Car Insurance - The joys - *UPDATED*

Churchill, could you more than double my insurance just because dad rather dropped me in it with the immortal line "Oh my son drives it a lot more than I do". "OHHH YESSS." He has promised to pay me the difference in the renewal quote though bless him so he'll be forgiven if he lives up to his bond. A weird entry this, into the good book but where else to write it? This online tome contains all the random and new things I get up to, why not putting myself down as a named driver on car insurance for the first time?

EXTRA EXTRA!! Not only did dad pay the difference in the insurance, BUT he also cleaned up after some little scrouts egged my car and didn't mention it because he knew i'd be gutted. Cheers Dad, loves ya :) x

It is a soul destroying experience though I can tell you, especially when being a member of society's most persecuted group when it comes to motoring - young male. I must say I felt like the scum of the earth when the questions came flooding in again and again. You could sense the bile being spurted out "WHAT?! You're how old?! AND YOU PARK YOUR CAR WHERE?!!!". There were a list of insurers who simply turned their noses up at me, a few, like Sheila's Wheels and Saga obviously wouldn't have worked and others charged me more than my car was even worth. One even refused because my car wasn't worth enough :( Poor Mavis, never has a car been more loyal and received such harsh treatment. At the end of the day i'm giving these people money for nothing. In my 6 years of driving, the only damage done was from some little sod who did my mirrors when Mavis was parked up. I've always driven safely but there's something funny about naming your car, you look after her even more. So for a couple of hours I was wishing I was actually a 55 year old accountant living in Harrogate with a Fiat Punto parked in a private garage under armed guard, not a 28 year old pacifist wondering who will be next to take from the pot.

Rant over ;)

Rossifer x

Find the bridge - FOUND!

This is one of those entries I had to write down the day it happened as waiting a few days after to do the blog often takes a way some of the essence which made the day itself so memorable. Many will look at this with one of those deep, unapproving frowns as if to say 'what is that boy up to now?!'. Others will give a smile but will be thinking along the same lines. Only the few will know why the picture alongside this means so much. It all started after seeing a picture of a simple wooden bridge with a nice view in the background. The only clue as to its location was 'Lake District' at the bottom of the page, which I'd never been to. Sure anyone can find a more impressive bridge and a much better view but in the end, who would be daft enough to set out to find a random bridge among 800 in the Lake District just because it was there to find, not once but twice...?

The first attempt was to find the bridge and much more besides. I went not only vastly unprepared but had set myself way too much to accomplish. Second time around, only one thing mattered; the bridge had to be found. I'd been e-mailing around various friends and the Cumbrian tourist board with the picture to see if anyone had any ideas and luckily the Cumbrians came to my aid. The bridge was somewhere in an area known as the Newlands Valley near Keswick (miles away from where I'd been searching the first time.) As the bridge wasn't a named one though I knew there would still be a fair bit of searching. After training up to Windermere and bus-ing to Keswick I find the start of the trail. I soon realise these trails aren't ideal unless you've got the obligatory Ordnance Survey maps and books by Wainwright. All I was armed with was a name of a valley and a picture of a bridge.

After a few miles I got to the stage where I was at one my first attempt at finding it and luckily enough, had the same result. Just when I was about to jack it in, both times, I met someone who knew exactly where I needed to know. This time, it was a bloke with his family who put me back where I needed to be. Never one to believe in anything other worldly but if I do have a guardian watching over me, thanks for that ;) The bloke told me he'd also seen the bridge in the picture I'd shown him or at least one just like it. The directions he gave were spot on including the small wooden bridge I'd need to cross (not the one I was looking for), the old quarry and the settlement on the right. After a couple of miles, a breakthrough. I could see what I swore looked like one of the mountains in the picture. After another mile or so I was half excited and half frantic as there was still no sign of the bridge and the evening and weather were starting to close in. I HAD to be getting close though. Again, I thought it was getting hopeless but I thought i'd go on a bit further when... wait... is that...? THE BRIDGE! IT MUST BE! Instantly the aches and blisters didn't matter. I must have been running like an arthritic jackal but it didn't matter, after 1/2 a year I was exactly where I wanted to be, I'd found my bridge. I forget how many photos I took as proof at various angles, luckily I had only a black horse for company and I think even he wandered what this crazy southerner was doing getting so excited about something so uninspiring.

The rest of the evening was hell up to the hotel. By this stage it was a race to get inside before it was dark and wet. It turned out to be 4 hour slog, half of it in total darkness and 3 miles of it getting soaked. Like the bridge, I only had basic details on where I would be spending the night. This time I went for the easy option, I wasn't going to take the beast again, not only was camping outside in October not preferable but lugging the extra weight around certainly wasn't. After stopping off at a pub I came out to complete darkness and torrential rain. The walk to the hotel up the A66 reminder me of The Long Walk Home; not as dangerous but worse with the weather. Luckily I had a mini torch thing on the bag which stopped me getting run over! The sight of the hotel felt just as good as that of the bridge. I ignored the advice of the bloke who showed me to my room to pop down to the bar for a drink as I got in, stripped off, and crashed.

After crashing out on the bed, I had to get out the book which had started this whole way of life off, the now not so purple looking Purple book. I wondered there and then "Why do I put myself through things like this"? On that same day I'd spent 8 1/2 hours on a train, 2 on a bus and however many on foot. I'd spent 150 quid on transport and accommodation and all to find a featureless wooden bridge in a region full of equally beautifully looking and more accessible locations. The answer comes twofold. The first reason is the challenge; who else would be daft enough to go looking for a bridge just because it was there? The second reason are the feelings you get from accomplishing something so monumentally pointless. Never has the sight of a simple wooden bridge, a pint of lemonade in a pub and a small hotel room with a bed, shower, TV and kettle brought so much joy as you know you've well and truly earnt it. It is these simple pleasure which are magnified once a certain amount of hell has been endured. Yes you ache all over but no one can take the joy away from you at succeeding in something so infinitely pointless and rewarding. Back in the spring I had a crazy notion about finding a random bridge somewhere in the Lake District. Today, I'd found it :)

Rossifer x

National Poetry Day 2010

'Home' - Written on behalf of the old girl at Denefield as an entry for their poetry day

It’s cold when it’s winter and hot during summer,

The drains often block which is always a bummer.

The son has an annexe, a 2 up 2 down,

The state of it giving me reason to frown.

The bedroom, my haven, all made up and girly,

But from dreamy to nightmare when alarms go off early.

The lounge has a constant, an old man asleep,

His paperwork stored on the floor in a heap.

The neighbours, on one side, a mother alone,

The other, much older, always around for a moan.

The garden’s a small holding, chickens and bees,

There’s also the cat, who is riddled with fleas.

The Spare room, the box room, our own makeshift study,

The Porch full of shoes, lacking style and all muddy.

The rats have a field day with acres to roam,

But when all’s said and done, there is no place like home.

Rossifer x

Rossifer's Big 26

Sunday 17th April 2011 will see a tall, vastly underweight man with a phobia of exercise dragging his skinny self 26.2 miles across lovely London using only his feet, the odd bottle or two of Lucozade and a will of steel which will not be broken. Experience everything up to and including that point on Rossifers Big 26 which can be found in the links section or here --> http://rossifersbig26.blogspot.com.

Rossifer x

Pulped Fiction

The main event. As fantastic and beautiful as Valencia was, it was Buñol we had all been waiting to visit. The coach was largely silent on the way there as people were tired out from the night before and the early start, they would leave exhausted. We'd been told to get on the other side of 'the pole' a tall greased bit of wood with a leg of ham stuck at the top. This was to get in the best action and still have a way of avoiding the crush. Despite racing to get there I managed to get only to where the water cannons were, but could still see the pole in question. Some people were already trying to climb it when I got there.

After a while, the odd bloke got bored and tried climbing the tree in front of us to much cheering from the crowd the higher they got and much booing when they weakened out. The pole chasers were starting to think up ingenious methods of reaching the top. No doubt a russian circus team would have been up the top in a shot but each time someone got higher they were chucked bits of clothing to un-grease the pole. After the befafflement of the guy who managed to touch the ham, but didn't decide to bring it down with him, the sight of the 1st truck of tomatoes came into view. I will never know how a) they managed to fit 5 huge trucks down those streets with so many of us stood there and b) how I only saw 1 person carried away injured at the end. I gotta say for the actual chucking bit it was horrible as it was so packed where I was. People were pushing from every direction and i'd just about had enough of getting hit with the water cannon, especially because I hadn't got 'the shot' i.e. a fantastic picture of yours truly getting Ragu'ed up.

After a while I'd had enough and wanted out, good thing I did as this was the best part. I found a side street with those obviously feeling the same and we all realised we had plenty of room, and ammo, to chuck at each other. The street went down a hill and you could see a constant torrent of tomato sauce and pulp flowing around your feet.

After an hour of the trucks coming in a shot went off to signify the end. Oddly enough the water cannons were turned off and it was the turn off the locals to have a go with their hoses. Every doorway and balcony had smiley local residents hosing everyone off. I love the fact that despite the fact we'd just pelted their small town to bits they all acted so happy and friendly towards us. On the way back, despite being hosed down various times, I got my joint favourite shot. I never did get completely covered due to being to far from the main action and too close to the trigger happy water cannon dudes. In the end it didn't matter though as I love the slightly camp picture above with the blokes dressed in sailor gear (an act of genius methinks) and the one below which is the closest thing I got to 'the shot'. Despite all the various hosing downs, everyone without fail on the coach back where still picking bits of tomato out of their hair and ears on the way back!

I can't see me returning to Spain any time soon, any place that is hot even at night and can't make a decent cup of tea is never worth revisiting but it did give me the 3rd best birthday event so far after the epic helichopper day and the big apple. I have a sneaky feeling the next 2 will be very strong contenders for the top 3 when they come if I can make them happen. Fingers crossed i'll be doing the 3 peaks challenge for my 29th and walking through the sun gate in Machu Picchu for my 30th :)

Rossifer x

Hola de Valencia

Don't bother correcting the title if it doesn't make sense, truth is my spanish is about as extensive as my russian. Having left England knowing only how to say yes, no and thank you, I've now doubled my knowledge of the spanish language. Truth is Spain would be like America in that there was only one reason I was going there and new reasons why I wouldn't be going back. Where America is home to New York, Spain is home to the fiesta, the one in which I would be seeing is in the Guiness book of world records as the world's biggest food fight - La Tomatina.

But that'll come later, especially as you won't see any tomato pics until the film from the waterproof camera gets developed...

Valencia itself is a cracking place to visit, both the old and the new architecture is stunning and looks great side by side. I'm always a sucker for beautiful pics whether they're natural or architectural and had it not been for the weather, i'd have snapped a lot more.

When I say the weather was bad, I mean for all but 99% of the population. Coming out of the air conditioned Metro into a 33 degree heat is a shock for the British Autumn loving yours truly. The first night the girls from PP Travel had arranged for everyone to go to a club called High Cube at the Valencian harbour, it was always just off the Formula 1 racetrack which was pretty cool as we got to walk on the track itself. I gotta say the club looked more like a garden centre so I checked out the beach instead. Everything except the suncream is really cheap over there, as usual I found it best to get nosh from one of the vendors. Saying that most of the food was pretty crap over there, I never know how Britain ever got such a bad reputation for it's food with some of the stuff I've had abroad.

Apparently every spanish town has it's own festival. Pamplona is well known for it's bull run and even Valencia where I stayed has a smaller version of it. La Tomatina though is the festival of Buñol, a small town just down the road from Valencia. Home to 4,500 people, 10 times that many people showed up for the festival which is getting bigger by the year. No one knows how it all started and the powers that be only made it official back in 1972 and put it on the map. The venue is easy to find as you basically follow the crowd when you get there. Problem is finding the best place while you're down there. If you imagine 45,000 people crowding in and around somewhere half the size of Friar Street and the smaller streets leading off it you'll have a good example of what it was like. When you get there you can see a large greased pole with a leg of ham tied up at the top. There's a frantic scramble of people trying increasingly inspired methods of reaching the top with others trying to climb over them as the festival starts once some one gets the ham off the top. One bloke managed to go from legend to bandit in a second as he managed to touch the ham, saluting the crowd as he did, before sliding back down the pole without yanking the thing off to start the festival proper! After a while though the trucks starting coming anyway. I soon realised I was seriously in the wrong place for getting stuck in the action. I was right by the water cannons and away from the tomatoes. What worse worse is that the huge trucks containing the tomatoes (and some people inside chucking some at you) were making their way through the already packed out crowds. After the 5th truck had gone through and i'd had my 100th elbow in the ribs i'd had enough. I was only partially covered in ketchup and to be honest, freaking out at the massive crush that was forming. I managed to find a side street and that was by far the best pelting I got :) Although I was pretty gutted about getting crushed and bruised, i was more annoyed that I hadn't got covered in gunk, thanks mainly to the water cannon aimed at us! That soon changed o

nce I found this side street as there was room to move and more importantly, room to throw and get thrown at. After an hour of the start a bang went off to signify the end of the chucking and

the start of the big clean up. The locals all came out with their hoses and started hosing everyone down. Every balcony had people chucking water over people; considering we'd pretty much just wrecked their town they all looked really happy people, no one looked annoyed at all. Apart from one casualty I saw being carried through the crowd, amazingly there didn't seem to be anyone else even remotely injured. On the way back I got my 'shot' (which i'm keeping everything crossed comes out OK from the camera.) Some dudes had dressed all in white as sailors and a load of them lifted me up for what was the last shot in the camera. If the oriental girl took it OK, the camera stayed undamaged and the film develops OK then you should see the picture below in a week or so...

The 3rd day was 12 hours of boredom which i'll write about then happily forget. Needless to say I love my country but hate it's public transport network in the wee hours of the mornin

g. Train from Gatwick to London Euston, underground closed

so bus to Paddington, then train to Reading then the long walk home. There, and now forgotten. However if we're having the Olympics then hoping to get the world cup in 2018 you gotta sort this out Boris, I was with a lot of very helpless and confused looking foreign travellers.

Tomatina is epic, if you're ever tempted though make sure you make it past the pole with the ham whatever you do. Thanks to PP Travel for making it happen and the usual random people who made it memorable including Mick from Australia, David from Califronia, the hot Louisa Lytton look a like Policia lady and the woman who tried walking through customs without showing her passport.

Rossifer x

Getting stoned on the longest day

I can safely say i've had my fill of stone for what has resulted in an epic weekend which would have rivalled the search for bridge in scale and sheer randomness had it come sooner. Not only has it ticked off 3 entries from the good book it has delighted in exceeding my expectations for 2 of the 3 activites.

First off after the Friday shambles which was the 11 blokes in white against Algeria in football was dry stone walling. A fathers day present from me and the other old one, this was our chance to continue to show dad there is more to life than football and ceefax. In a way, Rooney and the rest of the shower had done us a favour, football was well and truly swept aside for the weekend. Destination Nailsea near Bristol, a droplet in the ocean of a place, home to what seemed a solitary set of traffic lights, 2 golf courses and a resteraunt with a waiting list the Ivy would be envious of. Team J eventually found our camp site, a setting i'm quite convinced dad is more than happy in being in aside from the morning chill that seems to hit whatever the season. Tents up, and 2nd destination found without the inevitable rowing, always a bonus. The place wass gloriously spartan, the portaloo or hole in the ground was accessible via the nettles. After a brew it was off to the walling site via the field of cranky looking cows. Stupidly I was expecting a pile of nicely stacked stones and a glorified jigsaw puzzle, what I had was a demolished wall covered in posts that needed to come out and burried stones that didn't want to be. What we had signed up for was 2 days hard labour. What we ended up with was a thing of beauty. The details and terminology are boring to even the most avid of readers but in short we shifted a hell of a lot of stone and earth and ended up with a beautifully solid dry stone wall. New entry to the Purple Book is coming back in the future to see if my wall is still up and looking fancy.

Due to Team J and our 2 team mates helping everyone finish early, dad put the hammer down to get us all home quickly, mainly so that I could face part 2 of the merriment; Summer Solstice at Stonehenge. Pushing aside my body willing me to forego the trip to the henge in favour of the sofa, I went from camping mode to lone survival packing. The official brief was this; no camping, no sleeping bags, not much alcohol and no stereo music. Thinking back to Snowdon I wore enough not to sweat buckets yet take enough not to freeze at the limit. The balancing act of endulging in the purple book is favouring an events novelty over hindsight and being prepared. I will most likely never dry stone wall again and will only return to stone henge in order to share it with others. The drive to the henge was easy for all buit the last predictable few minutes. To aid a quick getaway, I chose to park in a layby just up from the car park. More on that later... The endless rows of people flocked to the stones, only stopping for the security post. All aerosols, weed, hard drugs and bottles were apparently seized so who knows how so much of it was smuggled in past the friendly drug dogs and stewards with rubber gloves. If you ever plan on making the trip yourself, expect to be asked several times if you've got any tobacco, weed or acid for sale. Either that or i've just got one of those faces.

After checking out the druids around a huge statue who were chanting and preaching, the obvious place to go was the stones, right up close and personal. Believe what you like about paganism, there is definitely an energy around those stones. I had not felt such an energy since the school history trip to Dachau only this was all good energy. After having sat on one of the stones for a while, the sound of music (and a numb ar$e) coaxed me away from the middle of the stones. A group of stalwart druids with drums, horns and conches were playing and slowly drawing in a bigger crowd. By nightfall they had formed their own festival group as everyone was joining in making any noise they could. It was claustrophobic but it was infectious. If only photos and video could some up the atmosphere, definetly the highlight of the year. The final couple of hours was merely survival until the solstice itself began. When you're not huddled in a group around druids with drums in the early hours you get cold very quick. Luckily banter came to the rescue with single mother of 3 Helen and Kev the chef from North Devon. I'm still amazed at Helen for keeping a stright face while another woman started talking to her about 'the sky people'. If you want epic looking pictures of the event, i'm afraid the Fujifilm couldn't do it justice. Saying that, even the blokes with their canons and tripods would have trouble summing up what it was like to be there with just a collection of pictures. Some places and some events just have to be absorbed as nothing else will allow you to experience the atmosphere. There's just something about getting that close to the mystical stones that people still aren't quite sure what they're there for. My advice to anyone looking to do the summer solstice themselves is this; wear something fit for the occasion. The more Woodstockish the better. Take an instrument such as a drum or bells with you, find a group and join in playing, the crowd will love you for it. Take a shed load of layered clothing and something waterproof to sit / lie on, you WILL need them. Finally go there with no inhibitions or expectations and you will enjoy it immensely. Just make sure you park in the car park and not a lay by down the road otherwise you will be faced with a 10 mile hile to Salisbury and a 150 quid burden in order to release your wheels. An unfortunately sour end to a perfectly sweet and unmistakable weekend.

Rossifer x