Up the creek with a paddle

Given our temporary revised mission to 'embrace the familiar' rather than 'boldly go where we've never been before', it was  inevitable that we would end up here, in Cala Montgro.

It's a modern development dating from the second half of the twentieth century. The campsite we stay at - Ila Matua - used to have a wall sized black and white photo of the bay behind  its reception desk. It was taken in the 1920s, back then the area was just a big bare hill next to a cove with a few fisherman's huts. Now it looks like this.

The place proves that not all modern developments are horrible. The once bare hill is now covered in stylish white villas, one side of the cove has a few bars and restaurants and a couple of lo-rise hotels occupy the area next to the beach.

Inland among the pines there are two big 

campsites. Waking up in a forest of umbrella pines under a cloudless sky, the temperature already in the high teens and forecast to hover around the high twenties by mid-afternoon - it's  perfecto! 

To the west of Cala Montgro the coastline is pristine, stretching for about 8kms towards l'Estartit.

Cala Montgro itself is a suburb of the small resort of l'Escala, but it doesn't feel like that. There's a patch of protected forest between the development and L'Escala, which as Spanish resorts go is quite low key, lively without being raucous.

A gate at the top of the site connects with a clifftop path. You get a great view from here across the Bay of Roses. The eponymous big resort across the bay does not dominate the scene, it's merely a small pyramid of white concrete on the low coastal hills across a broad  expanse of blue, with the misty Pyrenees on the horizon. 

We love it here and stayed for a week, which by our itchy feet standards is more or less forever.

In late September the local supermarket still operates, it's big enough to meet most of our needs, so we only pedalled into l'Escala once. It's an alluring seaside town, though bigger than it seems from the promenade. 

Villa developments have spread out from the old town centre, many are half hidden in the pine forest. It doesn't feel like a sprawl. In some ways the area reminds me of Moraira, another low key Spanish resort we enjoy revisiting. Not this trip though, the northern Costa Brava is as far as are going to get.

So unusually we have mooched about for a week, taking it easy, respecting my various 'conditions'. Well, up to a point. Gill must have noticed me getting ever more frustrated about not being able to do normal stuff, like pick heavy things up or cycle more than a few kilometres. What I needed, she decided, was a new challenge that was within my capabilities, I just hadn't realised the fact. 

A few days before we left home a large Amazon parcel arrived. Unusually it wasn't for Laura who seems to buy everything on line - ingredients, cosmetics, clothing. She is such a regular she is knows most of the Evri drivers by their first name.

 It's for you, Gill explained standing beside the big box - a surprise present.  She had bought me a stand-up paddle board. The calm waters of Cala Montgro are the perfect place to practice. After watching half a dozen instructional videos on YouTube we headed for the beach. The board comes in a big backpack, too heavy for me at the moment. Luckily we carry a small folding trolley with us which was perfect for trundling the board down to the sea.

Inflating the board is good exercise in itself, luckily only involving arm and chest muscles as you work up a sweat. SUP (stand up paddle) boards are bigger than you imagine, more small kayak sized than an overgrown surf board.

Over two days I managed to paddle about kneeling on the board and mastered the art of going in a straight line and steering the thing. My two attempts at standing up ended with a big splash. It is very tricky and will take a lot more practice. What my inadvertent deep dives taught me was how to clamber back on board  after you've fallen in. An essential skill. 

So work in progress which I will continue early next year when we return to Spain. I guess I will be wearing my trisuit as the Mediterranean in February is considerably chillier than in late September. Maybe the prospect of falling head first into very cold water will improve my balance and finally I will manage to stand up on my stand up paddle board.

Usual magic

I reckon this the tenth time we've visited Meze, the eighth when we've used the camping municipal in Loupian, an ancient village a few kilometres to west of the town. So why do we keep coming back?

A beautiful village -

We came across Loupian and it's lovely Camping Municipal in late October 2014 about a fortnight into our first 'big trip'. We loved the place immediately - this is what I wrote:

We had just bought a few groceries from the Carrefour Market in Mèze, packed them in our day-sacs and were pedalling back to the Camping Municipal in Loupian, about three kilometres up the 'piste cyclable' which winds its way through the Picpoul de Pinet vineyards. The sky was a sort of misty chalk-blue, the breeze light and warm, and the local padre was giving his belfry a bit of serious welly. I speeded up slightly and drew alongside Gill.

"This is delightful," I remarked.

"Indeed," Gill agreed.

...as in truth there was nothing more which could be said about the matter. The only noise disturbing this idyllic scene was the whirring of our electric bikes, which at slow speed can sound remarkably similar to a Coop milk float of mid 1970s vintage.

We stayed three night at Loupian. The village is set back a few kilometres from the Bassin de Thau, the salt water lagoon that stretched between the ancient ports of Sete and Agde. The village itself is a forgotten sort of place, a warren of narrow streets and tumbled down ramparts. On the outskirts a large church stands among the vineyards Maybe in times past the village was more important. Certainly the area has been settled for millennia, the remains of a large Roman villa can be found just outside the village.

It's not exactly as it used to be, nine years ago the place exuded a kind of half overlooked, dishevelled charm. Some of the houses seemed abandoned. In the ancient centre shops were closed, the footpath from the campsite to the village was unpaved and potholed.

Not now. A flower lined, smooth pavement leads to the village. The place itself has come back to life, a modern bus stop constructed, the ancient monuments sympathetically restored, all the houses now look occupied and well cared for. 

The boulangerie near the old square has reopened, the café on the main road has been spruced up and is well reviewed,  allotments have been established, in this climate you can grow anything - it's a land of plenty.

This didn't happen by magic. Though much of the southern France is a far right enclave , not all of it - nearby Sete has a communist mayor, Loupian's is left leaning too. What kind of community do you want - a collection of individuals, each vying to become wealthier than the next, or somewhere enriched collectively? Loupian still feels charming, but it's not dishevelled anymore, it is thriving and prosperous. It is possible to change things for the better, but only by working collectively - 'Vive la Republique!' Loupian asserts confidently.

 

A gorgeous landscape -

There is some very special about the landscape at the eastern end of the Bassin de Thau. It undulates gently along the shore of the big salt lagoon, its silvery expanse giving the light a kind of glittering luminance.

The land itself is green, a patchwork of woods, vineyards and arable farms. The coastal plain of Herault is expansive, the smudge of bluish grey to the north belies the magnificent wildness of the the limestone Causse to the north.

Above all, this is a very human landscape, a a land that has sustained us for thousands of years. Stand for a moment in some quiet spot hereabouts and you sense palpable ancientness, profound dwelling. As Carl Sagan said, 'preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known.'

Meze - a very particular place -

Authenticity is a somewhat unfashionable notion. I guess this is unsurprising given how much of our lives are experienced vicariously, moderated through media, curated on-line by anonymous algorithms. However, real stuff has not disappeared, but we choose to ignore it and stare at the screen instead. It's what I am doing now, and you too.

What's great about Meze is it exudes real stuff. We organised our time here to make sure we were here either on a Thursday or a Sunday - market day. It's a wonder to behold, part flea market but mainly produce. 

It covers the big square in front of the covered market...

...and the smaller one in front of the Marie, plane tree shaded with a beautiful fountain in the middle of it.

It's in the small details that you appreciate how much people care about living here. A small plaque memorialises the august local officials who erected the fountain in 1895. Gushing water has been the square's soundtrack for 128 years - there is nothing virtual about water - and it's touching that these ordinary officials are remembered for their work more than a century later, and the lettering is still pristine. 

Not any old croque -

It took us a few visits to Meze before we discovered the water bus service across the etang connecting the place to it's more famous neighbour, Sete. This was not an oversight on our part, the service only runs from the beginning of June to the end of September; most of our previous visits here have been at the end of spring trips in May or later in the autumn. In 2021, however, we celebrated the end of COVID restrictions by heading south early. We were in Meze by mid September, so we caught the late morning boat across to Sete, and the return at 3.00 pm, perfectly timed for a stroll through the Sete and a relaxed light lunch in a cafe.

So since we are embracing 'the same old' on this trip we decided to do exactly the same thing. Except of course things are never exactly the same if you repeat them. 

We cycled down to Meze port. Having just asserted a couple of paragraphs ago how authentic the place is, circumstances conspired to remind us that authenticity is a relative notion in France. At times the place is so French it feels as if some mysterious force of metafiction is at work, curating stuff so it achieves some kind of brand conformity. What seems implicitly French is actually complicitly so.

It's not the fact that the catamaran returning from a tourist trip to the oyster beds sailed proudly up the harbour with some excrable French pop song blasting from its speakers that created an impromptu theatrical moment, it was when people around us all started to hum along too.

You get the sense that time here doesn't unfold randomly like it does at home but occurs in episodes, like little skits. This continued as soon as we boarded the water bus.

Two guys and a young woman operated it. She seemed to be the trainee but did all the driving. One of the guys was captain, the other the mate. He collected the fares and was responsible for the acrobatic moment when he had to leap between the boat and the quayside, secure the mooring rope and drag out the gang plank. The captain made the point of not overtly supervising the trainee. The trainee was pointedly nonchalant, glancing back at the captain and making small talk, only occasionally checking on our progress across the etang, once or twice making a little detour to ensure the wake did not upend the odd paddle boarder brave enough to venture well offshore. 

The trainee concentrated a little harder as we entered Sete harbour. She had to position the long water bus exactly to fit under a low bridge the manoeuvre it carefully next to the stone landing stage. This involved slowing the tub-like craft by reversing the main engine then using lateral thrusters. It looked tricky, the captain moved within arm's reach of the wheel as she docked, but didn't need to intervene. The mate jumped off the stern onto the quay and secured the boat. The passengers give a small cheer and applauded. The young trainee flounced past us looking pleased with herself. You see, not simply a journey but an event, an episode which enfolded theatrically. This couldn't happen back home. We are taught from being toddlers that it's rude to stare. In France people are much more relaxed about observing and being observed.

This affects how they represent themselves there is an unmistakable 'French look'. It catches your eye from advertising hoardings and adorns public buildings.  

 A few metres from the water bus landing Sete station's handsome facade decorated with 'the look'

A little further - on a perfume advert. Unequivocally French.

We made our way through Sete's attractive streets the run alongside a grid of canals. Like Loupian the place looks more prosperous than it used to. When we visited here with the kids, maybe fifteen years ago it had a slightly raffish old port feel. Today it's more stylish and chic.

Two years ago we happened upon a small cafe - Torrefaction Noailles. We loved it, informal, stylish, inexpensive, serving simple homemade food with style and panache. I went off on one over a croque named after Rita Hayworth.

The people who own it are great, a bit extravert and artsy, but very accommodating. Gill explained about how parosmia was making it difficult for her to eat onion and garlic - a bit tricky in France! They rustled up a salad avoiding those ingredients specially for her. I indulged myself with another 'Rita Hayworth'. 

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Then back to Meze on the 3 o'clock boat. Only the two guys this time, maybe the trainee was resting on her laurels. Seeking out different places is a worthwhile aim, but old haunts can be comforting, and right now I think that's something we both need.

Mission drift (852 miles later)

Fifteen days ago I was popping antibiotics in Lyme Regis and thinking about Mary Anning, faith and scepticism.  Now I am in Loupian, in our favourite camping municipal, a short bike ride through the Picpoul de Pinet vineyards from Meze, our favourite small market town in France, and thinking about nothing in particular. 

The weather is stunning deep blue Med and set to stay that way for the foreseeable future, so definitely an improvement, even if I am still popping antibiotics . 

It's been clear for a couple months that until my health issues were resolved our usual trick of disappearing into the blue yonder for months on end was going to have to be put on hold. We dialled back our ambition to explore Sardinia and planned a shorter trip to familiar places in the Languedoc and Costa Brava - serious mission drift from our avowed aim to always head for somewhere new. 

However, I felt so wrecked in the Eden Project. Until my sudden, intense inflammatory flare-ups can be controlled planning anything longer than a few days became problematic. I am the sole driver so far as the moho is concerned. Gill's eyesight is fine to drive the car locally, but she is not happy driving the moho, especially abroad. 

By day three the course of antibiotics prescribed by the Cornish doc. kicked in. I began feel perkier. We caught the bus into Lyme Regis again on the final day of our West Country  break. I managed  to walk a couple of miles without having to sit down that often, and when Gill bought some chips I filched a couple, so maybe my appetite was returning too.

We headed west along the seafront towards the Cobb, Lyme Regis's historic harbour. Its iconic status was cemented by the famous  posters for the 'French Lieutenant's Woman', the 1981 film starring Meryl Streep and Jeremy Irons. The novel is set in Lyme Regis, and John  Fowles, the author lived locally. Its pleasing that the film was shot here too and the famous shot of Meryl Streep furtively glancing back in a hooded  cape is surely one of the most recognisable film posters ever. Both it and the equally famous image of the ill-starred lovers embracing on the sea wall as wild waves crashed over were shot here on the Cobb. 

It's quite rare for scenes from novels to be actually filmed in the places mentioned in the book. When we visited Locronan in Brittany years ago it had recently been used in Roman Polanski's film adaptation of 'Tess of the d'Urbervilles.'  Granite, in Dorset?  Same director, different film, I know for a fact that in Polanski's 'Macbeth' Birnam Wood did not 'move towards Dunsinane' but in fact trundled across a scrap of soggy peat on Chatton moor in Northumberland. I was there,  an 'extra' clutching a small Christmas tree, it was November 1970, cold, wet and blustery. 

Today the scene on the Cobb wasn't wild and atmospheric like in the movie poster, much jollier, more fish and chips, ice creams and deck chairs for hire. 

Elsewhere in the blog I've been quite rude about British resorts asserting that although I love the sea and coastal scenery generally I find 'the seaside' somewhat tawdry and naff. It's always good to have your prejudices challenged and be forced to think, 'but on the other hand..

On the other hand Lyme Regis is rather lovely. The seafront with its row of jolly beach huts, pebbly beach and sweeping cliffs is very pleasing.

 The chips we had were cooked to order and triple fried, the ice-cream, not exactly gelato, but a noble attempt at a facsimile. 

The town too, with it's steep streets stretching up the hill behind the beach is a pleasing mix of  Victoriana with older bits in-between. So, a lot to like in Lyme Regis.

Speaking of having to 'eat your words', I have also been quite snarky previously in the blog about venerable Saga victims droning on about their health issues - particularly the time in Olympia in Greece when we became embroiled with a 'seniors' cruise ship excursion. Gaggles of ancient Britons wandered about the place; oblivious to the magnificent site, instead they swapped anecdotes concerning their miriad ailments or described in lurid detail various gruesome medical procedures they had recently endured. I fear that I am becoming one of them.

The week after we got back I had my own personal 'health awareness week' with appointments at Balborough Hospital to discuss a hernia op. and feedback from the urology consultant at Stepping Hill. This felt like hard going to me, as I have spent most adult life studiously avoiding contact with the medical profession. So much so, that in 2002, when I fell down a metal fire escape while conducting a health and safety inspection at work, the nurse in the local minor injuries unit could find no NHS record of me whatsoever and enquired if I was actually a British citizen. This is all about to change.

It's been interesting being a rooky user of private healthcare. The upside is that you are treated as a customer rather than patient, so the interpersonal bit is all very slick and affiliative. The downside is as a new user they know nothing about you, so there is a lot of form-filling about your past medical history. Most of this was  repeated at my initial (£95) visit to the hospital. A ten minute chat with the surgeon about the operation was followed by a 45 minute consultation with two nurses who went over my medical history form with me in detail and carried out a full health check - heart, lungs, blood tests, blood pressure, height, weight, basic ECG. I had told them about my heart murmur which prompted one of them to pop out and have a chat about my condition with an  anaesthetist. This has resulted in a follow up visit in six weeks time for a more in-depth ECG (£195) to decide if a general or epidural anaesthetic is my best option. Would this have happened in an NHS setting? Their priority is to stay within budget; the aim of a private provider is to maximise income, it is a classic example of 'you pays your money and you takes your choice'. 

If all goes to plan my hernia will get fixed sometime in November and we will be able to disappear off to Iberia as usual for 10 weeks at the beginning of February. The waiting list for an NHS op locally is 11 months. I reckon the private treatment will cost a shade under £3000; however, our cut-down month long autumn trip to Languedoc and the Costa Brava will cost  £1500 less than the longer one we had  planned to Sardinia and Northern Italy, and the saving will part pay the bill from the hospital. Fingers crossed it all goes to plan.

Which brings me to my other meeting - with the consultant urologist. It had the potential to be a tad traumatic, but the dramatic potential was somewhat undermined by the fact that I inadvertently discovered the outcome on-line ten days before my scheduled appointment. Our trip to the West Country had been punctuated by phone calls from the team at Balborough Hospital trying to get a copy of a CT scan carried out by Buxton Hospital in mid August. I ended up as the go-between, gently encouraging our somewhat dysfunctional GP practice that it was ok to share the results of my hernia scan with a private provider. The hospital asked for date of the scan, the GP practice was not certain. I had the bright idea it might have been recorded on my online NHS records. I looked them up. There was no mention of the scan but the results of my prostate biopsy had been posted the day before.

I figure that I am level headed person, not someone who given to unexpected emotional outbursts. Still, if I had not been semi-prepared for a possible negative outcome by the nurse practitioner who  referred me for for further tests, the headline diagnosis sitting on my records - Prostate Cancer - might well have tested my avowed 'sang-froid'. 

As ever, it was important to read the small print, in this instance the words 'gleason 3+3 low grade' in tiny letters at the bottom of the page. Selina (the nurse practitioner) had explained that the result the raft of blood tests she had organised for me

showed I was in good general health for my age. She was particularly complimentary about my liver function. That surprised me given my longstanding support for the European wine industry.  One thing concerned her - a PSA score of 9.4. 'It's not stratospheric, but still a bit high', she observed, 'it probably indicates you have developed prostatitis, but it's not unusual for men of your age to have some signs of prostate cancer too, I need to refer you to a specialist.' She intended to reassure me when she commented, 'more men die with prostate cancer than from it', but the effect was somewhat Phyrric.

So what did I do as I waited for the urology appointment to come through? That's right, I scoured the internet for information about prostate cancer. In the process I learned about gleason scores. So far as I understood it, 3+3 meant there were cancerous cells present but they were localised and not malignant. In these cases patients tended to be monitored but not actively treated.

This is exactly what happened when I saw the consultant ten days later. For the next year I will be monitored every three months, then twice yearly after then so long as my PSA count stays the same. I was very impressed by the consultant and the Macmillan nurse who talked to me. The were clear, but kind and supportive. I explained that I was hoping to head off to Europe in my motorhome the following week but was concerned that the infection that I had suffered in Cornwall might reoccur while I was travelling. The nurse provided me with a prescription for a course of antibiotics that I could carry with me as a backup. Furthermore she gave me a card with her phone number on it if I needed further advice. At the front end the NHS does come across as semi-collapsed, but I cannot fault the specialist treatment I received and Gill's ongoing dealings with Manchester Eye Hospital have been equally impressive.

We drove home, booked the ferry and six days later headed for the Med. It's been a strange summer but a Mediterranean landscape under a  blue sky will undoubtedly lift my mood even though it can't in itself fix my medical issues. Our plan was to scoot through France, straight south from Dieppe, swapping a Pennine view for a Med one with just three overnight stops.

1. Dieppe, after one of the choppiest channel crossings we've ever experienced. The sea just outside Newhaven docks looked like something conjoured up by J W Turner.

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then tedious hours through the boring bit...

2. Dreux,  Not the most prepossessing town in France, the ring road's surface is still melted here and there where cars were torched during the riots a couple of months ago. The Camping Car Park is in an industrial area on the edge of town. We were the only people in it when we arrived and felt a bit nervous. A couple of other vans arrived later in the afternoon which is always reassuring. Struggling for highlights here - the goats in the field next to us were very inquisitive, trotting up to the fence if you used the recycling bins. I suspect people using the Aire must feed them. Also next to us a very large concrete cube. I guess most people would dismiss it as an eyesore, but I have a soft spot for these things.

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I am sure Gill really enjoyed my musings as  to whether the edifice could truly be considered Brutalist, given that the texturing on the concrete was so subtly understated..

3. Bruyére Allichamp - Where? You might well ask! Google it and you will be told this unassuming village a few kilometres south of Bourges is the geographical centre of France. This is not why we are here. It's another place with a handy Camping Car Park, this one in a pleasant wooded area near le Cher - a classic 'field in France'.

We walked into the old centre, it's a typical sleepy French village. 

It's geographic claim to fame is memorialised, but the monument is distinctly underwhelming, reminiscent of Spinal Tap's bathetic Stonehenge.

3.Massiac.  Another Camping Car Park - this one part of a Camping Municipal. The campsite operates April to October, the Camping Car Park, because the app driven entrance system is automatic, is open all year. The place is in a great location just off the (toll free) A75. I am sure we use it regularly. Massiac itself is an attractive hill town, though we skipped it's charms this time in our haste to get south.

Next day ..852 miles and four days from Buxton - nous sommes arrivés.

Ages of Rock vs Rock of Ages

In recent years I have given up on reading novels, preferring non-fiction. Perhaps the older you get the more you sense the veracity of the adage about truth being stranger than fiction . Also the subjects that interest me have changed as I've aged, leaning towards more scientific, evidence based books rather than those exploring ideas and theories or telling stories. It's great when you discover authors that challenge your perception of things or open your eyes to a whole new field of knowledge.

So, my past few months' big finds: Thomas Halliday's 'Otherlands, A World in the Making' - this is an astonishing book which picks key moments from the geological past, then honing in on a particular location explores how the flora, fauna and climatic conditions interacted to create the ecologies of earth's ancient past. The author combines a grasp of how past ecosystems functioned with a vivid, poetic style of writing - it's an inspirational book. 

Prof. Alice Roberts! Someone else who has cheered me up this year. I first encountered her as the pink haired presenter of the BBC archeology programme 'Digging for Britain'.

She comes over as knowledgeable and enthusiastic with an engaging TV persona. Read her books and you realise this is merely a sideline. Dr. Roberts describes herself as an anthropologist, but that is not how she started out. She's a proper doctor specialising forensic medicine. This gives her specialist expertise in the archeology of ancient human remains.  Furthermore, she's a talented artist too. A uniquely gifted individual. 

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I read two of her books earlier this year, one traces the history of The Celts, the other 'The Incredible Human Journey ' explores how our species evolved in Africa's Rift Valley around a quarter of a million years ago, then gradually spread across the globe over the past 100,000 years. What is great about Alice Roberts' books is she has a knack of being able to present complex scientific debate as an engaging narrative. She invites the reader to join her on an exciting factual quest.

 

Earlier the summer I read two books from the 1990s by Carl Sagan. He too was adept at writing about science in a way which is engaging and accessible to non-specialists.

The first, 'Pale Blue Dot' considers how the exploration of space has changed our perception of Earth. The latter part of it is quite futuristic, a tad 'to boldly go', nevertheless it's thought provoking and hopeful, which at the moment seems like a commodity in short supply. 

The second book, 'The Demon-Haunted World: Science a Candle in the Dark' is more polemical, an impassioned plea for people to take a more evidence based, scientific approach to solving the problems that face humanity. It's not exactly anti- religious, though Sagan was an avowed atheist. His point is simple, we can put our faith in whatever we want, but only science can help us understand and provide solutions to the environmental,  climatic and demographic challenges which face us, and the more people who understand the evidence based, empirical method that underpins scientific enquiry the more likely we are to succeed. Moreover, developing a healthy skepticism protects us from being duped by political schysters pedalling their particular brand of mythic  'sunny upland', or the self serving ministrations of priests for that matter. 

I think Carl Sagan would have approved of the The Eden Project. However I know for a fact that Alice Roberts loves where we are right now - Lyme Regis. Last year the local council finally acknowledged their most 'illustrious son' was actually 'a daughter'.  

For such a small place quite a few famous people have been associated with Lyme Regis, Joseph Lister,  the pioneering surgeon, the novelists Jane Austen and John Fowles, the pioneering geologist, Sir William Buckland. The only one, until recently, memorialised in bronze is the Elizabethan privateer and adventurer, Sir George Somers. We passed his statue in the small park next to Marine Drive as we made our way from the bus stop on the main street to the seafront promenade.

However, in 2022 a statue of Mary Anning was erected overlooking the cliffs of the 'Jurassic Coast' which stretch eastwards towards Golden Cap, the highest point on the south coast of England. The area has been dubbed the 'Jurassic Coast' because during the early decades of the nineteenth century a series of spectacular fossil finds in the area helped pioneering paleontologists nail down the chronology of earth's geological past. Thinkers like Sir William Buckland are rightly celebrated for their groundbreaking work that paved the way for a later generation of scientists, such as Charles Darwin They ushered in our modern understanding of Earth's formation based on observation and analysis rather than faith. 

However, these achievements are predicated on having the evidence to look at in the first place. The fossil finders of Lyme Regis are key players in this story. The greatest of them was Mary Anning, her achievements made all the more remarkable given she was born in 1799, the  daughter of a carpenter. She was taught to read and write at the Congregationalist sunday school she attended but had no other formal education. Mary didn't just find fossils, but had a grasp of the current scientific debates about them though reading and correspondence with the leading paleontologists of the day. She is a heroic figure, herstory incarnate.

It's quite outrageous that it took until 2022 for a statue of Mary Anning to be erected in the town. Thankfully, the sculptor  Denise Dutton has captured Mary's indomitable spirit. She is represented striding forward confidently, a geologist's hammer in her left hand, an amonite in the other, accompanied by her faithful canine companion, Tray.

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The website 'Love Lyme' explains how it was local activism helped fund the statue:

"A monument worthy of this monumental woman was revealed on Saturday 21 May 2022 by Professor Alice Roberts.

The installation of the statue marked the culmination of a four year campaign by the Mary Anning Rocks group which was started by schoolgirl Evie Swire, then aged 11 and her mother, Anya Pearson. 

Schoolgirl Evie and her mum Anya started the campaign to install a long overdue statue in Mary’s hometown back in 2018. Evie regularly goes fossil hunting in the same spots that Mary Anning uncovered her most prestigious finds and was bemused why a permanent memorial to her hero did not exist.

Campaign group Mary Anning Rocks was formed, raising more than £100,000 for a bronze statue which was created by Stoke-on-Trent-based sculptor Denise Dutton.The campaign for a statue had the backing of by Prof Alice Roberts, who appeared in a promotional video commenting "I think it's so important that we recognise people like Mary Anning and celebrate them, it's about restoring her to her rightful place in the history of science.

"It's about making sure that anyone who visits Lyme Regis knows that this really important woman was there doing that work in the early days of palaeontology"

It's fitting that Alice Roberts unveiled the statue. She exudes the same adventurous, pioneering spirit and judging by her television programmes is a scientist who is happier wearing walking boots than donning a lab coat. 

There are some unforgettable moments from the 'Incredible Human Story' TV series that accompanies her book - a scene where she shadows two bushman hunters  matching their speed and stamina as they jog for hours across Namibian savannah with temperatures in the mid thirties, explaining as she goes along how human's lack of body hair and their ability to sweat had given them an advantage when chasing down their furrier prey, which suffered heat exhaustion in the hot afternoon sun. Or in another episode when she survived the profound cold of an arctic night sitting on the back of a Siberian reindeer herders sledge as they zipped over the frozen tundra, towed by a snowmobile. The tribe's winter clothing is entirely fashioned from reindeer hide, sewn together using a tough thread spun from the animal's sinews. It proved more insulating than Alice's hi-tec, very expensive looking padded jacket. Human ingenuity has enabled us to adapt to widely different climates, our prehistoric forbears able to thrive in both the searing heat of the Sahara or the bitter cold of the Arctic. 

We have faced 'climate emergencies' before and come through, which gives me hope that we can adapt again and survive the current one, but only if we do as Greta says, 'and listen to the scientists'.

We only took a brief trip into Lyme Regis, a couple of hours, just enough time to find the Mary Anning statue and visit the town museum nearby. After yesterday's debacle at the Eden Centre I'm taking it easy. No rushing about. 

The museum does a good job of telling the story of how the fossils found hereabouts played an important role in our understanding of 'Creation', replacing the mythical with the factual.

On the bus back to the campsite I found myself musing about the work of Enlightenment era geologists whose observations began to undermine the prevailing belief in the literal truth of the Biblical account of Creation. By the latter decades of the eighteenth century the Scottish naturalist, James Hutton had worked out that Earth was millions of years old and the rocks themselves were subject to change through erosion and vulcanism. It became clear that the account in Genesis was mythological. It was a 'Trojan horse' moment, if the first book wasn't actually true then what about the rest of them?

For some reason the hymn 'Rock of Ages' occurred to me. So I googled it. It was written in 1775 by a radical Anglican clergyman with the unlikely name of Augustus Toplady. He had a moment of divine inspiration while sheltering from a storm in  cleft of rock in Cheddar gorge. The experience formed the basis of his famous hymn which uses the image of the sheltering rock as a metaphor for immutability of divine love. 

Rock of Ages, cleft for me,

let me hide myself in thee;

let the water and the blood,

from thy wounded side which flowed,

be of sin the double cure;

save from wrath and make me pure.

It's a well loved hymn and rather beautifully written. I can appreciate the artfulness of its extended metaphor. The final verse goes like this: 

While I draw this fleeting breath,

when mine eyes shall close in death,

when I soar to worlds unknown,

see thee on thy judgment throne,

Rock of Ages, cleft for me,

let me hide myself in thee.

It's a remarkable assertion of faith but completely beyond my ken. There is no evidence whatsoever that God sits on a judgement throne in 'worlds unknown'. It's amazes me how anyone can believe any of this can be true, but there are billions of people of faith in the world who do believe in some afterlife or other. My heroes are the people like Mary Anning and James Hutton, Carl Sagan and Alice Roberts who explore what is palpable. There is as much solace to be found in doubt as there is in faith. In the end, even though my first degree is in the History of Art, these days I would rather appreciate a rock face than a cathedral facade.

Determined or stubborn (poorly sick in Eden)

Yesterday was difficult, but I did perservere, I can be very determined. Gill sees it from a different standpoint, 'when you think you are determined really you are being stubborn', she has observed on more than one occasion. Today she may have had a point. 

After yesterday's shenanigans the sensible thing to have done would have been to phone the Eden Project, changed the date of our visit, and relaxed in Eden Valley Holiday Park's tranquil wooded surrounding for a couple of days until the antibiotics worked their magic. But no, that's not what I did, I was determined (stubborn) and pushed on as planned, arriving at the Eden Project about 30 minutes  before our timed entry at 11.30am. Having double dosed on the pills the previous night and taken another this morning I was convinced I would soon feel much better. 

It is a fabulous place. A jaw dropping achievement when you consider the devastated landscape left by the clay pits when they closed in the 1990s. 

The two huge biomes, one showcasing flora from the Mediterranean, the other tropical trees and plants, are wonderful.

But equally so are the acres of steeply terraced gardens surrounding them showcasing plants from more temperate zones.

 I particularly loved the big vegetable garden. It took me back to the greener version of us from the early eighties, our Sarah Brown veggie era, my well thumbed copy of John Seymour's 'Self Sufficiency Handbook'. Our first Barratt house in West Lancashire, bought new, occupied quite a big plot. We developed a sizeable vegetable plot in the back garden. I honestly believed at that point that we might manage to adopt an alternative lifestyle. 

It didn't happen. I got a job in Buxton. Growing your own 1000' up in the Pennines is a demoralising experience. The town does have allotments but it must be a struggle. Anyway once we had a family living a rural idyll on a shoestring was not an option. It took both of us working just to get by. Instead we took to heading south 'en famille' whenever we could to escape the Pennine gloom. We've continued ever since.

The Eden Project gives you hope, that through collective action and vision we can reverse environmental degradation. 

Our plan was to visit one of the biomes, have lunch at the cafe nestled between the two, then head for the other one. The question was, which one first? We chose to head for the tropical zone first.

In the event it turned out to be exactly the wrong thing to do. A series of walkways zig-zag their way 155 metres upwards, emulating the differing microclimates in a tropical rain forest. It takes at least 45 minutes to complete the trail.

 A temperature gauge at the top registered 100% humidity, which gave the air temperature of 39° a real feel of 47°. I reacted to this very badly. By the time we reached the open air I felt very poorly indeed and could only walk about 50 metres between rests and the slightest incline felt like climbing a mountain. 

There was no other option but to cut our visit short, return to the van and head back to the campsite. Luckily tickets to the project allow you to make as many return visits as you wish anytime in the following 12 months. We will return next spring and see everything.

Back at the campsite we took stock of our predicament. Tempting as it was to cut our trip short, we were 300 miles from home, and we would need to find somewhere to break the journey. That meant two days of driving with me feeling quite ill. If we stuck to our original plan - a three night stay in Lyme Regis - it meant after a 100 mile drive tomorrow, I would have a couple of days to recuperate before the long drive home, time enough, we hoped, for the antibiotics to work. This seemed like the best plan.