourselves with the Victoria sponge cake and walnut cake that she’d baked for us (for which I’m holding solely accountable for the extra pounds I’ve gained).

Saturday 11^th June

Main event day...which also saw the arrival of the beer tent, hooray!

The weather was looking decidedly more promising, so after some customary bacon and egg sarnies in the caravan, we went to see some GSP dummy retrieval trials – (which my dad and Ruby were partaking in).

We'd been looking forward to seeing a birds of prey display, but apparently one of the organisers had forgotten to book it - or so we were told.

We entered Marvin into two fun dog shows – all in the name of charity. He paraded around the ring for Cutest Puppy and then again for Most Handsome Dog – the judge obviously didn’t have a clue what she was talking about though, because he didn’t win either of them, pah! Mind you, after play fighting with my mam and dad’s 12 week old puppy, he had acquired some battle wounds on his face from Duke’s nippy puppy teeth – maybe he’d have won a prize for Most Rugged Looking Pup had there been such a thing...

Not to worry though, we bought a couple of raffle ticket strips for £2 and won a ball thrower and a JML pet glove for him – not bad going at all!

We headed round to the main tent at 4pm to watch the awards announcements – and I thought Derek and I were going to be lynched because we won a bottle of whisky from one of those ‘£1 to guess the name of the whisky’ games. Derek had randomly guessed the name Old Pulteney earlier – just because he thought it looked unusual. I quickly popped it in my handbag after receiving some hard stares from various old men, and we slinked off.

At 6:30pm we went to the marquee for the special anniversary evening event, (and we left Marvin in the caravan with Ruby, his designated babysitter).

The evening event was £10 each and was inclusive of a hot and cold buffet, desserts, a glass of wine each, an auction and a live band – which again, was an absolute steal. The food was fabulous, the wine was decent, the auction was canny – but, I’m afraid to say, the band was absolutely dire. In fact, it was a bit like watching someone from down the local slaughtering the karaoke machine. Most of us spent the latter part of the evening hoping for a power cut.

Eventually when we could take no more, we headed back round to the caravans and popped open the bottle of whisky.

Sunday 12^th June

 Cold, windy, raining and home time...need I say more?

Bronte Sisters, Emmerdale & Last of the Summer Wine

June 2011

Location: Yorkshire

(Rachael, Deborah & Angela’s mini adventure)

It was £59 each for a two day coach trip with National Holidays, including dinner, bed and breakfast – you can’t be robbed!

Our coach was picking us up from Hartlepool at 7:40am on the Saturday morning, and I have to admit, it was a close call that we even made it there on time – I was running late for starters (faffing about with my hair), then my friend Angela was still packing her make-up bag when I called to pick her up, and lastly, my mam was messing about with her dogs when we went to collect her enroute to Hartlepool. Nevertheless, after a few panicky moments of thinking the coach might leave without us, we arrived at the bus stop and saw the coach driver standing on the kerb waiting patiently. Phew!

Skipping onboard, leaving the coach driver to handle our abundance of overnight luggage, we made ourselves comfy in our reserved seats at the front of the coach. We chatted and laughed, and Angela dished out mini Bounty bars before we’d even got ten minutes down the road.

Two days prior to our little excursion the weather had been scorching hot, so we were all decked out in flip-flops and summery clothes, expecting more or less of the same – certain that the grey clouds we’d awoken to would eventually burn off. I guess we had a good dose of British optimism going on though, because it was bloody freezing, and, in hindsight, we should have known better! The further south we headed the more promising it looked, but it still didn’t get hot - but at least the sun kept trying to poke through.

By the time we’d arrived at our first destination – Huddersfield – it was 11am, and we were happy to stretch our legs. None of us had been to Huddersfield before, and in the two hours we had to explore, we discovered there was little else to do but shop, (though, in honesty, we didn’t exactly try very hard to find anything else to do). We ended up ducking and diving into lots of different charity shops down the main road leading from the bus station – and picked up some fabulous bargains. A lot of the stuff in those places is brand new with tags still attached – and who’d have thought a charity shop would have a 50% sale! At 1pm, we shuffled back to the coach with all of our shopping bags and a Gregg’s sandwich each. My mam had opted for a plain cheese one, and announced, once Angela and I had started chomping on our own salad sandwiches, that there had been a dangerous e-coli breakout in salad vegetables, according to the news. Being far too hungry to care, we devoured the salad anyway, figuring if the worst came to the worst, the bus always had a loo we could use...and besides, we could do with losing a couple of pounds.

So, on we went to Holmfirth, the village where comedy series The Last of the Summer Wine was filmed. By this point, our Geordie coach driver had introduced himself as Dave, and we soon deduced that he must be new to the job, or at least that specific tour. We got a little bit lost once we arrived in Holmfirth, so Dave had to get out and ask a local where to go. He drove the bus through the village four times in total before finally stopping on a yellow line in the middle of the main street to let us all get out. I think the poor man was on the verge of a nervous breakdown – probably partly to do with the fact that the majority of the coach-load were a miserable lot and had started heckling him.

We ambled around a few of the shops first, and then headed to the Tourist Information Centre to find out where Sid’s Cafe was located. It was actually just a short stroll away, and we all giggled when we saw it – instantly remembering it from television. After some photographs outside we decided it would be criminal not to go in and have a cuppa, (and besides, our flip-flopped feet needed thawing). Inside the cafe a few things had changed slightly, compared to how it had been in The Last of the Summer Wine, but it was all still recognisable. Nora Batty’s slippers were even pinned to the wall, and there were lots of pictures of Compo and his chums dotted about. We ordered tea and cakes and then sat down next to a life-size cardboard cut-out of Nora Batty.

Soon Angela was presented with the most enormous cream scone that any of us had ever seen – in fact, it was so big my mam had to help her out by eating half. The things you have to do to help a friend in need!

By the time we’d indulged ourselves, time was ticking on and we only had a short while to find Nora Batty’s cottage, but first we decided to make use of the cafe’s toilet facilities before we left. Mainly, so we wouldn’t need a wee by the time we got back on the coach, and also, for no other reason than it seemed pretty cool to use the loo in Sid’s Cafe – that is, until a biker barged in and almost knocked me out with the door while I was washing my hands. My mam and Angela found this hilarious. It's such a cliche, but what a small world we live in! It turned out that one of the biker's big beardy friend lives in the same village as my mam.

After some friendly banter with the three leather clad blokes, off we headed down the road towards The Elephant & Castle pub, over a little bridge and then there we were – at the infamous steps of Nora Batty’s cottage (which is now a tearoom called The Wrinkled Stocking). Even from a distance, it was easy to imagine her standing there with a sweeping brush, getting ready to see Compo off. Our new biker friends were also there, and they very kindly offered to take some photos of us posing on the steps before slinking off, probably in case we were stalking them.

At 4pm we had boarded the coach again and were headed off to our hotel, the Ramada Jarvis in Bingley, via the streets of Bradford. We’d booked a twin room and a single room, but when we arrived at the hotel we discovered that there was a single bed and a double bed in the supposed twin room, so all three of us ended up just staying in there together.

Having freshened up, and washed my feet (by this point they looked like I’d worked a shift down the pit for some reason), we headed down for a carvery evening meal. The food was lovely, the service was good – yet unfortunately, the prices at the bar were through the roof! On the plus side, we knew we wouldn’t have a hangover in the morning. We did enjoy a couple of drinks in the bar after dinner though, it'd have been rude not to – and we did a spot of people watching. There was a wedding reception going on in the function room next door, and the wedding guests kept wandering through into the bar. Let’s just say there were some interesting outfits.

We went to bed at about 10:30pm, convinced we’d be asleep as soon as our heads hit the pillows because we’d all been up since 5:30am. This wasn’t the case. We watched TV for a while and talked, and before we knew it it was 2:30am! Eventually we all nodded off, knowing we’d be wrecked the next day...

My mam was the first up. She leapt out of bed at 7am, full of the joys of spring – then Angela and I followed suit about half an hour later, less joyously. We packed our cases and headed down for breakfast, and we were back on the bus by 9:30am ready to go.

Our first stop of the day was the original Woolpack from Emmerdale. There was some slight confusion as to whether it was still the actual Woolpack or not – and it didn’t help the fact that none of us even watch the programme anyway. Dave informed us that all of the Emmerdale set had now been moved to Harewood House and that the pub was no longer used for filming. Apparently it used to be called The Commercial, and the locals of the village were petitioning to have its original name reinstated. We arrived there at 10am, posed for obligatory photos on the steps of The Woolpack and had a mosey round the tiny village.

There wasn’t much at all to do there, apart from read old gravestone inscriptions in the churchyard, and unfortunately it was too early for the pub to be open, so I felt slightly robbed that I didn’t even get to have a pint in The Woolpack. A lot of the diehard Emmerdale fans on the coach weren’t massively impressed with the experience – and with this in mind, I believe the setting itself as a tourist attraction will peter out slowly.

So, back on the coach at 11am, and off we headed to Haworth – home of the Bronte Sisters. I had absolutely no idea who they were (whether they’d written books; or whether they were fictional characters in books). But then my mam muttered something about them having written Wuthering Heights and Jane Ayre. I was vaguely aware of those two books, but to be honest, I was more familiar with the Kate Bush song. None of us were interested in period romance, so when we arrived at Haworth, we decided to do some retail therapy instead of visiting the Bronte museum. It was windy and cold, so we ended up going into almost every shop on the main stretch, seeking warmth. After a quick lunch in a cafe, and a stop off at the bakers for some cakes to eat on the way home, we headed back to the coach – beginning to feel the strains of a very late night, and if I hadn’t banged my head against the coach window whilst dozing off, I could have quite happily knocked out some z’s. We arrived back into Hartlepool at 6pm, and headed straight home for a well deserved early night.

Overall, we were all in agreement that Holmfirth was definitely the highlight of the weekend. Let’s face it – Sid’s Cafe serves the best scones in the world, and it also does a mighty fine cup of tea!