Quebec House and Chartwell

Here’s another double dip trip you can do within easy reach of London, Quebec House in Westerham, where General Wolfe of Battle of Quebec fame was brought up, and Chartwell, Winston Churchill’s beloved home, just a few miles down the road. Both are National Trust properties and can be done quite easily in a day. We went there from Worthing, West Sussex via the M23 and M25 if you want a quick run, but if you are staying in London the area is very accessible to visitors being just outside the M25, the London orbital motorway.

Westerham is a little town that tumbles over the Kentish downs at this point, south of the M25. It has a triangle of green in the centre appropriately with statues of both General Wolfe and Churchill. If you are heading east through the centre the main road dips down past the green on the left and then passes Quebec House before bending left where a car park can be found a little further on to the left.

Quebec House

Quebec House sits right on the main road and is backed by the coach house which is now the National Trust official entrance to the property. Here you can pay your entrance fee of £5 then have a cup of tea in the tiny café before climbing the staircase onto the first floor for the exhibition room, a very interesting display on the great war in Canada when General Wolfe took Quebec from the French in 1759 with his British troops and lost his life in the process due to injuries from three musket balls, as did the French commander. Using the St Lawrence River, the British landed below the town and forced the French into a retreat through standing firm. There is a helpful DVD that charts the course of the battle, as well as many helpful wall displays and illustrations on the progress of the battle. Wolfe was a mere 32 years old when he died as a major military commander, makes you wonder what you’ve done with your own life! You could consider him a pivotal figure in world events, because the capture of Quebec led to the capture of Montreal which finished French control of the country. Hence his posthumous title, ‘The Conqueror of Canada.’

The Coach House

Once you’ve read up on the battle, you nip downstairs at the other end, have a peruse around the garden and then station yourself at the front of the main house as we did ready for it to be opened at 1pm. The house is decked out as it would have looked when Wolfe spent his childhood there, lots of dark polished floorboards, displays, rugs and big bits of furniture.

Game table

The bicentenary room

The bicentenary room at the back of the house is a highlight with a military display arrayed across the large table in the centre of the room. Here there is a uniform of the time in bright red livery, a goatskin bag for a soldier to carry his kit, a flintlock musket complete with musket balls and bayonet appendage, a couple of grenades (hence the name grenadier), a case to carry cartridges, a pair of black breeches, and a pair of shoes, both of which are exactly the same, no left and right like today. You can handle the rifle which bears a tidy weight, and finger the goatskin bag, which when new emits a pungent odour which assaults the nostrils as soon as you enter the room with, you’ve guessed it, the smell of goat!

The drawing room

Upstairs the best room is the drawing room at the front of the house where the family would have relaxed, another classic old English space. Here you can practice your calligraphy by picking up a quill, dipping it in the inkwell, and writing upon the free paper provided to see whether you have any talent as a sign-writer. There is also a table with games upon it like cards, etc, and a piano.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chartwell - home of Winston Churchill



After you’ve had a quiverful of General Wolfe and his exploits you can jump back in your car and take a right turn off the main road almost opposite Quebec House onto the B2026 which takes you up into the cosy Kentish hills that surround London. It is here that Churchill found his beloved Chartwell that he lived in for so many years from 1924. You follow the country road and then take a left turn up a narrow lane. As you wind round up to the right you stumble upon the site which spreads over a quiet fold in the downs to the left of the road. You can see why Churchill loved it, barely a few miles from the edge of the London conurbation you are in the midst of classic England, enclosed in the North Downs and with a view to die for out to the south and the Kentish Weald.

The house is very distinctive, large but very much a home rather than a mansion. It sits high on the lip of the grounds, looking out over the valley and down to the lake at the bottom. It has quite an ordinary but still impressive enough frontage just off the road, with a gravel drive going in one entrance and out the other.

Chartwell front of house

You can imagine General Eisenhower in his jeep swinging in with a couple of US military police and jumping out dressed in camouflage green to have a parlez-vous with the great man during the war.

The house looks better if you approach it from the National Trust entrance, or from down below in the valley, then its distinctive size and attractive shape come into view.

First room of the tour is a downstairs sitting/living room, then you can see the library before going upstairs to see a large lounge and also dining room with round table and green décor, as well as bedrooms. There is a really nice atmosphere, all peace and quiet and you can see why Churchill loved it. Churchill’s study is a highlight with the standing desk he worked at. Behind this room is his bedroom which it was agreed would be kept from public view. Another section has cabinets showing the various uniforms he used to wear, including the famous siren suit. There is a great museum or exhibition space with exhibits of gifts that were given over the years by foreign dignitaries as well as write ups and photographs of Churchill’s life. You finish in the kitchens before exiting for a bit of fresh air.

Goldfish pond

There is also a great restaurant there where you can take lunch either before or after your visit, and a very interesting shop with lots of inviting gifts to buy for yourself or others. Like a bottle of Wilberforce freedom ale which I bought (and may even drink today if the mood takes me). I love National Trust shops, stuff can be a bit pricey but you are looking at a bit of quality.

You can swan on down to Churchill’s studio where you can see over 130 pictures painted by Churchill himself. How he found time to do all this as well as being a politician, writer, family man and builder one can never know. He obviously liked Mediterranean scenes, visiting islands like Madeira to give his brushes an airing. There are also more mementos displayed, including a letter from Field Marshall Montgomery.

Also you can mosey around the gardens including the walled kitchen garden, some of the brickwork having been done by Churchill himself, and also wander down to the lake where you can see a large sculpture of Churchill. All in all a visit well worth taking. Do it!

Chartwell grounds

A typical English house party in the early twentieth century - imagine the scene!

Reginald picked up the ancient black receiver.

‘I say Aunt Sybil, he said in his clipped King’s English honed giving orders on the Boer war battlefields. ‘Have you been invited to the house-party this weekend near Dorking. You will have a most marvellous time. The express leaves Victoria Station at 5.22pm on Friday evening and takes a most agreeable course out of the Old Smoke through the salubrious suburbs of Sutton, Cheam and Epsom. There’ll be quite a few of us on it, we’ve booked a carriage with our own trolley service. It then steams out into the Surrey Hills, a most wonderful green lung for the denizens of our great capital, and stops at the little halt of Trumpington. Here you alight and catch the charabanc up the hill to the house. It's quite a climb, but I'm dashed certain you'll enjoy the views.'

Reginald could almost hear his aunt's ears prick up with interest.

'It is a most splendid setting, you really will love it. Acres of rolling hillside and sheep filled meadows, capped with glorious woodland, you will have a real ball. When the motor bus arrives at our stately pile some dapper young footmen will relieve you of your luggage, whilst the master of the house will escort you to your room. There you will have a wash and brush up, deposit your clothes in the voluminous wardrobes, then descend the central staircase to the morning room, there you will be greeted by your host for the weekend, Lady Egremont, who will ply you with champagne and canapés and give you a schedule for the weekend. Here you will be introduced to your fellow weekend house guests, an assorted constellation of politicians, film stars, artists and writers.' His voice fell to a whisper, 'You know I've heard the Prime Minister will be there, the Prime Minister, isn't that just dashed exciting?'

‘Oh Reginald, said the squeaky voice at the other end of the phone, ‘it does sound such frightful fun. I have to come.’

'You will then return to your room to dress for dinner. The ladies will be expected to wear any shade of pink, red, scarlet or purple, complete with millinery flamboyance. The gentlemen will wear full top and tails with black bow tie and white shirts. Everyone will speak in a posh upper class accent.'

Aunt Sybil squealed with delight.

'Dinner will be served at 7pm sharp as Lady Egremont runs the house like a German warship. All provender springs from the bounty of nature that is the local farm, fresh duck, chicken and  lamb served with new potatoes, fresh vegetables from the kitchen garden and lashings of onion gravy followed by homemade Box-Hill tart and custard.'

'The weekend will flow like a vintage barrel of wine as the chaps stock up in the gun-room with a suitable flintlock and then tarry forth into the rolling downs to shoot some of those dumb pheasants, down some pigeons and terminate some grouse. The locals will provide beaters to pummel the living daylights out of the local undergrowth and stir up some beaks. After an exhausting day pointing guns into the sky, our trusty band of fellows will return in triumph to the gentleman’s lounge and smoke large Cuban cigars in front of a roaring fire, whilst others will have a golly good game of billiards and take a few bets on the afternoon’s race at Ascot, the results of which will blare out on the sideboard wireless.'

'Meanwhile, the ladies will indulge in all day chatter between bouts of eating and drinking. Madam will mingle with the ladies and do a little subtle matchmaking, avoiding any whiff of scandal of course. The new  'His Master's Voice' record player will blare out the latest jazz number by Fats Waller. It is a most pleasant way to spend the afternoon in the library, more a living room with books, with its annexe containing Madam’s favourite study with its beautiful views out over the Surrey hills. If you are lucky, at 4pm on the dot you may join madam for tea and cake at the other end of the corridor. Here intimate conversation flourishes among the cream cakes.'

'Saturday evening is the ball and they've booked a simply spiffing jazz band from Chicago for the entertainment. These black chappies know how to tinkle the ivories I'll tell you. The ball is the highlight of the weekend, you will simply love it, it's so nineteen twenties my darling. Mind you there are a fair few cads and bounders there. Watch out for Monocle Marmaduke, he fancies himself awfully with the ladies.'

By now Aunt Sybil was squealing with delight at the other end of the phone. 'It sound simply scrumptious Reginald darling.'

Of course, many of the rooms have ensuite facilities, a truly revolutionary idea. When you awaken in the morning, or perhaps in the afternoon if you had a late night, you can adjourn in your big fluffy dressing gown into the bathroom and get high on the bath salts. Underfloor heating, another technological marvel, will ensure your tootsies will not suffer.

Of course most will rise rather late on Saturday and Sunday morning, but for those who arise early you may adjourn to the upper landing where you can admire portraits of past heroes of the British Empire. Or you might want to read from a pile of one of those capital upper class magazines like ‘Country Life,’ ‘Shooting Times,’ and ‘The Lady.’

‘By jove, it’s basically a jolly good weekend for catching some fab country air and mixing with people just like yourself. Mummy came last time and she thought you would love it!

Aunt Sybil roared with laughter at the other end of the phone. 'I will commence my packing now Reginald. You have converted me.'

National Trust property  - Polesden Lacey

Polesden Lacey

Polesden Lacey sits hidden up in the Surrey Downs not far from the towns of Dorking and Leatherhead in the stockbroker belt outside London. If you don't know the geography, London sits in the Thames basin surrounded by some absolutely gorgeous countryside if you know where to go. That's why many London commuters like retreating to their homes at the weekend because they can enjoy wonderful open landscapes barely a stone's throw from the office. Whether you head north west to the Chiltern hills, south east to a garden suburb like Woldingham, or south west to the Surrey hills, you are guaranteed the full English countryside experience on London's doorstep.

House and downs

Statue in grounds 

The Surrey Hills are an AONB (Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty for the uninitiated), a swathe of rolling countryside with big views to the south and south west of London. They are full of interesting villages and towns with bags of history and acres of open fields and woodland. Here mountain bikers, horse-riders and walkers can reach for the sky.

Polesden Lacey is in the top ten National Trust properties to visit, up there with Chartwell and Stourhead, and when you get there you can see why. I visited on a snowy March day after catching the train from home via Barnham, Arundel and Horsham. You alight at the little halt of Box-Hill and West Humble. Box-Hill itself is well worth a visit as it is a well known beauty spot in the south with fantastic views over the Weald of Sussex and out to the South Downs. This area was used for the first road race of the 2012 Olympics when the riders used the local hills before powering their way to the centre of London and the finish line. Shame we missed a medal there despite Mark Cavendish being a favourite.



Looking up to the house

View of house from formal gardens end

The main arterial A24 Worthing to London road whacks north-south through the countryside here with lots of 50 mph speed limits on scary bends at this point. It is a fine and very scenic road for much of its length, and this stretch past Box Hill is no exception. I often use the road when heading north from Worthing, but had little idea of the attraction of Polesden Lacey.

  I had my bike with me and using a map printed off my computer I cycled up to Polesden Lacey through attractive scenery. It's quite a climb and you need a bit of puff, but eventually you get to the grounds of Polesden Lacey snug and high in the Surrey hills. Here you can park up and get a bite to eat at the restaurant before doing the house and grounds. Even on a cold March day the eatery had a healthy buzz, so try and plan your trip for an off peak time. It was ideal for me as there were very few wandering around the house and grounds, and visitors that day were in their hundreds rather than the thousands.

Polesden Lacey

Being a member of the National Trust this year, I can swan into any National Trust property I want for nothing, so it was a pleasure to flourish my card and breeze through into the main attraction. You can stroll around extensive grounds with lots of footpaths. Immediately adjoining the house are the formal gardens on a typical stately home plan, huge rectangular areas stretching along the top of the downs. If you wander outside the formal gardens you can admire the mixture of leafy lane, rolling hill and woodland surrounding this elderly matron of a stately home. 

The home itself has been used as a regional HQ for the National Trust, but more recently some of the upstairs rooms that have been used as offices have been opened up to the public e.g. the suite of rooms used by the 'hostess with the mostest,' Mrs Greville of house-party fame. Most of what there is to see is downstairs. You enter the main door to find yourself in a large entrance hall, to the right of which is a large dining room with a rich red carpet. A large table is decked for dinner although it has simulated desserts on the table. Homely it is, and one can imagine it being a very cosy roomful on a cold winter's evening. Returning to the entrance hall, take a left turn down the corridor and you arrive at another suite of rooms. To the left is the library with adjoining study that the lady of the house used, with its desk topped with photos of her parents, a Scottish brewery multimillionaire and Helen Anderson. Next to the library is a huge, grand room with a spectacular chandelier and lots of gold and mirror work and impressive views out over the adjoining hills.To the right of this room is a lounge where Mrs Greville would entertain guests in the afternoon to tea and cakes, and moving right again you enter the man-cave, another very  large room with armchairs round a fire at one end where the chaps would smoke and chat away the day, and a huge billiard table at the other end. Next door and at the end of the tour is the gun-room before you exit the house, but unfortunately there are no guns to look at or pick up to go and do a spot of grouse shooting.

Surrey hills from Polesden Lacey

Upstairs as I said you can wander the suite of rooms used by Lady Greville herself, and watch a DVD of the history of the house in the early twentieth century. On the landing you can pretend to be one of the previous house guests and sit and read the papers/magazines after rising for the day before everybody else!

Polesden Lacey was a magnet for the great and the good/not so good in the twenties and thirties. Winston Churchill was a visitor here, and the Queen Mother and George VI had part of their honeymoon here in 1923, such was the reputation of the place. Their honeymoon suite is not open to the public.

Scotney Castle

 

'Reflections of romance amidst the ruins.'

 

 

 Scotney Castle is a double dip trip for anyone who wants to experience a misty late winter excursion into the West Kent countryside. This National Trust property gives you not only a stately home but an ancient castle to boot barely a few hundred yards away. Virtually two for the price of one!

The castle lies a few miles south east of Tunbridge Wells off the A21, true Kentish Weald countryside replete with oast houses, white timbered cottages and rolling English countryside. We got there from Worthing by taking the high road across country via Lewes, a scenic route in itself.  Heathfield, Blackboys and Cross in Hand are some of the evocative sounding places on the way.

The National Trust property itself lies down a quiet Kentish lane near the village of Lamberhurst and covers a large area (770 acres) of rolling downland. Just after entering and parking up, it is a short walk to the entrance, shop and restaurant which was teeming with mid day half term visitors. Be aware that you may have to wait for a table at such a time. Once you pay your entry fee you turn left through a door and then into the grounds of the stately home which rears up to your left in front of an extensive lawn area. The house was designed by Anthony Salvin in Elizabethan style and built in 1837 for Edward Hussey 111.

 

 

 

 

 

It contains a complete tour of fully furnished rooms both upstairs and downstairs centring on the grand staircase ascending from the entrance hall. A cheery gentleman greets you at the door and gives you a large laminated card to guide you from room to room. Every room has a guide ready to answer your questions, sometimes eager to pre-empt your questions. Much of the house looks perfectly liveable in, albeit in a rather 1950ish kind of style and with a touch of the squire at home in his mansion look. As it is, you take a leisurely circuit of the large entrance hall, then round the ground floor with the usual mixture of enormous dining room tables, assorted assemblages of wine bottles, voluminous bookcases and copies of old magazines. A previous occupant of the house, Christopher Hussey was an architectural historian and writer for the 'Country Life' magazine. Then it’s out through the kitchen with its more modern decor and into a long thin corridor bounded by old photographs. Very interesting as Scotney Castle was a school for evacuated kids during the Second World War. Upstairs is a round of bedrooms in various shades mixed up with old fashioned bathrooms with those very Victorian white sinks.

 

Once you have had your stately home fix it’s time to visit an old medieval English Castle but this one is right on the doorstep, being the live-in before the stately home was built. So a saunter out the front door and a turn left takes you down winding paths to the moat inside which stands the original Scotney Castle on its very own 'island.' It is the focal point for the celebrated  surrounding gardens which boast displays of rhododendrons and azaleas in summer.

 

 

 

 

From the top of the hill you get a little peek of the ancient wonder drawing you in to its cute castleness witihn the moat. If you want a little sidetrack take a walk through the old quarry which was used as building material for the house. Here you can spot an array of snowdrops if you visit in February.

 

 

Intriguingly, the occupants of the stately home left the castle to go to rack and ruin deliberately as at the time it was all the rage to have a ruined castle or suchlike as a folly in your backyard. OK if you can afford it!

 

Our castle is on the small but very appealing side, part ruin and part a fully visitable up and down building. It does indeed stand on a little island in the middle of a moat, seductively separated from the mainland. Round the moat you can walk, taking a hundred photos until you get the perfect shot. The one with the castle in the foreground and the stately home sneaking into the background at the top of the hill is the one to go for. Once you’ve circumnavigated the moat and passed the dinky little boathouse that could be the start of a thousand adventures, you can wander over the bridge to the castle and find yourself in front of the main doorway. This is a kind of a house castle rather than a fully fledged battlemented warship of a castle ready to withstand the French army, the sort of castle you could treat as a weekend retreat rather than a place to stand 24 hour guard with your cauldron of boiling oil. Somewhere you could go fish on the lake in a little dinghy rather than practising knocking your opponents off horses with lances all day.

Binsted, Hampshire  - The grave of Field Marshall Viscount Montgomery

This is just a short post in memory of one of Britain’s greatest Second World War heroes. He led the British army in the North African desert against Rommel at El Alamein. Montgomery was a very interesting man. He replaced a man called WHE 'Strafer' Gott as commander of British forces in the desert. Gott was killed in an air crash on the way to take over the command, so Churchill chose BL Montgomery to do the job. Bernard Montgomery was the son of an Anglican bishop and a man of phenomenal discipline who was able to transfer that discipline to his officers.

The battle of El Alamein was the first major allied victory of the war which punctured the Nazi threat to Egypt, the Suez Canal and Palestine. It can be concluded that it was the turning point of the North African war.

Holy Cross Church, Binsted

In a quiet little Hampshire village lying four miles north east of the market town of Alton and just off the main A3 road from Portsmouth to London is found the grave of Field Marshall Viscount Montgomery,  Second World War hero of El Alamein. The attractive twelfth century village church, so typically English, is bordered on two sides by a twisting lane that runs through the village centre, flanked by attractive old cottages looking out over the rolling Hampshire countryside.

Holy Cross Church, Binstead

Cottages bordering the church, Binsted

The church itself is worth a visit with its Montgomery memorabilia, including a biography of the great man complete with photos, and a regimental flag hanging from the nave. After a quiet walk around the church one can go and find the grave of Montgomery on the edge of the expansive churchyard. On the other side of the church from the lane stretches a large, flat  rectangular plot full of graves laid out neatly on an American grid pattern. The plot is very open, relatively free from bushes and trees. We wandered among the graves, looking for the target without success. Then we watched a family enter the churchyard and head straight for the correct spot. Hanging around nonchalantly, we ambled over to where they had been after their departure. Right at the end of the churchyard on the extreme right lies the grave, on the edge of a path stretching on into the countryside.  It comprises principally a large grey rectangle of marble with no great decoration.

Montgomery was a man of destiny, who felt that he was being prepared for a special task. He had a deep Christian faith that he was not afraid to display in the deserts of North Africa when facing Field Marshall Rommel. This is the prayer that Montgomery publicly called his officers and men to pray on the eve of battle:

'Let us ask the Lord, mighty in battle, to give us the victory.'

It is a fitting place for an ex-commander of the British army to be buried, near to the home he had retired to, in a peaceful English country churchyard. It is also a testimony in this secular and cynical age of the timeless values that helped bring victory to this nation in its darkest days of war.

This is a really silly superhero story for which I blame my incredibly strange imagination! Anyway, it makes a change from trip posts and does have a bit of geography in it!

Dirk hits Glastonbury!

Dirk Destiny landed on the top of Glastonbury Tor, superhero cape waving in the Somerset breeze. It was his day off from being a superhero, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t intervene in a world crisis if it came his way. He just wanted to visit a quintessential English town and get his cream tea fix for the week. He pulled on his far distance goggles and took in the Thorn that Joseph of Arimathea was supposed to have planted when he came to England, Glastonbury Abbey glinted in the sunlight, and the famous music festival rocked into the seventh heaven despite the three feet mud-bath from last week’s rains.

That’s it, he thought, as the strains of Ozzy Osborne pierced his ears like a large chalk being scraped on an acoustic blackboard. I will tune in on my superhero smartphone whilst doing my afternoon Glastonbury tour and catch some vibes. Earplugs planted in his titanium orifices, Dirk went into one legged man mode to save on power, and literally hopped right into Glastonbury town centre in one fell hop.

Goodness gracious me, thought Dirk as he sat down at a pavement café to soak up the atmosphere, I have never seen so many sandals, candles and beards since Commander Jeremy Aubrey-Wintle had a Celtic festival on Starship Intrepid in ’92, as he watched a spooky looking woman with a pointy hat and cloak walk past.

‘Drink Sir?’ said a comely waitress with a smile that could light up a supper with two miserable maiden aunts.

‘Yes,’ said Dirk, I’ll have a large lemonade.’

‘Of course, Sir, right away. Oh Sir, she added, are you going to a fancy dress party?’ She had observed his bright blue and yellow leotard, monstrous six inch wide battle belt and voluminous cape with the letters DD emblazoned on the back.

Dirk swallowed so hard his asbestos tongue almost disappeared down his reinforced plastic throat. In the US ordinary folk always enquired if he was a superhero, here in England folk thought this was his evening wear.

‘No Madam, I am Dirk Destiny, superhero, at your service!’

‘Oh Sir, I like your style, how do I contact you if I need your help? She smiled a smile that would melt a rock faced maiden aunt. Suddenly Dirk felt his forehead begin to melt as well, but it was not just because of her smile.

Dirk felt a headache come over him, even worse his thoughts were becoming confused. The truth hit him like six foot high letters spelling the word ‘truth‘ landing in front of him. Great lumps of horse manure! I am entering the Glastonbury Triangle! He had heard of this before when reading that tome for trainee superheros, ‘Snares to a Superhero.’ How could he forget! Glastonbury played havoc with a superhero’s wavelength because of the vibes from laylines, woman in pointy hats, groups of men with beards and cloaks worshipping stones and an army of waist-coated, sandal wearing, long-flowing skirt wearing crystal lovers, as well as assorted Liberal Democrats. He was in big trouble. This was as bad as it gets, on a par with being sucked into a black hole and consequent nothingness in the Andromeda galaxy. If he could not break out of this mode pronto he would lapse into his original factory default programme and start speaking in a slow deliberate German accent.

‘Are you alright Sir? The waitress looked at him with a concerned look.

‘Wot did you say, meine fraulein? With shock he heard a bit of Lower Saxony mixed in with his slow deliberate German accent. Oh no, he had to get out of here fast, and who was that over the other side of the square? It was Cling Film Man. This always happened, at a moment of weakness his enemy would turn up to put the superhero knife in.

Cling Film Man approached him with a menacing look in his eye. Dirk knew that if Cling Film Man could envelope him in plastic he would turn into a New Age monument forever stuck in Glastonbury. He had to get out of this force field before he was netted by the cling film gun. One thing was in his favour, Cling Film Man was incredibly slow, barely more than human. He had been a reject on the Nemesis project, and had only just made superhero status. He only attacked those who had been severely weakened.

Dirk plugged into his superfine tuning satellite navigation programme and desperately searched for a clear signal that would propel him out of this New Age nightmare, almost knocking over the woman with the pointy hat. Suddenly he picked up the seductive tones of Motorhead powering down his main feed line, ‘Great tons of candle wax, I’ve hit the festival lead!’ that will do the trick! Immediately the cloud of new age confusion lifted off him with the speed of a man leaving a female public toilet he has entered by mistake, his slow and deliberate German accent metamorphosed into his true superhero Texan drawl, and his confidence rose almost to smug level, but not quite. But as quick as he found the channel, he lost it again, and felt his senses sinking into the black hole that was the Glastonbury Triangle again.

Oh no, his lightning fast reactions were disappearing, and he was totally void of a crafty plan.

He turned to face Cling Film Man, who with a flourish had pulled a large plastic gun from the pouch at his side. Dirk saw the look of triumph in his eyes. Although he was as slow as a toad in a bog by humanoid standards, Cling Film Man could still wrap up even a superhero in ten seconds like a sausage in tin foil, especially a superhero with no bearings. In his present confusion, Dirk now had the reactions of a 95 year old man, and was unable to avoid the massive sheet of cling film enveloping him as he tried to escape as if through treacle. It was no good, he was being entombed in a plastic hell, and felt his arms and legs pinned shut as he discovered what it was like to be a dead chicken in a fridge.

This was his fault, Dirk remonstrated with himself angrily as the plastic smothered him. He had let his guard down to enjoy an afternoon off and the world was about to lose an all round good super egg, the sort who would carry your granny’s groceries home after singlehandedly disarming a nuclear Iran. He felt himself heading down a tunnel towards a light, soon he would be in superhero heaven, this was it! His supersenses just made out that Cling Film Man had trussed him up like a Christmas tree and thrown him into the sidecar of a Triumph motorcycle which Dirk remembered he used as his ‘English gentleman’ transport when in England.

He was now half way down that tunnel, and could still hear Cling Film Man’s gleeful laughter at catching and destroying another sucker. Meanwhile he could just discern the throaty Triumph motor as Cling Film man roared down a country lane in English gentleman mode. Dirk’s confidence guage couldn’t have been lower as he felt the life being sucked out of him like a milkshake disappearing through a straw.

But suddenly his fast declining hearing picked up the strains of a music beat, and a few electronic crackles began to jump his brain nodes. Slowly but surely his mind stepped back into gear. Great Galloping Reindeer, he was plugging into something really powerful and felt himself reversing down that there tunnel back towards superhero normality. He was breaking out of the Glastonbury Triangle through the medium of rock music. He listened intently to discern which track he could hear. Well I never, he thought to himself, that’s AC/DC. Cling Film Man has forgotten how I tick and has wandered into Glastonbury Festival for a bit of fun. I am literally at my most potent if I can drink in these vibes.

All his senses came back with a vengeance in those few seconds as he powered up to punch a hole in the cling film. He felt himself literally grow in milliseconds as his superhero wavelength plugged into the main feed lead at Glastonbury Festival; it was the equivalent of putting a pair of jumbo jump leads on a finely tuned Rolls Royce. As he hit normality again he punched his way out of the cling film prison to find himself next to Cling Film Man’s golf club bag in the back of his sidecar, which was now parking up for a grandstand view of the festival.

Suddenly he remembered what his mother, Lady Saturn, had said to him as she had rocked him on her knee as an infant, ‘if ever Cling Film Man attacks you get his gun and fire it back at him. If you do that he will turn into a lump of polystyrene.’

Dirk felt that a good throttle would not go amiss before sending Cling Film Man to plastic hell, as he grew into his seven foot five inch frame again, leapt from the sidecar and towered over Cling Film Man who was totally unaware of him and swaying to the beat. Dirk reached out and grabbed his hapless enemy by the throat, then stared in fiercest rage directly into Cling Film Man’s terrified eyes.

‘So you would try to foil Dirk Destiny,’ he roared. ‘How dare you spoil my day off!’

Cling Film Man gulped as much as a Man being throttled could gulp, and saw his life flash before him as Dirk nicked the gun from his pouch. As he re-enacted his creation from plastic waste at the cling film factory in Braintree, Essex, Cling Film Man found himself facing the barrel of his own gun. Dirk fired and Cling film Man felt himself being recycled into a lump of polystyrene with a closing thought of ‘Ouch that hurt!’

Dirk looked at the lump of polystyrene with not a hint of sadness and popped it into his pocket for analysis at Great Uncle Vortex’s pathetic specimens lab. After enjoying a turn from Lady Gaga and then Rhianna, he set off into the night on his new Triumph.

Alpe D'Huez

'I say, Bertie, I fancy a spot of skiing this winter. I hear there’s a new resort opened up in Alpe D’Huez in the French Alps. 1936 was the first season.' Aubrey looked at his man servant as he stood with back to the fire, steaming mug of Horlicks in hand. ‘I think we’ll avoid Bavaria this time. Too many of those frightful Nazis swanning around the resort and making a racket in the beer halls.’

‘Indeed Sir, and do you wish me to accompany you on this expedition?’ Bertie’s eyebrow rose quizzingly and spoke almost as loudly as his voice.

‘Bertie I would be lost without you. Even if cousin Mabel accompanied us I would have no-one to enjoy a good gin and tonic with over a blazing fire.’

‘Will you be requiring the Bentley, Sir? If so I will have to unfreeze the radiator and test the starting handle, as well as topping up the oil. I need a day to check everything is in order. The garage is still under a foot of snow.'

‘Absolutely Bertie. Make sure you use some of that Castrol oil left over from last year. We will take the Bentley to Croydon Airport and park her there for two weeks. It only costs 3 shillings to leave her on the tarmac.’

‘Golly gosh, Sir, that’s frightfully expensive. Would it be more precipitous to take the train?’

‘The train is too inconvenient Bertie, and even more expensive. Why, these days only rich people can travel by train! Could you possibly wax my skis and find my poles and boots, there’s a good man? They should all be in the attic.’

‘Consider it done Sir.’ Bertie’s response was as smooth as a Baileys flavoured coffee as he swung around and disappeared up the hall stairs to forage in the eaves.

As Aubrey settled down to a glass of port with Stilton and grape accompaniments that evening, his faithful butler peered into the room around the wood panelled door. ’Sir, I need to prepare your wardrobe for our trip to the Alps. What vestments would you like me to pack?'

‘I need my four Norwegian jumpers, including the red one with the reindeer patterns, that’s my favourite. I also need my khaki ski jacket that I wore in Bavaria last winter and a selection of my Canadian lumberjack shirts. Then I’ll take the boots that I bought at Harrods in the summer. I will leave it to you to include a selection of undergarments sufficient for a two week stay. Oh, and don’t forget a cache of my favourite Cuban cigars. You know how I love to smoke one after a workout on the piste.’

Bertie bowed gracefully as he left the room, ‘I will do it immediately Sir.’

The morning of the 15^th December 1937 dawned crisp and clear as Aubrey’s bright yellow Bentley edged out of the gates of Tottering Towers in deepest Sussex and wound its way towards the A23 trunk road. Soon they were belting along the newly laid dual carriageway with barely another car in sight. Aubrey wore his flying jacket from the Haywards Heath Air Training Corps and his brown leather helmet, gloves and goggles given him last Christmas by great aunt Sybil.

And so it was that Aubrey Lancelot found himself at Croydon Airport on the 15^th December 1937, booked on a flight in a silver and blue De Havilland aeroplane of the British and Overseas Airways company to Grenoble for a private transfer to the chalet.

Just a bit of fun!

　

Alpe D’Huez is a great resort for beginners like me. It’s shaped like a giant bowl, the higher you go, the steeper and higher the slopes. This is not always the case as with some resorts you have to travel high to get to the easy slopes. It is one of the biggest ski resorts in the world. I went there in the first week of the season when prices are down, the first week of the winter holidays. A group of about thirty of us took over a large and very cosy chalet just down the road from the most unusual town church.

Alpe D'Huez

I caught an Easyjet flight £158 return from Gatwick and we were buried by an avalanche of school girls on board in a state of hyper excitement. ‘Oh my gosh, see that guy over there in the airport bus with the red jacket with hood on. He’s in the Olympic team. Oh my gosh, I love him,' they squealed. Bobbing up and down and turning around in their seats like chipmunks, it made the flight a tad noisier than average.

Access is by a £45 return two hour transfer from Grenoble Airport which eventually whisks you up from the valley floor via a succession of hairpin bends to the resort at altitude 4100 to 10930 ft. The area has been used by the Tour De France as a stage finish, the road up to Alpe D’Huez having 21 hairpin bends.The transfer is run by Ben's Buses and yes, Ben is a real live person and not just a trademark. They have a great personal service and liase with you as you get off the plane in Grenoble, make sure everyone is on board before leaving with a proper register, and let you know what;s going on if there's a problem. I was impressed.

Dusk

I booked the holiday at the last minute for £378 which included a week’s half board in my own room complete with single and double beds, with very generous ensuite facilities. It's got to be a winner when the sink is large, man, and there's generous space all around to place your jumble of toiletries, as well as cupboard space. Complimentary shower gel and shampoo were also provided. 

A generous breakfast which always offers porridge is complemented by all day tea and coffee, tea and cake (extra yummy and plentiful) at 4.30pm onwards every afternoon, and a three course meal at 7.30 in the evening with as much wine as you want. But be careful of drinking too much wine as it overrides the sleep function in your body, and sleep is what you need as skiing is a full week's workout.

Hi from Alpe D'Huez

The chalet is pretty central just down the road from the church and five minutes from the ski hire shop. I had booked too late to organise my skiing from the UK and had to do it when I got there, but this was to be a blessing in disguise. At the shop I was told that despite having been skiing just once before I was good enough for the silver pack, 120 euro for skis, poles and boots for the week. On top of this was the ski instruction, 155 euro for 5/6 days (same price for both). I did incredibly well because on the last Saturday morning no-one turned up for the lesson from my group, it being changeover day, and I ended up having one to one tuition which is normally incredibly expensive! My instructor was a tree surgeon off season.

I also did really well with my ski pass as a woman offered me her ski pass for four days until her husband turned up. It meant I only had to buy a pass for a further three days. She said treat it as an early Christmas present!

I spent the first day of ski school with the beginners and then graduated to level 1 the next day. My first instructor was an older woman who has a vineyard when she’s not ski instructing (someone has to do it!). My second instructor was Cedric, a young Frenchman who pointed out as soon as I joined the group that 'we have nice girls in this group,' which gives you some idea of the attractions of being a ski instructor.

The gang!

A typical day for me was waking up almost without exception between 6 and 7am to ready myself for the day. This is normally unheard of when I am on holiday, but when your ski lesson starts at 9.15 an early breakfast is essential. Downing porridge with syrup, eggs, yoghurt and tea (on at least on two occasions I was the first down to breakers) was followed by a quick ablution session before departing with four layers (vest, thick shirt, fleece and outer jacket) to the boot room to collect skis, poles and boots. Then it was down to the 'lobster pots' to take us up the hill to the ski school. 'Lobster pots' is the term given to the ski lift that takes you to the slopes and the first cable car station, and every morning  there was a huge queue to get on because it's the only way up the mountain for the school groups, ski schoolers and ordinary skiers. Somewhat infuriating as it made us late a couple of times in the week, although the holiday manager gave us a lift in the minibus a couple of times. Ski school ran for two and three quarter hours, when you bond in various stages of incompetence with your fellow beginners. Every day it's someone's turn to collapse spectacularly or otherwise in mountains of snow when off piste or bone shaking thumps when on piste. This pastime is seriously hard on the legs and learning parallel skiing I found a steep learning curve as you try to balance on your outside left ski as you swing round to the right and vice versa. By the end of the week I reckon I was almost beginning to look like an elegant swan gliding across the piste, looking ahead and downhill, holding my poles in front of me, keeping my skis parallel, and bending my knees forward, but this was after no end of tumbles and racing out of control across the piste, miraculously staying on my feet on numerous occasions.

A highlight was going off piste on a couple of occasions with our instructor and into really deep fresh snow. This was a chance to show off one's balance in more extreme conditions or to disappear in a whirlwind of flailing skis into a self made hole in the snow. The first day I managed to sail through all this like an old timer and was quite pleased with myself. The next day I crashed and burned not once but twice as my street cred shot through the floor. 

Falling over is inevitable but to be avoided as much as possible given the extreme difficulty of getting up with your skis still on! I think the younger you are the easier it is. Imagine an upended turtle trying to right itself and that is how I felt. Every time I rose with the help of my poles, my skis slid away and down I went. The best solution was to remove one ski. Then you have the problem of getting your boots back in the skis when the soles and bindings are stuffed with snow and ice. One day I gave up trying to put my ski back on and walked down the slope, hard work at the best of times. When I checked the bindings at the shop, there was nothing wrong with them!

Afternoons are spent practising what you've learnt in the morning either with friends or fellow learners from the ski school. If your partner is about your level, you are likely to stay with them for the whole afternoon. If however your partner has superior skiing skills, starting the afternoon as a twosome becomes a distant memory as they ski a hundred miles ahead of you and only reconnect with you for late afternoon tea at the chalet, where they wonder what on earth happened to you.

With about thirty of us guests in the chalet it was easy to get to know one another and very sociable as we enjoyed dinner together every night at the long tables in the dining room, and were served by an excellent set of waiters and waitresses. Notices previewed the next day's arrangements and all important weather details (basically a bumper snow week!) and also notified us of evening activities which were mainly of the indoors type and variations on parlour games. These engendered a healthy level of competitiveness and a good chance to get to know the rest of the group. 

Before dinner we were led in meetings by a school chaplain who did a very good job of leading us in carol singing and some devotions and discussion on the Christmas story. This was an ideal time to collect one's thoughts and thank God for the day's blessings, including protection from broken legs, etc! A recent DVD of the nativity story complete with nasty evil Herod and convincing narrative was used to illustrate the devotions. In fact one evening's activity was to watch the film in its entirety.

So most apres piste activity stayed inside the chalet given the extreme level of friendliness of the guests, although on the last night some of us remembered there was a town out there and hit the Igloo bar in the centre of Alpe D'Huez.

. If you've never been skiing, give it a go! You will love it.