It was claimed by Geoffrey of Monmouth in the 12th century that the castle at Tintagel Head was where King Uther Pendragon seduced Queen Igraine of Cornwall, while her husband, Gorlois, was under siege at Dimilioc. King Arthur was thus conceived and Tintagel Castle revered as the birthplace of legend. I’ve been fascinated by the whole Arthurian mystery, from the Sword in the Stone to Excalibur & the Lady of the Lake, the stories of Launcelot’s betrayal and tales Rude and Glorious of the Knights of the Round Table. Not forgetting (as if MLCMan would allow) the magnificent Holy Grail.
No wonder then that I’ve loitered here from some considerable time, soaking up the atmosphere like a redundant disciple of the 60’s might kick around the dusty bowls of Woodstock seeking residual wisdom by osmosis. Tempus fugit. There’s many miles to be made and a quest of my own to follow beyond these craggy castle walls. I bade silent farewell to Arthur, Merlin and a deliciously Woadian Guinevere, eschewing the kind offer of a white horse for my own trusty plates.
I purloined this gratuitous snapshot of Ms Keira Knightly appearing in the 2004 cinematic re-telling of the Arthurian legend, a curious piece featuring nothing less than a top-rate performance from Mr Raymond Winstone as Bors, as apt a character name as he's likely to bag in his illustrious career as a Big Screen ruffian. A tenuous link at best then, yet I make no apology for sharing an image that has kept me unashamedly warm these lonely nights on the road.
My northern traverse took me along the coastal path, through Boscatle and St Juliot. I strode on until I reached the hamlet of Higher Crackington, a place-name sparkling with possibilities. Alas it proved dull as dishwater, the humble village stores offering nought but idle gossip regarding Mrs Bothworth's curious bunions and a selection of fruit juices so far past their sell-by date they should surely class as antique. I took my leave (along with a lonely, crumbly pastie) driving my weary limbs onwards, ever onwards, towards the glittering spires of that Sodom of the West, Bude.
There's tales to tell of this Rake's haven, but the light fails and Nick Shadow's getting the ale in. My mind grows dim, numbed by the Hurculean effort of dragging my weary bones up these endless cliff-top humps. An evening of mead and wenching will no doubt put a different face on things on the morrow. Forsooth.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Total January miles = 95.38 miles
Days run = 17
Injuries = 1
Weight at start of January = 95 kg (crikey)
Weight at end of January = 94 kg
100 miles a kilo? That seems a lot.
More realistically, a minimum of 25 miles a week is my weight-loss threshold.
I eat like a horse. That's why I don't run like one.
Time for some hard yards on my quest for northern climbs.
In a case of life imitating art - or perhaps the opposite? - I left my comfort zone amongst the undemanding local trails and hit the tarmac monster; the A39. For mile after hardcore mile I battled north-eastward, the unyielding hard-top pounding my sore legs into raw hamburger.
I took on all manner of natural desensitizers. Having plunged dramatically off the wagon in the fleshpots of Bude (I cannot tell the tale here; there's no time. In any case I'm advised to keep my council else the town elders choose to press charges. I hear the magistrate is distraught and his wife has yet to stop her incesant giggling) I felt no qualms in downing a few jugs of local ale. I dipped into the Crealock Arms where a pint of Fistbanger proved just the beast to flush an impressively gooey (and, it should be said, somewhat ancient) steak pie. At the Patch & Parrot I ran the gamut from the darkest mead to the flightiest amber ale on the cusp of Bideford Water. Here the gulls wheeled and cried, intent upon plucking the fresh-battered haddock from my plate. I'd taken a seat outside on the estuary wall. The interior of the once authentic travelers' rest sits blighted by a monstrous faux pirate mural. This so enraged one customer, a gnarled, bent fellow, disctinctive in fetching eye-patch and headscarf, balanced somewhat precariously on a stout, highly-polished wooden peg, that he thundered and roared, scaring some school-kids away from the whirring fruit machines and the chirpy Who Wants To Be A Millionnaire? contraption. It's enough to turn the saltiest sea-dog's stomach. Gaaaaar!
Loping across the Bideford Long Bridge, now happily open following a 2.1 million reconstruction overseen by the curious combination of Obi Wan Kanobi and General Tojo, my legs complained bitterly. The iron girders jarred my bruised bones, tortured my screaming hamstrings. I whistled Colonel Bogey for all I was worth but it didn't help. It was only the distant call of the Exmoor National Park, the siren song of her clear gamboling brooks, the intoxicating perfume of her legendary fauna, that gave me the strength to carry on. That, and Mrs Bothworthy's (now somewhat crumbly) Eccles cake that had somehow escaped my attention these past few days. It announced itself by sliding out of my sweat-stained rucksack as I took a breather on the northern shore, and I gratefully gobbled it down.
Restored by the artery-clogging blend of puff pastry, currants, butter and demerrera sugar I ploughed on, relieved to finally leave the busy main road after a soul-sucking twenty mile slog. The winding lanes offered gentler views and enticing opportunities for further hydration. I stuck to my guns until, with the sun scurrying off behind the ominous cloudbank looming over the hills behind me, I ducked into the doorway of the Old Station House Inn at Blackmoor Gate, Kentisbury, on the very edge of the Moor. This charmingly-appointed gastro-pub was originally one of the main stations on the Lynton-Barnstaple Narrow Gauge Railway that operated from 1898 until its closure in 1935.
As dusk rolled in I sat back on the hard wooden bench. Although somewhat chilly to be out the kindly patron had suggested my salt-sweat stained attire and pungent perfume might disrupt the sensibilities of the locals and proferred this agreeable, if frost-coated seat. The stars were out in a rare clear display; the beauty of the scene was undeniable. The gently wafted air, deliciously thin at a thousand feet above sea-level, carried the whispered rustling of red deer, or perhaps Exmoor Horn or Cheviot, from the nearby woods. Despite my crippling fatigue and rapidly dropping core temperature I could barely contain my excitement. After a day and a night here (and a long, hot shower) I'll be off into the Park proper to delve into her lush green treasures, a fitting reward for my endless urban suffering.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Tuesday 9th Feb.
Setting out on the long gentle slope down from Polbathic towards Plymouth Sound. After some tricky mental debate, I chose to skirt the hamlet of Crafthole, pushing instead right on through Shevlock to spend the night halfway up Antony Hill. 5.88 miles.
Thursday 11th Feb.
A harsh northerly was blowing this morning, lashing snow onto Sweder's fair hills to the east. Not quite so cold here in the West Country, as I took the ferry from Torpoint (jogging round the deck to keep up the distance).
The ferry duly landed me in Devonport, famous for its naval dockyard. The town also formed the Parliamentary constituency for Dr David Owen, erstwhile Labour Foreign Secretary under PM Jim Callaghan.
Now the esteemed Lord Owen, Dr Death (as he remains more commonly and cheerfully known) was also co-founder (with Shirley Williams, Roy Jenkins and Bill Rodgers, the so-called Gang of Four) of the SDP (Social Democrat Party), which nearly took British politics by storm in the 1980s before meekly merging with the Liberals to form the Liberal Democrat party.
Dr Owen was indeed an MD as well as Foreign Secretary (maybe he was a good doctor). He also had the privilege of being my sister's boss for a short period in 1979 when she worked in the Foreign Office.
I passed the terminal for the Plymouth-Santander ferry, waving to the morning ferry as she passed out towards the chilly waters of the Bay of Biscay. I took that chunderous 24-hour journey myself some 11 times during my geology PhD fieldwork in Northern Spain, before resolving never to set foot in a boat ever again.
With churning stomach, I trotted on through the suburbs of Plymouth, on this rockcrusher's work day choosing to give a miss to Stonehouse (namecheck for another 1970s Labour Minister), turning left through Milehouse and into (Plymouth's) Central Park.
A quick lap of the lawns later, and a trot through the wonderfully-named Mutley Plain, I found myself dropping into Plymouth University, just in time for coffee with my hero Dr Iain Stewart, fellow-geologist and presenter of BBC2's How Earth Made Us.
Iain kindly gave me a quick presentation on the spectacular volcanic eruption of Santorini in Greece - click the link to catch a repeat video showing.
6.57 miles. Momentous.
Attached images:
Dr David Owen
Santander Ferry leaving Plymouth
Dick Dastardly and Mutley
Finally I have found a spare hour to update my LE JOG!! The MapMyRun software was working properly today therefore I presume my last gliche was down to slow internet speed.
The last time I posted on here I was 125.5 miles total for the year and heading out of Dartmoor National Park.
I've only managed 5 runs since that time due to tiredness and having some sniffles, and am now on a grand total of 186.0 miles. Have done 2 long legs this week, 18 miles today and 17 miles last Tuesday.
Have finished up in a Village in Somerset called Chalton Mackrell and am now in need of finding a comfortable B&B and pub to eat, drink and sleep. I'm in the mood for a few glasses of red wine tonight
Think from here I am going to head up to Frome which is a place that I visited last Summer in my motorhome, better known as Longleat. A lap or two around the Longleat Estate will be nice again followed by the bus tour around the safari park.
I have had to take up a walking regime this week for my miles on Le Jog.
Disaster struck on Saturday with my first run since I last posted any Le Jog miles. Got a couple of miles into my run and just made it back on to the A37 heading towards Sheapton Mallet when my calf muscle tightened up, so I decided to stop before it got so bad that I would injure myself long term.
Took a couple of days rest and carried out lots of self massage with ibuprofen rub on the calf, along with icing and compression socks and decided to head out again for a long, slow run on Tuesday. Once again after 1.5 miles the calf was stiff and sore, so I stopped. Decided to try and walk on it and was surprised to find that walking did not seem to hurt. Carried on walking up the A37 to Shepton Mallet. Covered 8.7 miles in total in 1hr 53mins. Was averaging 11-13 min miles for the walk.
On Thursday I thought I'd try another walk to see how my calf was and to also see if I could get back to a semi-fastwalking pace. After a warm up I measured out 5k on my gps on the undulating terrain of the A361 and completed to course in 33:42. Got my walking pace down between 10-11 min miles.
Today it was some more walking miles for me. It seemed like my body was adjusting to the switch between running and walking training as I felt alot more comfortable today walking at a fast pace. After a warm up I headed off again along the A361 for a 5k and this time managed 29:14. An average of 9:25 min miles. And I surprised a few runners that I overtook!!
Very pleased with this performance as it is only 8 minutes slower than I can run 5k. Will try and get out tomorrow for a long steady walk. I have decided to have atleast another week off running to hopefully get my calf healed properly before I make a come back.
A wretched month in which a paltry handful of miles were added to my already unimpressive January total.
My damaged body needed rest and recuperation, and I count myself a lucky fellow to have secured lodgings at the most agreeable Tregolls Farm before disaster struck.
Holed up here, being spoon-fed oven-softened cornish pasties, with a flagon of the local potent cider always at hand, and a brace of delightful rustic wenches to cater for my strangely foreign tastes (or so they claimed in the witness statement), has been a restful experience but this morning, as I heard the police sirens in the distance, decided that it might be time to move on. Not wanting to cause a fuss, I left by the back door as a strange blue light began to fill the sky to the east.
Unfortunately, the month of idleness has added somewhat to my girth, and the 6 miles of progress I am able to add to my record were not achieved in sufficient haste to get to the Slades House Country Inn in Sladesbridge before they had shut for the night. I was able to peer through the bar window and admire the row of sparkling hand pumps, but alas, they were as inaccessible as my dream of reaching the wilds of north-west Scotland before the end of the year now appear to be. Still, I must put all gloomy thoughts behind me, and do what I can.
My resting place tonight is a ditch beneath a hedge on a tiny lane outside the hamlet. The night is cold and dark, but I am content. Just as I made my way out of the settlement, I noticed once again that strange blue light in the distance, and eventually, some raised voices, crying things like: "Damnation, we must have just missed the bastard", and "I shan't rest till I get my hands on that London poofter and tear him asunder, limb by limb!"
In retrospect, I am glad to have avoided opening time at the Slades House Country Inn. There may be a chill in the air, but here in the open air, I feel strangely safe. This is a violent and unpredictable land, and I resolve to reach the border with Devon as soon as I possibly can.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
(30-03-2010, 12:04 AM)El Gordo Wrote: At least I have an excuse......
A fair point well made. I've been lost in the wilds of Exmoor for over a month. The good news is I've found my way out, heading towards Middle England by way of Stonehenge, though the detail must wait a day or so longer as I down some ale and mop my stew with this fabulous rustic cob. I'd just spent over an hour updating my log, plotting my passage across the faded map stuck with spit and snot into my booklet when a mangy cur, fur matted with filth and copulating flies, took hold of my tattered journal and made off with it across the fields.
I think it's name was 'Error' for that was what it's owner seemed to shout after it as it jumped a four-bar gate. Having tried twice more to scribble onto scraps of toilet paper found floating in the gents of this dingy establishment only for the pencilled routes to fade and dissappear I have succumbed to the lure of the foaming pint, vowing to anyone who'll listen that, hurry on sun-down, we'll see what tomorrow brings.
I fear were I to try a fourth time only to be thwarted I might hunt down and smite with furious anger the hapless author of my Run-Mapping journal until sparks spit from his skull striking the mead-stained cobbles
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
The gist is the application (ie the bloody bleeding bloody useless cretinous interface that is MuckUpMyRun) allowed me to carefully plot my path not once, not twice but thrice before, as I came to save the layout, chucking me out. I was tired and grumpy and given more time and a clear noggin I could have probably produce a clear, concise allegory featuring a dog named Error grabbing my olde mappe charts and legging it. Sigh. There just aren't enough hours in the day sometimes.
Anyroad, went back in a day or so later and re-plotted, successfully. Had intended to write up several POIs along the way but still smarting from MMR pasting so shan't. I know I should have migrated from MMR but again, a problem with being arsed. Maybe later this weekend when I've smothered the Mrs and got some kip.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Some belated catching up is long overdue around here. My last posting left me lying in a February ditch, cold, uninspired (and unemployed, to boot).
But as Andy says, we all need time to think.
I picked it up as the month went on, plodding the lanes of South Devon with the energy of renewed motivation and a desire for change. A detour or two detained me -- first to Ivybridge on Dartmoor, where my parents celebrated their honeymoon many years ago. From there, on to Torquay where my grandfather retired when I was a boy. Beside the beach and the harbour, along the road where he lived out his final years and eventually on to the cemetery in Newton Abbot where now he lies deep amidst the red Triassic marl.
A reflective step took me then on February's final leg, alongside Britain's most famous and spectacular stretch of coastal railway -- built by Isambard Kingdom Brunel himself -- from Dawlish into Exeter.
A difficult month, with the faint shadow of an unknown tomorrow lurking beyond the dark winter horizon. After a slow and heavy-stomached start in January, February might just have been the month when the weight gain train was turned around, as 4 kg fell behind me on the hedge-lined lanes set between Plym and Exe.
The durability of such progress is never sure, as the appetite for change is always measured out alongside a reckless hunger for the moment. Month end was duly celebrated with a homage to the great engineer and his Great Western Railway at Exeter Railway station, over a West Country scone, fat trouser-fittingly adorned with Devon clotted cream...
February 2010 distance run: 106 miles
February 2010 days run: 16
2010 to date: 202 miles
2010 days run: 33
Weight at 01 Jan 2010: 95 kg
Weight at start of February: 94 kg
Weight at end of February: 90 kg
The extra mile was run in March -- and more than several, in fact. 17 days run amidst a frantic job hunt and a snowy breakout trip to Oslo. That trip finally bore no fruit, but closed down one blind alley amongst many hidden in the fog.
My route in March took me out of Devon, though Somerset, then into Wiltshire and onwards to touch the edge of Gloucestershire beyond. Along the way I crossed the Mendip Hills and marvelled at Wells Cathedral.
One bright but chill spring morning saw me fashioning a leggy sprint down a familiar stretch of the Bath Half Marathon course in tribute to my long-forgotten second-fastest outing at that distance, and on to visit favourite haunts atop the southern Cotswold scarp near Castle Combe. Two kilograms of lard expended on the way.
As new footsteps fell regularly and the days grew longer, the shape of life to come seemed to beckon bright and loom dark and gloomy on alternate days. The murky world of mid-life reflection would look so much better, if only we knew beforehand how long the mists would last...
March ended in Luckington. As West Ham fans know, the future's bright, the future's ... always hiding.
March 2010 distance run: 112 miles
March 2010 days run: 17
2010 to date: 313 miles
2010 days run: 50
Weight at 01 Jan 2010: 95 kg
Weight at start of March: 90 kg
Weight at end of March: 88 kg
April is a wicked month. At least according to the author Edna O'Brien -- but in truth, I've never found it so. I took a week's well-earned rest from my northward trek to find some fast-melting Alpine snow, and then hit the Cotswold lanes once more.
Past the gliding field at Nympsfield, northwards along the Middle Jurassic limestone scarp and across the hills of Gloucestershire I ran, dropping in to see friends and a few familiar haunts along the way. A few flatter miles followed beneath Cleeve Cloud, the tallest hill in Southern England. From there, northeastwards into Worcestershire and the verdant Vale of Evesham, crossing the River Avon near the finishing line of that town’s fine May regatta.
The next twenty miles brought a spring to my step and a smile on my face, as I enjoyed the run-in to Stratford-upon-Avon, adding a few extra steps to retrace part of the Shakespeare Marathon route (where I endured the uncertain glory of another April day, back in 2003).
Entering my old home town, I ran ahead in true Tour de France style, to greet my sister in Anne Hathaway’s village of Shottery, before circling Shakespeare’s Birthplace on Henley Street and his retirement home, New Place. Just a short sprint then brought me past the Dirty Duck pub and the newly-remodelled Royal Shakespeare Theatre, before taking the ancient Clopton Bridge across the River Avon once more. April ended as I lay my head contentedly by the river bank under the shelter of a homely willow tree.
New employment kept me off the streets at times this month, as I swapped the school run and morning plod for a short hop on the commuter train instead. But as April wore on, I worked ever harder at familiarising my new colleagues with the sight of a lunchtime backpack heading for the changing rooms and out the door. Whether my stomach will grow to rue the return of regular working hours remains as yet unsure.
April 2010 distance run: 73 miles
April 2010 days run: 14
2010 to date: 387 miles
2010 days run: 64
Weight at 01 Jan 2010: 95 kg
Weight at start of April: 88 kg
Weight at end of April: 87 kg
Another month in this increasingly lonely trek of mine northwards across our sceptr'd isle. Is anyone else around here still pursuing the madness of Le Jog? Who knows -- since surely the roads and keyboards beside me on this journey have been demoralisingly empty for weeks and weeks.
I left my old hometown of Stratford-upon-Avon on a fine May morning, following a favourite cycle route through Charlecote and on to Warwick. Past the black and white 17th century house where I once lived in that fine town, resting up overnight before a lap of my old seven mile school cross-country route.
As luck would have it, I dispatched these symbolic miles (Google Pedometer tells me, all these years later, that they were only six) on an unseasonally cold and wet afternoon. If it hadn't been for the depressing arrival of unpleasant industrial parks along the route (it were all green fields round here, when I were a lad) my day would have offered an exact recreation of so many times when I ran home last but one, not caring in the least for cross-country but keen to avoid the frozen rugby field. So are the habits of a lifetime unwittingly begun.
On northwards through leafy Warwickshire, to share a pint with an old schoolfriend in Kenilworth. Simon de Montfort convened the first English Parliament near the pub (or possibly even inside it?) in the time of King John, and the town's magnificent red sandstone castle -- where centuries later the Virgin Queen, Elizabeth I, entertained her (alleged) lover Lord Leycester. Kenilworth is still my favourite castle in all of England. The castle remains all the more dramatic for being ruined -- it was wrecked in the English Civil War.
From Kenilworth my route took me past the pretty village of Balsall Common, where another schoolfriend's family owned the village bakery, and then into Coventry to marvel anew at the Cathedral. The city and its original cathedral were destroyed by German bombs in the Second World War, and the 1950s replacement cathedral stands alongside. The altarpiece of the roofless old church is formed by a crossed pair of charred embers in an inspiring and moving study of remembrance and forgiveness.
Around Coventry's bleak 1970s ring road, past the site of Coventry Godivas Swimming Club (named after the famous bareback horse-riding young lady who was wife of Leofric, King of Mercia) where this schoolboy used to train in the city's Olympic-sized pool on Friday evenings in his early teens. I made sure steadfastly to avoid the nightmare of visiting Highfield Road, where my boyhood birthday treat was all too often the chance to see West Ham beaten 3-0 by the Sky Blues (Coventry City FC). To say I bear an uncharacteristic lifelong grudge against the club wouldn't quite be true, even if, admittedly, the longed-for day when Coventry were relegated from the top flight of English League football still counts as one of the most memorable of my life.
A slow trek brought me from Coventry to the increasingly inaccurately named Nuneaton, and then out of Warwickshire into Derbyshire, across the Peak District near the much more appropriately named village of Hungry Bentley, then down into Lancashire and through Stockport into Manchester beyond. The month closed breathlessly reliving past glories in the streets where I set my 10 km PB in the Great Manchester Run of 2004.
May proved a fruitful running month, as I put pedal to the metal in the anticipation of busier weeks ahead. After more than a few determinedly nostalgic diversions on the long road from Lands End into the Midlands, this month's route saw me finally forsake the Softies' South for the Gritty North. And appropriately enough, May's tally may well record the most miles I've ever put behind me in any month I've run.
May 2010 distance run: 125 miles
May 2010 days run: 21
2010 to date: 512 miles
2010 days run: 85
Weight at 01 Jan 2010: 95 kg
Weight at start of May: 87 kg
Weight at end of May: 88 kg
(Is this the resumption of a worrying weight gain or a blip which can be safely ignored? We all know the accurate and preferred answers to this one -- watch this space).
LeJog 2010 - A Year of Running: May
A final PS -- with a spring in my step this month, I entered two races up ahead: Royal Parks Half Marathon in London (October 2010, courtesy of an unexpected but very welcome organisers' invitation, no less); Virgin London Marathon(April 2011). No confirmation received yet, but with five failed ballot entries in a row, I should be sure of getting in this time -- just before they change the rules to stop fools like me from swapping our cash for dashed hopes every single spring.
So much for getting the band back together. For much too long now, it seems I've been out here on my own.
Another month of solid northward plod on my increasingly lonely trek across Albion's fair isle. My route through June took me out of Manchester towards the Yorkshire Dales, spending a happy sojourn at Horton-in-Ribblesdale, where I undertook my first ever geological field trip beneath the slopes of Pen-y-Ghent.
From there it was downhill from the westward Pennine slopes towards Oxenholme, through Kendal (stopping for some well-deserved mint cake) and then over the hill to Windemere, where I ended the month admiring the view across the lake from a lovely spot near Ambleside.
June 2010 distance run: 106 miles
June 2010 days run: 19
2010 to date: 618 miles
2010 days run: 104
Weight at 01 Jan 2010: 95 kg
Weight at start of June: 88 kg
Weight at end of June: 90 kg (too much Kendal Mint Cake).
Good work fella. Some of us are still out there with you, albeit at a more modest pace just at the moment. My own traverse of the wilds of Wales has yet to be documented thanks to the meltdown of the MapMyRun software. I was warned, and it came to pass after one particularly challenging (failed) update that wasted a couple of hours I didn't have to spare. I very nearly wiped the lot in a fit of Netherlandic rage.
I'll have to bite the bullet and switch to another mapping software. I have a dose of Jury Service in early August - perhaps the perfect time to transfer my miles.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Aye, good stuff Nigel. I must confess I missed the previous update. Some good steady mileage there. Well done on the weight loss.
I have never dropped the task of getting to JOG -- I simply haven't run any miles for mionths. Bike miles really would be cheating. I'll be adding mine just as soon as I get out there again.
I see you've bagged a place in the Parks Half [another ]. I had this down as a possible autumn target. I knew that places sold out in a couple of days, so I signed up for the email announcement of entry opening, but never received anything. Or perhpas it ended up in my junk folder. Missed the boat, anyway.
I'm also in for the VLM ballot though I think this is only my 3rd or 4th year, so no automatic place for me yet. I know they've stopped offering automatic entries after 5 rejections, but I'm pretty sure I'll still be eligible. Would be fun to have another crack at London - injuries permitting.
Do keep us updated with LEJOG.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
![[Image: TintagelCastle.jpg]](http://www.guide-to-castles-of-europe.com/images/TintagelCastle.jpg)
![[Image: keira-k_com-kingarthur-caps70.jpg]](http://www.keiraknightley.net/gallery/data/537/keira-k_com-kingarthur-caps70.jpg)
![[Image: 2770429-bridge-over-the-river-kwai-0.jpg]](http://wyloabroad.files.wordpress.com/2009/12/2770429-bridge-over-the-river-kwai-0.jpg)
![[Image: lancs-eccles-cakes.jpg]](http://www.manchester2002-uk.com/eat&drink/lancs-eccles-cakes.jpg)
