High Points in 2020

 "With what joy we welcomed 2020, and with what joy we shall say goodbye to it!" So wrote I in a Christmas letter to a friend. But despite the death, disease and disaster that have blighted our world, I feel very blessed in being able to look back on good times too. So, to end another year of blogging, here – quite literally – are some high points.

At the beginning of the March lockdown I climbed Coppet Hill, near Goodrich, from where there are lovely views of the River Wye. As we drove the 5½ miles from home, I recall wondering whether such excesses were really permitted. The worries soon passed.

A sunny Monday in May found me (appopriately) on May Hill – the first time I'd been up there. It turned out to be an interesting place, with ancient earthworks, cows with Swiss bells and memorable views of the Malverns and, nearer to home, the lofty spire of St Mary's Church in Ross-on-Wye. 

COVID having laid claim to our Irish holiday, we had a wonderful week exploring Dartmoor. Here I am on Haytor. It was great fun to climb, with a yawning chasm to leap over on the way up. (Well, that's the way I like to remember it.  In truth it may have been a little less dramatic.) 

One week later we were in North Devon. Here is the spectacular view from the Tarka Trail, looking down on Lynmouth, with the houses of Lynton just visible on the left. It's one of those views that stops you in your tracks. "Wow!"

In October I climbed Skirrid, three days before the first Welsh lockdown which cut me off from so many of my favourite hills.  Despite low-lying mist in the valleys, it was a memorable day and I congratulated myself on (for once) getting the timing right.

Five high points; five lovely memories.  That's that way I'd like to remember 2020.

Chicken Breasts with Smoked Salmon and Asparagus

In these worrying days of pandemic, one of life's special pleasures for us is preparing and eating fine food. A few weeks ago it was my birthday. I could have celebrated at a favourite Greek or Italian restaurant, but chose instead to stay home for a hitherto untried recipe from the hand of Master Chef Ann Long. 

Many years have passed since I last had the pleasure of dining at Ann's restaurant, but her recipes live on, thanks to her excellent book Ann Long's Dinner Party Book. I've already described one of Ann's recipes in this blog – Chicken Breasts cooked in Puff Pastry. 

My copy cost £12.95, back in 1988. Today you could pick up a new copy from Amazon for £3.27, or a second-hand one for as little as £1. Were I ever to lose mine, I'd willingly pay a lot more than that!

The easiest way to follow this recipe would undoubtedly be to get a copy of Ann's book, but I'll do my best to guide you through the steps. You'll need the following ingredients for each person:

1 skinned chicken breast
1 wafer-thin slice of salmon, about 4 inches square
2 small asparagus stems

And for the coating:

flour
fine breadcrumbs
1 egg

Brush a large sheet of clingfilm with water, lay a chicken breast on it, fold the clingfilm over the top, then beat the breast with a rolling pin until the chicken is about ¼ inch thick. Believe me, this is great fun, but don't get carried away and beat it too hard.  When you've finished, remove and discard the clingfilm.

Lay the salmon and asparagus on top of each chicken breast, then roll up from the asparagus end, tucking in the sides as you go.

It's at this point that I know I'll never make Master Chef – or indeed any sort of chef. I'm sure that Ann Long's looked exquisite; mine looked rather less tidy, especially when held together with cocktail sticks. If yours look like mine, don't worry! It's all going to work out fine.

It's now time to make a breadcrumb coating. You could simply buy some breadcrumbs (though not golden ones that are intended for fish) but it really isn't hard to make your own if you possess a food processor.  Two thick slices of bread in the top, wizz them for a while and - hay presto - perfect breadcrumbs. 

Break an egg into a bowl, add some flour and a little water, then wisk with a fork. I'm sure you can work out the quantities for youself.  Put the breadcrumbs in a second bowl.

Roll the breasts in the flour mixture...

... then in the breadcrumbs, and then in your hands to squeeze out the air. It's glouriously sticky, but very satisfying when the breasts are fully coated in breadcrumbs.   

Leave the coating to dry for at least an hour, then put a generous amount of oil in a frying pan and bring up to sizzling temperature. Cook for 8 minutes, turning regularly.

After removing the cocktail sticks, we served the chicken portions whole. Ann preferred to slice each portion into 5 wedges, and I think I know why.  As well as looking artistic, slicing ensures that no cocktail sticks remain hidden in the meat – an important consideration when ones guests are paying to dine. I had one stick lurking in mine, but had no-one to blame but myself. 

Cinderford's Linear Park, and a Cornish connexion

Cinderford's Linear Park is well known to residents of the Forest of Dean. It follows the course of the old Newnham - Cinderford branch line, which served some of the most important collieries in the area.  This walk follows the branch line, together with a track of the old Severn & Wye Railway.

Here I am at the beginning of the Linear Park, waiting for a train at Ruspridge Halt – a train that will never come.  The last one departed in 1958. The original station name board outlived the railway by many years, but mysteriously 'disappeared' about 5 years ago. The new one, as you'll see, isn't weathering too well.

I copied this map of the area's old railways from Jowett's Railway Atlas. The path follows the green line, running north from Ruspidge Halt, branches left just before the red line, and ends near the area marked as Churchway.

This model of a Great Western pannier tank and a couple of wagons has obviously seen better days. That's a shame and it surely deserves to be restored. Modellers will appreciate the time and effort that went into it.  

The Linear Park is becoming a wildlife and conservation area of some repute. Personally, I find it hard to work up tremendous enthusiasm for boggy marshes and ponds, though I imagine that a host of birds, small animals and creepy-crawlies will find them wonderful.  I must return in the Spring.

One line (indeed, one of many) that isn't shown on the Jowett map is the Crump Meadow Colliery Tramway. It crossed the Cinderford Branch here, on Letcher's Bridge... and now I have my Corish connexion. 

Click the map to enlarge it.

Edwin Marcus Letcher was born in Cornwall in 1816. He became the Bilson Staion Master and must have been quite a guy, for the nearby tramway bridge soon bore his name. A Google search revealed that his name also appears as secretary and collector of Cinderford Market Hall, secretary to the Bilson Gas Light & Coke Co, and that he went on to become the Great Western Railway's goods manager at Cinderford. 

Since moving to the Forest of Dean I've discovered several Cornish connexions. As the prosperity of Cornish copper and tin mines rose and slumped, then slumped still further, many mining families must have been drawn to the Forest in search of more secure employment. 

On with the walk. At Bilson North Junction (see first map) we joined the 'red' Severn & Wye Railway and headed up Bilson North Loop towards Drybrook Road Station.

Look closely at this photo and you'll hopefully be able to make out an old platform edge. This is all that remains of Cinderford's first railway station. If the Dean Forest Railway ever realise their ambitions, this may become their northern terminus.

In the best traditions of stations named 'road', Drybrook Road Station was nowhere near Drybrook, and accessible only on rough forest tracks. I'm told that it only really existed as a place for trains from Lydney to reverse on their way to Lydbrook Junction.  Here's little me on a winter's day in 2014, wondering when the next train might arrive. The last one left in 1929. 

Before heading back to Ruspidge and civilisation, we made our way on forest tracks and part of the Wysis Way to the northern end of the Linear Park and Steam Mills Lake.

I searched the Internet in vain for the origin of this rather lovely lake. There were no previous workings here in coal mining days, so I presume that it was excavated simply to enhance the area and provide sport for local anglers. Rather lovely, really. The building on the far side is the new Cinderford Campus of Gloucester College.  What a long name!  In my day it would probably have been called Cinderford Tech.

Vitamin D pills - they're a no-brainer

When I was a kid my mum insisted on giving me a daily desert spoon-full of cod liver oil.  "It will do you good," I was assured.  It tasted revolting. 

As soon as I was old enough to assert my will, I resolved never to take any unnecessary dietary supplements and rely on a healthy diet of proper food. Consequently, I have resisted all well-meaning advice to swallow multi-vitamin pills, glucosamine, manuka honey, green tea extract, multi-vitality fruits, or any of the other pills, potions and concoctions that line the shelves of health food shops.

Like everyone else, I do (of course) resort to medication when I'm unwell, but I'm generally blessed with good health and feel it unnecessary to supplement my diet 'just in case'.  Or rather, I felt it unnecessary.

The guy in the picture above is Dr John Campbell. I regularly view his YouTube channel and he has convinced me that I should be taking vitamin D supplements. Vitamin D is known as the Sunshine Vitamin, since our bodies naturally produce it when we are exposed to sunlight. Unfortunately for us, sunlight is in short supply in the winter, leading to vitamin D deficiency. This, in turn, heightens our susceptibility to colorectal cancer, osteoporosis and (most importantly in the current pandemic) to viral infection. Moreover, there is an increasing amount of scientific data to suggest that a high level of vitamin D in the blood dramatically reduces the probability of serious complications arising from COVID-19 infection. Of course, I don't wish to fall victim to COVID-19 in the first place, but if I am infected then I really don't wish to be seriously ill. So supplementing my diet with vitamin D tablets has been a 'no brainer'. 

The NHS recommends that white-skinned adults take 10µg (10 micrograms) of vitamin D during the winter months. Darker-skinned people should take more, as their bodies are less efficient at producing vitamin D from sunlight. I therefore ordered a bottle of 10µg tablets from Holland & Barrett and have been swallowing one every day at breakfast time. 

Dr Campbell, however, argues strongly that this is insufficient. One scientific study that he highlights has found that taking 50µg per day would help nearly everyone reach a good level of vitamin D in the blood.  Since "nearly everyone" presumably includes dark-skinned adults, I've concluded that 20µg is probably sufficient for me in the winter months, and perhaps 10µg in the summer, so I'm upping my dose.  I may be wrong, but if feels like a sensible compromise.

Incidentally, there is no point in taking more than 50µg as the blood will not absorb any more; indeed taking excessive amounts might be dangerous. 

A spectacularly colourful lockdown

I'm getting rather good at lockdowns. Effortlessly, I've resumed my former practice of going for a long(ish) walk every two days, and fussing around the house on the other day.  No monotony; something to look forward to each day.  And, as in the last lockdown, the weather is being kind – so kind that my central heating doesn't even switch itself on in the mornings. 

With each passing day the autumn beauty of the Forest of Dean intensifies. Time and again it stops me in my tracks and makes me reach for my camera. 

Here I am, early in Autumn, with my friend Bridget's faithful dog Skipper. I would never want a dog of my own, but Skipper is gorgeous. Every time he sees me arriving at Bridget's home he runs to greet me, for the arrival of Angie inevitably means walkies!

Not all these photos are from 'Skipper Walks', but I think he features once more.

Near Moseley Green

Near Central Bridge, on the former Mineral Loop of the Severn & Wye Railway. 

Further along the Mineral Loop

Blackpool Brook

Mallards Pike lake

Blakeney Hill Woods

Blakeney Hill Woods again. 

Is that Skipper in the middle distance? Hard to tell.

As we made our way down through the Woods, Bridget and I began to reminisce about (of all things) the Church of England's old Prayer Book Evensong, which I haven't sung for many a long year. Unprompted, I started off the singing...

O Lord, open Thou our lips
and our mouth shall show forth thy praise.
O God, make speed to save us.
O Lord, make haste to help us.
Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost;
as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be; world without end. Amen
Praise ye the Lord.
The Lord's Name be praised.

Anyone hearing us would doubtless have diagnosed insanity, but we didn't care. On autumn days like these one may well feel the need to thank somebody.

Climbing The Skirrid while I still could

Amid the COVID lockdowns and regulations that so dominate our lives, it occurred to me recently that I haven't walked in the wonderful Brecon Beacons for over a year. Several weeks passed when I could have rectified this deficiency but other pursuits – such as holidays and celebrating our Golden Wedding Anniversary – understandably took priority.  

On Monday morning my Covid Symptons Study app (which tends to anticipate the 'official' data) showed a higher prevalence of COVID in Monmouthshire than in the neighbouring no-go areas of Newport and Torfaen. Added to this, rumours of an impending all-Wales lockdown finally motivated me to grasp the opportunity while it was still there, so yesterday we set off into Monmouthshire to climb The Skirrid.

We last climbed The Skirrid on a gloriously sunny day in May 2017 (see here). Yesterday's weather wasn't so great, with mist lying low in the valley, but at least a cool wind made climbing easier. With few stops to cool down and gain breath we made it to the top in 40 minutes.

The Skirrid is one of those deceptive climbs that can trick one into thinking that the summit is near. I thought I was nearly there when I snapped this photo, but there's another summit beyond this one. I recall Cat Bells, in the Lake District, being similarly deceptive.

Here's proof that I finally made it to the top. We found a sheltered spot near the summit to eat our picnic and check the BBC news app.  As predicted, the Welsh government had just announced a total Welsh lockdown, starting on Friday evening. We had chosen to come just in time.

The view south, back down the mountain. Abergavenny lies in the misty distance on the right. By now a few rays of sunshine were beginning to pierce through the clouds. 

This photo from 2017 shows the 'split' that gives The Skirrid its name. Explanations abound (see my previous Skirrid post) but in truth its the result of an ice-age land slip. There are several other such landslips on nearby hills, but none so dramatic as this one.

A very steep path descends from the northern end of The Skirrid, joining this pleasant one around the mountain.  Here, I'm walking in the famous 'split'.  The flat stone behind me has an interesting history.

It's known at The Devil's Table. The Devil figures in one of the myths about the 'split', and in the late 1800's a resourceful guy capitalised on this by living nearby as a wizard and encouraging folk to place money on the stone in exchange for magic spells. 

Finally, as the mist began to clear, Sugar Loaf Mountain was clearly visible on the opposite side of the valley.

Google messes up my music collection

In June last year I enthusiastically announced that I had ditched my CD music collection and switched to the Google Play Music app.  Since then, my library of albums and individual tracks has blossomed, so that I can now spend many contented hours satisfying my taste for classical, rock, pop, folk, country and Christian music.  One day the walls of Chez Angie resound to the sound of a Rachmaninov piano concerto; the next it might be Love Over Gold from Dire Straits. £9.95 per month is hardly inexpensive for a modest music collection like mine, but I willingly pay it for the convenience of having so much good music to hand.

One thing that really makes Google Play Music work for me is it's ability to categorise music by genre, like this...

With one click of a mouse, up comes my Folk Music collection...

Sadly, though, all this is about to change. By the end of the year Google Play Music will be no more, and it's already not possible to add new music. Its replacement, already up and running, is YouTube Music.

As would be expected, YouTube Music comes with a host of new features, though I confess to greeting them with a big yawn.  

YouTube Music offers a variety of playlist options now, too, including collaborative playlists built with friends and new programmed playlists built by editors. Assistive technology now also makes personalized suggestions of what to add when you’re building a YouTube Music playlist.

Amid all the hype, though, they have dropped the 'genre' feature. Now I'm greeted with a dreadful jumble like this one – Stainer's Crucifixion, Dire Staits, Flanders & Swan and Carols from Kings, all on one line. Yuk!!

I do marvel that so-called intelligent program developers have no concept of people liking several music genres. But clearly they do not.  There are a couple of solutions to this mess:

1. Buy the individual albums and store them on a hard disk. Ultimately, this would be less expensive than forking out £9.95 every month, but I would lose the convenience of being able to access my music with ease on my laptop, my tablet and our two smartphones.

2. Switch to another provider.  Spotify is favourite at the moment, though I'm told that its genre category might not be as good as Play Music's. And after I've taken the trouble to move everything across, will some high-ranking idiot from Google take his questionable intelligence to Spotify and mess that up too?  

And it was all going so well.

 

Haytor and its tramway

Haytor isn't the most impressive tor on Dartmoor, nor is it the highest, but it is one of the most accessible, is hugely popular and great fun to climb.

We arrived late in the morning on the last full day of our Dartmoor holiday and found the main carparks already full.  It didn't take long, though, to find a space in one on a minor road, from where we set out for Haytor. Notice, by the way, the remains of a quarry on the right.  The land around Haytor was once extensively quarried... but more of that later.

Here's a close-up of the tor. The summit is on the right, and to the left of it there's a deep cleft that one has to jump across before making the final ascent. I was contemplating it and trying to pluck up courage when a young girl scrambled across, and up the other side. "Oh, that looked simple enough," I told myself, before propelling my aged frame over the gap, landing on the other side and not quite slithering back down the rock face.  Easy! 

That's supposed to be a victory wave, not a wartime German salute.  Whoops!

The view from the top.

Haytor really wasn't far enough from the carpark for anything like a 'decent' walk, so we decided to go on to Saddle Tor.  Yes, I can definitely see a saddle shape. I reckon the horse's head is on the right and her tail's on the left.  Agreed?

Here's the view back from the horse's head, in the direction of Haytor.  Saddle Tor was one summit that I had no difficulty in conquering.

Our route back to the carpark mostly followed the course of the Haytor Granite Tramway, which dates back to 1820. According to Wikipedia, the design is "exceedingly unusual" and should correctly be called a flangeway. Personally, I cannot but admire the workmen who formed the 'rails' out of solid granite – the very material that the tramway was built to carry. In this wild and remote place it would presumably have been much more costly to bring in flanged metal rails from elsewhere.

The quarries and tramway closed in about 1859, unable to compete with cheaper supplies of granite from Cornwall. 

 

Incidentally, lest you should be wondering, the difference between a flangeway and a conventional railway is that the flanges were on the track, rather than the wheels.  At one time there were several flangeways (sometimes called 'plateways', I think) near where I live in the Forest of Dean... like this one, the Bixlade Tramway.