Old Blighty, green and pleasant lands....

Our overnight ferry crossing to Liverpool was easy. After a pub meal north of Dublin we navigated to the port OK and parked the car on the top deck of the ferry. We were told by the concierge the food was free for the sea voyage so I had a second dinner and, helped by a sea-sick pill, slept through to the morning wake-up at 4am. We were like zombies at the breakfast bar with all the truckies but the coffee worked and we quickly got on the motorway to the Lakes. The lack of sleep caught up at about 8am and we had to pull in to a service area to sleep in the car for 30 minutes. Slightly rejuvenated, we carried on and arrived at Jon and Annies at Horseshoes by Lake Coniston for a second (much healthier) breakfast.

As we found in Ireland, people don't change and we quickly resumed our long friendship as though we'd never been apart. They live in a beautiful part of the UK, in a forest by the lake, in an old stone house, guarded by extremely narrow roads and dry-stone walls. What else can you do apart from put on your boots and walk for an hour and a half along a muddy path, to a little country pub for lunch? The leaves on the oak trees were just starting to wear their autumn colours and the bracken had turned a rusty red. Jon's son Max joined us; which was great as we hadn't seen him for about 25 years.

A longer walk home, through the fells and over the hills, worked off the food and beer. Loretta, (or Twitch), lives about 15 minutes away and came over to join us for dinner. The following day we went for another scenic wander, ending up at an old slate mine. The hole in the ground was somewhat out-of-this-world and we needed headlamps to get out the tunnel at the end.

Can you see the climber top middle?

Cheese sandwiches for lunch and another walk, to nearby Lake Coniston, when Donald Campbell once raced his speed boat to a new world record and an early death. Up and over green and rust covered hillocks, overlooked by a kestrel floating on the updrafts.

Jon and Lake Coniston.

Storm Babet hit Cumbria during the night after already wreaking havoc in Scotland and Ireland. Molly's first day at her new job in Glanmire was cut short when everyone was sent home early to avoid the flooding. The heavy rain had almost stopped by morning when we started our long drive, virtually the length of the country, down to Dorset. Our luck ran out after an hour or so when we got a puncture, fortunately before the M6 motorway. So out with the luggage, and surprise, no spare wheel, just an emergency number to ring. After waiting three frustrating hours an unfriendly man turned up in a mobile repair van to fit a new tyre. It was raining hard at this stage but he said, due to health and safety reasons, we weren't allowed in either the jacked-up car or his van. Prat.

Once underway we made good time and the rain eased as we moved south. Traffic wasn't too bad at the busy spots around Manchester and Birmingham. Once off the motorway we snaked through narrower roads and little villages (including Andrew Wilson's home town, Yeovil!) to reach the seaside town of Weymouth. Apparently 120,000 ANZAC troops convalesced in Weymouth during WW1 after the Gallipoli campaign. Some ended up settling here. Our apartment was right next to the town center and we didn't need to drive anywhere the next day. Easy exploratory walks took us to Castle and Newton Coves, the Nothe Fort, and the colourful harbour. The main strand with its yellow sand was a bit messy from sea weed after Storm Babet but the sun was out and a few swimmers splashed around in the waves. It was all very pretty and so English. Even the gaudy amusement park next to the beach seemed to fit in.

Weymouth harbour.

A fishing boat returning to port with Weymouth beach behind.

Sandsfoot Castle.

Local bobbies in pursuit of a getaway vehicle on the Rodwell Trail.

Carousel at the amusement park, Weymouth beach.

View from the apartment.

We checked out one of the local pubs with a view to watching the English vs RSA rugby game the following night. Beer is noticeably cheaper here than anywhere else we've been so far (and at home), and the beer is really good. Food in cafes and bars, on the other hand, is almost the same price in pounds as it is at home in dollars. The pubs are all very friendly and welcoming, definitely a highlight.

The Wellington Arms.

Heavy rain the next morning delayed our departure to Lulworth Cove, to the east. This small, almost perfectly horse-shoe shaped, cove is famous for its sheltered beach, said to be abundant with fossils, and the rugged rocky cliffs. Fortunately, the rain had stopped when we started our ramble along the cliff-top to Durdle Door. Steep stone steps led us to the top of the hill, with great coastal views, and then down to the beach where the big rocky arch of Durdle Door is seen up close. We didn't walk along as far as "Scratchy Bottom".

Cute cottages with thatched roofs.

Lulworth Cove and The Fossil Coast.

Dara framed by Durdle Door.

Durdle Door and the beach.

Walking toward Durdle Door. Rows of little holiday cottages on the right.

On the return, we detoured to Man O'War Beach, where instead of finding a fossil, I found a dog frisbee washed up on the gravel. I gave it to a lady with two cocker spaniels at the coffee van at the top of the hill.

Finding modern fossils at Man O' War Beach.

A large black rain cloud chased us back to Lulworth Cove. We lunched on tasty fish and chips, watching a downpour from the cafe. A crowd of ice bathers swam around the harbour in front of us while we drank coffee. Swimming in the cold sea is quite the thing both here and in Ireland, brrr.

Gwyn Allan Jones shook our hands warmly when we turned up at the local for a pre-dinner pint. He revealed his whole life story in a lilting Welsh accent while we nodded agreeably and high-fived when appropriate. He was certainly a friendly chap, possibly quite intoxicated, and, despite being a year younger than me, had eleven grandchildren! Another close rugby match, with England having the rug pulled from under them a few minutes from the end.

Our last full day in the UK was a beauty. Just along the coast we stopped at Chesil Beach, which is well known because of Ian McEwan's excellent book "On Chesil Beach". Fisherman, set up with big surf casting rods and tent shelters, were out trying to catch mackerel and bigger fish. The polished pebbles are weirdly all a very consistent size, and get bigger on the beaches further west.

On Chesil Beach.

It was a Sunday though so everyone was out and about and it was the most crowded we had experienced when we arrived in the very twee coastal resort Lyme Regis. This beautiful little town with beaches and harbour is best known for being the home of Mary Anning. She was a pioneering fossil hunter on the Lyme Regis coast in the 1800's. John Fowles book, "The French Lieutenants Woman", was based and filmed here. Ian Gillan, the lead singer of Deep Purple, lives in Lyme Regis. Full up on the classic Devonshire tea of scones, raspberry jam and clotted cream, we headed back to Weymouth to get ready for our flight home the next day. Muddy boots and walking poles were scrubbed.

Cool streetlamps, designed with respect to ammonite fossils.

Sunday at the beach in Lyme Regis. Sand castles, fish and chips, sun bathing and crabbing. Lots and lots of people.

The little beach houses are like a miniature holiday bach, with benches, cookers, and chairs.

Mary Anning, paleontologist extraordinaire, with her dog, Tray. Poor Tray was killed in a landslide on the beach while on a fossil hunt.

Devonshire cream tea. Clotted cream is 55% fat, yum.

Our route back to Heathrow the next morning took us past Cerne Abbas and The Giant Man made out of chalk on the hillside. This symbol of fertility's exact age is unknown, and it is probably best seen from the air.

Talk about false advertising!

What you actually see.

The little village of Charlton Hawthorne had a welcoming cafe for morning tea and, finally, a Cornish Pasty, which was excellent. The gentleman drinking tea beside us said the village pumpkin growing competition was coming up soon.

The Cornish Pasty is shaped the way it is for a reason. It is thought that the miners gave the pasty its distinctive D shape – the crust became a handle, which was discarded to prevent contaminating the food with grubby, possibly arsenic-ridden hands.

We moved on and realized we were passing very close to Stonehenge; in fact, we got a reasonable view from the highway. With time up our sleeve we detoured to the parking lot and after paying 5 pounds to park the car, wandered the half hour walk to the stones. The tourist bus would have cost extra. Without paying another 26 pounds each we only got to see the stones from across the fence, slightly underwhelming, but it was enough.