The debonair Basil Marigold's

And so, it ends. After 12 calendar months, our English Heritage membership expires in a few days. It's been quite a good year. It has made us explore the heritage locally and even driven our choice in holidays, too! The family membership cost us about £70. I has, completely, and without qualification, a little bit of a bargain. It started when I realised in June of last year that we were heading, in August to Brixham and in October to Scarborough. Noticing that English Heritage held three properties near Brixham; Berry Pomeroy, Totnes and Dartmouth Castles (all within driving distance). We also knew that membership also opened the doors of Scarborough Castle and Whitby Abbey. Again, places we would be near in October. For £70 this seemed an excellent opportunity to access some good sites. With all the entries for these places we felt that we could break even on the £70 if we didn't take membership and paid for access. At my last reckoning. The amount of money we would have

There is a song I love. It is from the 60's and it was written and performed by two, very talented, individuals. They were called, Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel. At its release it was a huge hit. This song is currently acting as the soundtrack to my current weekend scenerio. The good lady wife, AND the children are away for this weekend. Camping, near Lincolnshire. The house is very quiet. Very, very quiet. Hence the above. It is quite odd not having them all around the house. This must be what it will be like, when I have retired. They return tomorrow.

My wife has the main car. It's the one I use to commute the 60 miles to work and then back again in the evening. I will be using her runaround for 2 work days. It is a tiny little Toyota Yaris. There are a few things to be said, to add context. With me inside it, then. A) It's like putting an elephant into a shoe box! B) I have now had the car for 3 days and am still unable to figure out how to tune the radio to another station. C) I have, with the help of the next door neighbour, figured out how you turn main beam on and, more importantly, off again. So, that's been pretty successful. starting it, pointing it and stopping it has been okay so far, too! Yet, it's still an elephant in a shoe box.

Most people, at some time, will have come across the novels of, Stephen King. His main style of writing would almost certainly be identified as horror. Horror, on an epic scale. Some, would argue that his surname equates to his position in the canon of horror writers. If you wish to not sleep well, then focus on some of his early horror novels. I am not hugely into horror, both in literary and movie genre. It's never been something I would overly look for. Stephen King, however, I have read. Quite a few in fact. Though this phase would have been late teens/early twenties. We're talking a couple of decades ago. He is more than just a pure horror writer he thinks about it and a lot of the novels are quite philosophical. Yet, what he also wrote, very well, was fantasy. No horror in those, just plain fantasy. I also found this a little odd. Like Dickens suddenly popping a couple of comedy books out because he was bored of writing Victorian Dystopia. I read one of his called, the

Two weeks holiday is quite a rarity for me. It's usually measured by week. However, this August I managed to secure a fortnight away from work. It has seemed a very long time, in a good way! As well as visiting some wonderful places, both on the north and south of England. From tip to toe, so to speak. It has also allowed me some serious reading time. I have made us of this. I have made some decent inroads into my planned holiday reads. My holiday reads mainly fall into two categories; quick reads, and, requires effort. I find this is the best combination as I tend to read multiple books at the same time. A hangover from my Uni days. I, invariably, read my, requires work books over a period of weeks and months. The quick reads I'll do in a day or two days. So, this year I packed four books. And here they are; AETHELSTAN: (Tom Holland) quick read Usually, Works of history would fall into the requires work section. And my recent obsession with the War of the Roses,

I may, every now and then, post my tips of wisdom, as a seasoned husband. On the pitfalls to avoid. Today is one of those. The lesson here is one on observation.  When on Holiday. And your wife asks you were the toilets are? (in the town you lived in for 25 years) don't get confused and provide false information! Also, even if you see an old lady walk into the toilet block first. NEVER ASSUME SHE KNOWS WHAT ON EARTH SHE IS DOING.  While confidently pointing out the ladies toilets to your wife, who then proceeds to head into the toilet after the old woman. The alarms bells should, ultimately ring, when just soon afterwards a person of opposite gender to women, walks out doing his flies up. THIS IS A CLUE THAT AN ERROR MAY HAVE OCCURRED. At this point. Prepare. You may, just may, have sent your wife into the men's toilet. This is a husbanding error. This will be reinforced when your wife clocks the urinals on the way out!

Tintagel. Just one name.  One place.  It has a resonance with me. It has a resonance with England. It is a crucible of the greatest of the English Dark Age Myths. It was at Tintagel that Merlin transformed Uther Pendragon into the simulacra of the Duke of Cornwall. Uther then made love to Igraine, Cornwall’s young wife. The woman he fell in lust with. According to the stories, Uther, sacrificed the peace he had won, the position he had won to satisfy his lust. Everything tossed away for a night with this young, beautiful, woman.  The outcome of this night of passion was the birth of a boy. A boy whose name still echoes from the Dark Ages; Arthur. Taken by Merlin, as his price for giving Uther the night with Igraine. Taken and raised by another family until his destiny became clear. With the death of Uther, the country fell into civil war. Usher’s sword, Excalibur, riven into  a stone by Uther before his death, challenged all to try and remove the sword from the