TOTALLY FACTUAL EXTRACTS FROM THE ELLPUS HOLIDAY DIARY.

DAY EIGHT (the final part)...............


......Alice returned with my sandwich and a large mug of tea. It was noon, as I noted that she was pointing upwards, so I munched quickly, paid her for what had turned out to be an unusual, yet very relaxing interlude, and bade her farewell. The upstairs yelping had diminished, I noted on the way to the front door, and two sailors were seated in a small waiting room to my right.

Once outside, I quickened my pace back to the hotel, as the rain had worsened slightly and a large, black cloud loomed ominously on the horizon. A doorman was helping the Crone into a taxi, so I turned up the adjacent alleyway and entered the building via the side door.

Sneaking through to the lobby, I took up position behind a rather large Hoya plant and peeked out of the window. The stoat had been duly loaded, and Lady E was sitting in the front seat. They were obviously buggering off somewhere, so I nipped up to our room and changed my clothes. Outdoor gear, methinks....I shall pay a quick visit to Dartmoor, about ten miles out of town. A bit of fresh air will do me the world of good.

A sense of freedom swept through me, as I drove out of Plymouth and, as I could do pretty much as I liked for several hours, I gunned the Bentley up to a knee trembling fifty five mph. I knew the old girl could reach such a speed, but had never had the opportunity to try before now.

Now, the area I am headed for is one of outstanding natural beauty, mixed with quite a bit of history, some of which was very dodgy indeed. Smuggling...Pirates...a bloody great Prison...but apart from that, it is one of my favourite places.

You see, about 200 odd million years ago, well before Maggie Thatcher in fact, magma intruded into the earth's crust over most of Devon and Cornwall. This cooled over time and became granite, and Dartmoor came into being.

Neolithic people have built chambered tombs there, and their stone age descendants erected various standing stones and circles, burying their dead beneath "Cairns".

Lydford, on Dartmoor, was a fortified settlement built by the Saxon kings of Wessex in around AD900...a Royal Mint was established there, which functioned up until 1016. A Viking attack (unsuccesful) took place in 997, and Lydford is mentiond in William the Conquerors Domesday book of 1086.
In 1337, Edward the third set up the Duchy of Cornwall to provide an income for his son and heir, Edward the Black Prince. This "income" arrangement still applies today, the present "owner" being Price Charles.


Ancient settlement on Dartmoor. Probably vandalised by Viking king Eric the groper in 997, due to a possible lack of women.




View down to Burrator reservoir, which contains the body of King Ethelred's third cousin, who went swimming one day without his vest..




Lydford Castle, the site where Eric the Groper was sent packing. HOORAH!




The East Dart river. This was the intended location for Darcy to do all of his wooing in Pride and Prejudice, but he discovered that the Author wanted him to fall in love with a woman who lived about four hundred miles away. He rode his horse all the way in six days at a full gallop, and as a consequence, was suffering from a very sore bottom at the time of his first appearance in the book.



The weather had cleared up nicely when I arrived on Dartmoor, so I only took a small umbrella when I went for a stroll. The views were marvellous, and a wonderful time was had by me and myself for an hour or two. Up hill, down Dale through some rather large clumps of horse dung and past some poor people, until I arrived back at the car.

It was early evening when I returned to the hotel, and the sun was just setting behind the Indian curry house, just across the road. I just fancied a bit of the old Vindaloo, so I popped in and had the most wonderful meal, apart from the poppadom which was a trifle floppy. I paid the bill, left my customary 2% tip and made my way back to the room.

I met Lady E on the veranda, and she told me that the Crone had gone to bed early, having taken a double dosage of tranquilisers. She seemed to be quite eager to get to bed, apparently.
Out of the blue, the better half then suggested an early night, winking profusely.

She tried to load the old gun for about half an hour with no success, and I blamed it on my tiredness due to all the hill walking. Murphy's law....eh?

Off to Bodmin tomorrow, as I am guest of honour at the opening of the Scouts Annual Jubilee.......

DAY NINE............

Wonderful weather, so we decided to have a bucks fizz on the veranda before breakfast, in order to celebrate our last day of the holiday.
The Crone had shuffled her way to the table, and was very disappointed that she hadnt had any dreams worth remembering. She declined the bucks fizz, as she doesnt drink alcohol (it probably interferes with her suffering) and had a cup of tea instead.

We were meeting Professor Wildebeest at 10am, who would lead the way to Bodmin Moor for the Jubilee thingy. He was appointed Chief Wolfhowler (sort of second in command) of the scout movement recently, and had invited me to open the jubilee, as Tony Blair was out of the country.

Wildebeest made his name primarily as the UK's leading expert on Natterjack Toad migration, but in his spare time, he loved to invent things, and is always coming up with new gadgets.
He is a member of my club in London, and sits three leather chairs from me in the reading room.
He is a popular club member but, despite being an avid reader of the Times Newspaper, he is rather flatulent.
For the six weeks leading up to my holiday, he had been trying out a new invention that was supposed to heighten one's sensations in the trouser region.
Having seen the effectiveness of those electronic muscle toners that one wraps round one's flabby parts, he analyzed how they worked, and constructed a miniature version which would wrap nicely round one's Hampton.
He then proceeded to try it out over the aforementioned six weeks so, every thirty two seconds, his Times newspaper would shake like buggery, whereupon all manner of quiet whimperings could be heard coming from behind the crossword page. Very distracting to all of us who were trying to snooze.
At the end of the six weeks, he reviewed the results and found that, although his sensitivity had not increased, his Todger now had a perfect hourglass figure.

I had an egg for breakfast that must have come from the ouchy bird, as the shell was almost square. The Crone almost choked on her branflakes, and tripped over the chair leg on the way back to her room.....it has the makings of a wonderful day.
All during breakfast she had gone on and on about those bloody dancing girls.....the only difference between her and a Rottweiller is that the Rottweiller eventually lets go. The sooner I can drop her back at St Michael's home for the suffering aged, the better.

We met up with the Prof outside the hotel. He was driving a 1958 Ford Consul and had Johnny Cash blaring out of the window....funny, I thought he had died yonks ago. It turned out to be the ancient car music system, which was a bit of a relief as, knowing Wildebeest, he may have found a way of cloning the bugger.

"Ready for the old Jubilee, Prof?" I said chirpily.

"JAMBOREE, Ellpus....how many times?" he said, rather grumpily I thought.

"Jubilee, jamboree...all the same to me....£500 in my pocket for half an hours work, they can call it what they like" I replied.

"You DONT get paid, it's all voluntary" he snapped.

"Voluntary?...Did you tell my agent that it was voluntary?"

"Course not, we wouldnt have got you down here otherwise" said Prof.

I made a point of doing a loud harumph, as I got into the Bentley, but "A boy named Sue" drowned it out.

The drive to Bodmin took about two hours at a steady 32mph. We had to stop on two occasions, so that Wildebeest could turn the record over, eventually replacing it with a Dolly Parton LP.

The event was to be opened at 2pm, so we decided to have lunch in the Jamaica Inn, made famous in a book of the same name, by some french sounding woman called Daphne something or other. Lovely place. A good pint of ale that only occasionally causes the intestine to vent involuntarily.

http://www.jamaicainn.co.uk/

We all chose the Roast Chicken dinner, which was OK, but not as good as mine. I consider myself as quite the expert on cooking a fine Sunday roast, as I spent many an hour with "Cookie" who was the resident family chef, poached from the Savoy after he was found playing with his spotted dick in the cold room, whilst under the influence of cooking sherry.

I remember the words of wisdom that he gave me, as I prepared my first roast dinner under his watchful eye.

"Ellpus" he slurred "Cooking a roast chicken dinner is very much like making love to a beautiful woman. Lay her on her back so that the breasts are exposed, stuff her thoroughly and make sure that your sprouts are well drained."

For dessert, I had treacle pudding and custard, and the ladies went outside for some fresh air, as Wildebeest's flatulence had started up

Afterwards, we went to the camp site, whereupon I found that the Scouts were in fact Cubs. Very much like Scouts, but a lot smaller and less spotty. Hundreds of 'em, shouting and playing. Lots of dib dibbing, and the smell of cocoa. Horrendous.
As I have an aversion to the smaller variety of children, especially poor ones, I made a very quick entrance, said the usual platitudes, cut a ribbon and buggered off as quickly as possible.

When we returned to the Bentley, hordes of them were all over it. "Can we 'ave a ride, Mister?" and "Can I sit in it?"...

I playfully booted the arse of one who was trying to remove a headlamp, and told the lot of them to sod off and wreck someone else's car. We got in, woke the Crone to see if she was still alive, and drove out of that living hell as quickly as possible.

Within ten miles we were lost. We were trying to get the main road that heads up towards Bristol, and had obviously taken a wrong turning. Now...Bodmin Moor is about half as big as Dartmoor, but still massive and twice as scary. The Bodmin beast dwells here, and I didnt want to meet the bugger without my gun and pith helmet.

http://www.nhm.ac.uk/nature-online/life/mammals/beast-of-bodmin-moor/

http://www.atlantic-highway.co.uk/Places/Bodmin-Moor/Default.asp

We stopped a particularly working class looking man, and I pointed down a side turning.

"Will that take me to the Bristol Road?" I asked.

"OOO don' warnt to be gooin' darn there, squoire" he replied.

I turned to Lady E...."Is he talking English?..or is my hearing going?"

She shrugged.

I tried again .."Does - this - road - take - me - towards - Bristol?"

Same reply.

"Slowly" I said, furiously trying to translate as he spoke.

"OOO" (pointing at me)........"You" I guessed...he nodded.
"Don' " (shaking his head)......"Don't?".......nod.
It suddenly fell into place....he was a yokel...heard about them, but never met one. Marvellous.
I suddenly seemed to understand him....it was a bit like learning chicken, but slightly less trouble to the jawbone.

"Why don' oi be warntin' to goo darn there" I asked, really getting into it.

"OOO moight come acrarss a Nog!" he said, looking scared.

"Whart's a Nog?" I asked.

"A Nog be a crarrs between a Nag an' a Dog...it get's very misty darn there, an' mistakes are made"

The man's barmy, I realised, and cheerily waved as I headed back in the opposite direction.

After a horrendous hour of going all over the place in search of the blasted road, I noticed that the Crone had the map book upside down, so I did the exact opposite of what she told me. Before we knew it, we had found the road and started heading for Bristol, which is on the way home............

THE FINAL DAY..........

Woke up to the same bloody seagulls that have been waking me up all holiday..... if only I had a gun.
We had booked into another hotel, which was only a four star, but had the advantage of being positioned next door to an enterprise which offered Hair Styling, manicure, spa pool and massage facilities for ladies. The better half had spotted it on the way past and had made me turn around.

As it was just a stopover on the way home, I asked Lady E not to be too long, as I wanted to get shot of the Crone asap.
It was disappointing to discover that we had to go downstairs for breakfast and eat with the general public, but it wasn't too bad, I suppose.
The nest of vipers decided to sleep late, so Lady E went off for a thorough grooming, and I strode into the City.
Bristol has a fascinating history, which is not altogether squeaky clean, I'm afraid. Most of the original wealth in the city, evidenced by its multitude of grand old houses, was made out of profits from the slave trade.
The ships would take slaves to the West Indies, making a massive amount of money from their human cargo, and return laden with sugar cane and other such goods produced by slave labour, to be sold at a high price in England. A shameful double whammy, really.

http://www.bristol-city.gov.uk/Fuguri/frame.html?A+BLM02201+BG+F+CMM00101+DCL00105+BLM00104+BLM00404+BLM00602

The Bristol Estuary has a tidal range of 15 metres (over 48 feet), the second highest tidal range in the world.
This means that a ship anchored at high tide, will drop around 48 feet by low tide. Ships docked in Bristol were therefore prone to great upheavals on a regular basis, making it necessary to stow everything away more carefully than usual, in order to avoid breakages.
Hence the term "Ship shape and Bristol fashion".

Just as an aside, it is now reckoned, after extensive research, that Bristol and its surrounding area suffered a major Tsunami in 1606/7.

http://www.burnham-on-sea.com/1607-flood.shtml


Bristol, in fact, has quite a few surprising little secrets. Cary Grant was a Bristolian. Wallace and Gromit were created there.......and loads more.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/capitalofculture/bristol/facts.shtml

...I made it back for Lunch, which was chomped at the hotel restaurant, and then we made for home, first stopping at St Michael's to say a sweet goodbye to the essence of happiness that is the Crone. Lady E rebuked me, when I sang rather too loudly while she walked up the front steps, aided by a sorry looking Nurse.

Two hours later, and we pulled into the long carriageway to the Manor. Penbury answered the door and apologised for the appearance of the Manor house. Apparently, a group of American tourists arrived, but were turned away due to the holiday closure.
That same night, all of the hanging baskets and tubs went missing, including the Topiary box tubs in the shape of Victorian erotica.

I have my suspicions.....who in the USA knew that the house would be virtually unguarded?

Weary from the journey, we both went to the drawing room and began to draw. Penbury arranged for the staff to bring in the luggage and poured us both a large brandy.

A couple of minutes later, he was back by my side.

"Ahem" he coughed.

"What is it, Penbury?" I asked.

"There is a rather dehydrated Cub in the luggage compartment Sir" he replied.

"Well get rid of him" I ordered.

"A bit difficult Sir, he is only seven years old, apparently"

"Well get his Parents to come and get him"

"He doesnt know his telephone number, Sir. Cook says that he should stay here, until we can contact them in writing"

"Wha..?....Oh, to hell with it, but in the meantime, put him to work with the Gardener, so that he can earn his keep"

"Very well, Sir"

Another holiday over and done with....quite an interesting time, really.




Now.....who's buggered off with my pots? Come on, I know it's one of you!






A VERY bare looking Droitwich Manor.

I shall now search the Gardening threads, to see if anyone has posted a picture of my erotic box!

BBB
Oh, My, I think I'm in love.

BBB

I can understand that, bbb...

<tap tap tap> ....Come on...I'm still waiting!

You at the back there....YES YOU....do YOU know who had their hands on my saxifraga?

Yes

He's called Adolphe, and is from Belgium.

I was hungry and the grass had all this crap all over it.

i saw glittery things of odd shapes. how can a girl resist? i mean, they weren't cemented (or at least not very firmly) in the ground or sumthin... what's a slovak to do?

I am fascinated and have laughed myself silly. Thanks for the joyride, Lord Ellpus. I curtsy to you and your obvious command of the long and often perilous holiday road. Welcome back!

Who knew that British peers could have such a time as this? Sorry about the pots -- have you rounded up the usual suspects yet?

BBB
No Lord Ellpus travel stories for several days. I'm in the middle of travelogue withdrawal. I'm having hot flashes, chills and tremors. My hands are shaking so bad that I spashing the Medimucil out of my glass all over my shag rug.

BBB

LOL

Apparantly he's going to sea next

Rum bum and concertina


(Apologies George Melly)

I can hardly wait!

but he's started something else

title of thread escapes me

search under godhellpusplease

oh yes, about love poetry

I DO apologize for having ignored all of you for so long, it's just that I have been feeling a little.....romantic, and have been exploring my feminine side, which turned out to be rather erotic, by the way.

The mystery of the erotic topiary has been solved. Apparently, Mockett the gardener had removed them to the shady side of the north wing, to prevent wilt.

I have also had some success with the Cub.........

BREAKTHROUGH IN THE CUB DEPARTMENT.

For the past week or so, I have been trying to get the Cub to tell us where his parents live, but he has been too dehydrated to talk, and exhausted after having worked a series of twelve hour days with Mockett, the head gardener.

Mockett had put him to work in the North Vineyard, and despite being hampered by his glucose drip, he had picked more than the average weight that my Albanian workers manage. This is even more remarkable, seeing as he was given a fifteen minute lunch break as opposed to the usual ten, due to him fainting on regular occasions.

Yesterday, at long last, he responded to one of my interrogation sessions, held in the family dungeon.

"Right you little sh*t...where the bloody hell do you live?" I asked, in a sensitive caring manner, so as to relax him.
"I ain't tellin'" replied the urchin, his whimpering little voice bouncing off the dank, gloomy walls.

The family Dungeon had been used for different purposes over the past four hundred years or so, most of which involved a fair amount of screaming. Over the past year, it had been the bedroom of our most recent housekeeper, Frau Klink. She had insisted on having this room, and had jollied it up a bit, with the new decor of light black, and several new chains here and there. She left recently however, or should I say she was removed by Interpol, having been tracked down after a four year hunt across most of Europe. Something to do with sacrificial rites, apparently.

Before her, I had hired out the dungeon to "Essenemm", the local nudist association, for haloween parties and, more importantly, the three evenings a month when they carried on the local village custom of "beating the manhood", which I understand is very much like morris dancing, but with bigger sticks and heavier grade leather.

The urchin had been put here for his stay, as all the bedrooms in the east wing had been set aside for tourists to admire. Queues of the blighters this summer, all paying good money to inspect various family treasures, including a chamber pot that I still fill to this day, but only when I am too drunk to find the lavvy.

"if you tell me where you live, I will start feeding you"

"Bugger off"

"OK, let's try another incentive.....if you WON'T tell me where you live, I will let loose Edward into your room tonight"

"Is it true what Mockett says, that he eats little boys eyeballs?" looking across at Edward in his cage.

"Not only eyeballs m'laddo, he has been known to disappear up the odd pyjama leg or two.....now, tell uncle Spanky where you live" I asked, in a fatherly tone.

Urchin looked at Edward, who was grooming his little whiskers whilst looking back at urchin. Edward suddenly dived at his little bars in an affort to get to the boy, front paws reaching through and scratching at thin air, his maniacal squeak causing one of the wall implements to rattle.

"Snorbens"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Snorbens, that's where I live"

"Where the bally hell is snorbens"

"Just next to Hatfield, near MacDonalds"

"MacDonalds? Scotland, you mean?"

"Nah, MacDonalds drive through"

"One can drive through MacDonalds? How many acres does he have?"

Just then, the door was unlocked and Penbury entered, bringing my noon snifter.

"Can YOU make sense of what the brat is saying?" I asked.

"I will try, sir"

I quaffed and listened.

"Ahem....his Lordship is trying to ascertain the exact location of your usual residence"

"A?"

"Your usual abode, the place where you receive succour and shelter"

"Wot?"

Penbury turned to me, with a knowing look.

"He appears to be speaking lower class, M'Lord. I think I can translate, if you wish"

"Get on with it then Penburs, I want to get shot of the bugger"

"He also appears to be of limited vocabulary, Sir. I await his next syllable with relish"

I left the cell for a refill, and met Penbury on the stairs, leading up from the Dungeon.

"He lives in St Albans, Sir....I have the address."

"Good show, Penbury. Get the car fuelled up for tomorrow, you're taking us for a drive in the country."

So, it looks like we are off to St Albans eh? Might as well make a day of it, as I have an old friend that has an estate somewhere near there. It should be fun............

What is Morris Dancing?
What is Morris Dancing?

Briefly, the Cotswold morris is a traditional folk dance which was found in small villages around Oxford, England at the end of the 19th century. It was a central part of annual springtime rituals throughout the region. The dancers wear dozens of bells on each leg, wield sticks and/or handkerchiefs, and dance to lively folk tunes.
What do we tell our audience?

When Seabright dances on the street we carry a descriptive leaflet with text by Gereg Blaiddllwyd and myself. (If you think it looks like your leaflet, that's probably because we've cribbed pieces of text from somebody who cribbed them from you.) The leaflet gives a quick (and dirty) history of the morris and invites the crowd to support our endeavor.

What is it like?

It is a high-impact, anaerobic form of dance done to live music by teams (or sides) of six who are all dressed in brightly colored kit. The stepping is done in a style designed to maximize the ringing of the bells whilst minimizing the danger of impact injury. Some dances consist of 6 solid minutes of stepping and are more strenuous than running for a mile. Dances done while waving handkerchiefs often contain spectacular leaps high into the air. Dances done with clashing of sticks could have nasty consequences to dancers or audience.

A haphazard history of the morris

What morris is not

From Cecil Sharp's Morris Book, part I:

``The Morris is not an easy dance.... It is not everyone's dance, nor has it ever been so regarded by traditional dancers.

``The Morris is not a social dance--one, that is, which is danced chiefly for pleasure. It is, primarily, a spectacular dance; its purpose is, or was, to provide an exhibition or pageant at holiday time for the entertainment of the onlooker. It was, too, a professional dance.''

In the current revival morris dancers are usually associated with a broader dance community. These communities engage in traditional English Country Dance and in Contradance; both of these are more casual and social than morris.
Morris is many things

The term morris has been applied very broadly through history. It could be said to encompass almost any form of traditional English performance done on the street. The Cotswold morris is typically well-rehearsed dances done in the spring. Morris by itself most commonly refers to Cotswold morris. Mumming is a theatrical performance of exaggerated characters typically done near Christmas. Welsh Border morris is a wild, usually stick-wielding dance often done with sooty faces and in the winter. In Longsword dances the performers link themselves by holding stiff swords. Rapper sword dances use extremely flexible swords with swivel handles for very tight intricate patterns of motion. Carnival morris consists of pompom-wielding women marching along the street performing drill-team-like precision figures. Other forms include Northwest, clog, and molly dancing. Curiously enough, most inhabitants of any one region of England have never seen and do not recognize forms of morris dancing from other areas.

Anything else?

It is curious to note that similar forms of dance--where the dancers dress in bright colors, wear noisemaking devices, and perform in the streets to festive tunes before large crowds--exist in many cultures. There are examples from north American indians, Aztecs and Mayans, Greeks, Romanians, Africans, Asians, and more. This kind of dancing seems to express something elemental in the human spirit.

Is this it B?