How to Get Out of Doing the Washing Up
The irony wasn't lost on us. Twelve days in Scotland, every one of them bearing quantities of rain that ranged from light drizzle through urgent showers to South Asian monsoon were at an end as we headed towards Gretna and the border. On the way up, conditions had been hot and humid, at least until we reached Cumbria, where everything changed quite dramatically. Now, with the north of England just a few miles away, the rear view mirror showed Scotland, bathed under dreamy cerulean skies balanced on top of pure white mountains of benign looking cauliflower cumulus. Our last stop at a motorway service station just south of Glasgow had been a warm one as we sat at a picnic bench with our sandwiches.
Into Cumbria our journey continued, the rains advancing to meet us from the south. Apparently at home in Cornwall, an urgent deluge was keeping everyone indoors. Hopefully by the time we were back, things might have eased a bit. We considered spending a night or two near Keswick and walking up Helvellyn, but perhaps it was best to leave that for another time. While we’d loved our adventures in Scotland, we were both craving warm sunshine by now. We carried on south, making good progress into kinder weather and soon agreeing that the overnight pub stop near Skipton that was in our sights could be abandoned in pursuit of further miles in the general direction of home. But where? Would we book a site, or could we find a nice quiet layby for the night? But as we pondered the options, the solution came. We’d stopped at the Roaches on the way north, and it was near enough to the M6 corridor to be worth returning to now. Campsites are great and mostly reasonably priced, but there’s nothing quite like waking up to the sound of birdsong in a peaceful spot away from the world.
The detour to Staffordshire started well, with an easy motorway route across the Manchester sprawl, bringing us towards Macclesfield. But then Bossy Barbara (remember her?) decided to make things interesting, and instead of taking the easy route through Leek towards our target, we were led a merry dance along tiny narrow lanes, past lonely farms that stretched away across the fells. Each new turn led to an even more improbable road than the last, as I wondered why on earth I hadn’t just asked Ali - “How far is it along here, compared to heading for Leek or Buxton?” You see I knew it was my fault all along, but having been to the area just a few weeks earlier, I was sure I could have found the place from either town without consulting the map. Eventually, as we climbed a thin ribbon into not yet blooming heather, I realised what would come next. And soon we saw Roach End Barn, sitting under its companion trees, a lone tog making the most of having the place to himself. I’d only been there myself about six weeks earlier. We’d come to the Roaches from the opposite end of the road.
Parking in the same space as last time, with supper on the go, I gazed out of the window towards the Sutton Moor mast that sits between here and Macclesfield. A heavy looking layer of cloud filled much of the sky, leaving a warm envelope of light on the horizon. Sunset was still almost an hour away, and I thought nothing much more of it. At least the rains had dried up again by now. But later, with my back to the sunset as I began to wash the dishes, the trees and hedges around us began to burn and glow with strong golden light. “Get out there and take some pictures,” came Ali’s instruction, and so I went, snapping away with the camera in my hands - eventually returning to the van for the tripod. If you’re going to do something, at least give yourself a sporting chance. Belt and braces.
By the end of the show, the sky, lighting up the clouds had moved from golden to bubblegum pink, and then to a deepening blue. The only focal point was that mast, but it was good enough for me. Ali came outside to watch the colours change. It seemed she’d finished the washing up while I was absent. Amazing what a bubblegum sunset sky can get you out of sometimes.
How to Get Out of Doing the Washing Up
The irony wasn't lost on us. Twelve days in Scotland, every one of them bearing quantities of rain that ranged from light drizzle through urgent showers to South Asian monsoon were at an end as we headed towards Gretna and the border. On the way up, conditions had been hot and humid, at least until we reached Cumbria, where everything changed quite dramatically. Now, with the north of England just a few miles away, the rear view mirror showed Scotland, bathed under dreamy cerulean skies balanced on top of pure white mountains of benign looking cauliflower cumulus. Our last stop at a motorway service station just south of Glasgow had been a warm one as we sat at a picnic bench with our sandwiches.
Into Cumbria our journey continued, the rains advancing to meet us from the south. Apparently at home in Cornwall, an urgent deluge was keeping everyone indoors. Hopefully by the time we were back, things might have eased a bit. We considered spending a night or two near Keswick and walking up Helvellyn, but perhaps it was best to leave that for another time. While we’d loved our adventures in Scotland, we were both craving warm sunshine by now. We carried on south, making good progress into kinder weather and soon agreeing that the overnight pub stop near Skipton that was in our sights could be abandoned in pursuit of further miles in the general direction of home. But where? Would we book a site, or could we find a nice quiet layby for the night? But as we pondered the options, the solution came. We’d stopped at the Roaches on the way north, and it was near enough to the M6 corridor to be worth returning to now. Campsites are great and mostly reasonably priced, but there’s nothing quite like waking up to the sound of birdsong in a peaceful spot away from the world.
The detour to Staffordshire started well, with an easy motorway route across the Manchester sprawl, bringing us towards Macclesfield. But then Bossy Barbara (remember her?) decided to make things interesting, and instead of taking the easy route through Leek towards our target, we were led a merry dance along tiny narrow lanes, past lonely farms that stretched away across the fells. Each new turn led to an even more improbable road than the last, as I wondered why on earth I hadn’t just asked Ali - “How far is it along here, compared to heading for Leek or Buxton?” You see I knew it was my fault all along, but having been to the area just a few weeks earlier, I was sure I could have found the place from either town without consulting the map. Eventually, as we climbed a thin ribbon into not yet blooming heather, I realised what would come next. And soon we saw Roach End Barn, sitting under its companion trees, a lone tog making the most of having the place to himself. I’d only been there myself about six weeks earlier. We’d come to the Roaches from the opposite end of the road.
Parking in the same space as last time, with supper on the go, I gazed out of the window towards the Sutton Moor mast that sits between here and Macclesfield. A heavy looking layer of cloud filled much of the sky, leaving a warm envelope of light on the horizon. Sunset was still almost an hour away, and I thought nothing much more of it. At least the rains had dried up again by now. But later, with my back to the sunset as I began to wash the dishes, the trees and hedges around us began to burn and glow with strong golden light. “Get out there and take some pictures,” came Ali’s instruction, and so I went, snapping away with the camera in my hands - eventually returning to the van for the tripod. If you’re going to do something, at least give yourself a sporting chance. Belt and braces.
By the end of the show, the sky, lighting up the clouds had moved from golden to bubblegum pink, and then to a deepening blue. The only focal point was that mast, but it was good enough for me. Ali came outside to watch the colours change. It seemed she’d finished the washing up while I was absent. Amazing what a bubblegum sunset sky can get you out of sometimes.