Lastminute.com Spontaneity Champion semi final

Despite all the hard work that went in to create my entry video for this competition, I have managed not to spontaneously combust. I am now down to the last ten and hoping to progress to the final stage and become the Lastminute.com Spontaneity Champion.

You can see my profile and watch my entry video here http://www.lovelivinglastminute.com/home/oliver-davy/

Check back on Friday 20 December when the public vote goes live to watch my latest video and help me push through to the final! 

Spontaneity Champion competition

I've entered a competition to become the Lastminute.com Spontaneity Champion. This is an amazing opportunity to lead a more exciting and spontaneous life alongside my job. You can amuse yourself by watching my entry video below.

Lastminute are looking for someone to indulge their love for living life at the last minute for a whole year. They'll fund the winner with up to £50k worth of travel and experiences, who in return will help inspire the nation to live more spontaneously, by sharing their adventures through social media. 

If I get through to the next round, which I'm sure you'll agree I should, there will be a task and a public vote. I'd like to raise awareness now to prepare for my inevitable progression. It goes without saying that I would chew my left arm off if it would give me a better chance of winning so please share far and wide and keep your fingers crossed.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=51ANYM4QHR4

Life in the Row Lane

This week it was revealed that only 4 commuters are using the £60m cable car across the River Thames. Information released under the Freedom of Information Act showed only four Oyster Cards used the route more than five times in one week in October. This is tragic news for an expensive prestige project but why would you want to travel over the river when you can travel on it?

The tide has dropped considerably by the time we've finished our pint and the kayak is bobbing at the far reach of outstretched legs dangled off the pier. The current catches us, and the Barmy Arms slips away behind as we paddle hard to reignite chilled bodies. We’re heading east, back the way we've come, through Richmond and past Kew Gardens, along the watery artery towards the heart of the city.

Times have changed since the Romans navigated the 7 metre tidal range of the longest river in England to found Londinium in the 1^st century AD. We now have the Thames Barrier, the world’s second largest moveable flood defence, to protect us from storm surges and you can check high and low tide times on Twitter.

Ollie on the barge

Ollie, an old friend, and I were hoping there would be no freak weather events when we spent a crisp November afternoon enjoying a duck’s eye view of London; we took a two-man kayak for a spin along Old Father Thames from the River Brent to Twickenham and back.

What a place to live

We set off from a mate’s converted Dutch Barge aptly named Serenity, which is moored in a peaceful basin near Gunnersbury. Richard welcomed us onboard his floating abode, a well-kept beauty built in 1905, and we drank freshly brewed coffee by the wood-burning stove while he explained the finer points of kayaking on the Thames.

‘Head west first, against the current, so it’ll be easier on the way back. And don’t fall in.’

Serenity at her mooring 

The autumn breeze blew fresh against our cheeks as we tipped the kayak off Serenity’s roof and it hit the water with a satisfying thwack. We were bundled up with layers but the trees turn exhibitionist in the cold, exposing branches and knotted trunks. Their discarded leaves lay on the water, so many shades of brown clustered like the rusty iron roofs of slum shacks seen from the air.

Cleaner than you think

We found our rhythm quickly and settled into a steady pace, occasionally pausing to admire a heron in a tree or a cormorant with wings outstretched to dry. The presence of these fish eating birds is a good indicator of the cleanliness of the Thames. Just as well; the river supplies two thirds of London’s drinking water.

Our only human companions on the river were rowers; it’s too cold now for pleasure cruising. In spring and summer the waterway will be teeming with boats and the scullers will have to check more frequently over their shoulders as they scythe powerfully along. We observed the rules of the river, staying to right hand side and well away from the speeding vessels.

The houseboats moored along the Thames are a curious collection indeed. We could not fathom how some had survived the recent winds; makeshift wooden living boxes tacked on to the most basic of metal barges. Others, more sinister, seemed to be the work of a maritime Dr Frankenstein; battered boats melded together with metal plating, stove pipes sticking improbably from their roofs. Still more; moulding, creaking, tarpaulins flapping, chaotic interiors exposed. As we slipped quietly beside these empty dwellings I had the eerie feeling we were trespassing on someone’s life. Perhaps a maniac recluse who could return at any moment, spot us and fly into a deadly rage.

Across the Thames from Twickenham. The Royal Star & Garter Home in the centre

At Twickenham, opposite Eel Pie Island where the Rolling Stones drove crowds wild in the 60s, there are two pubs to slake a paddlers thirst, both right on the river and easily accessible from floating transport. The Barmy Arms was cash only but we rustled up enough change for pints and while we drank at the water’s edge we had an encounter with a fellow named John.

He lurched drunkenly out from behind a bank of portaloos, exclaiming to no one in particular;

‘There’s enough for one each. And they’re unisex!’

Mad John, to use his full name, kept us entertained with his ramblings and bad jokes.

‘What’s this?’ he asked, pulling up his jumper to reveal an impressive gut. We shook our heads. ‘A naval display,’ came the slurred reply.

Mad John

Just down river is the White Swan, a charming pub built in the 17^th Century where you might enjoy the water lapping around your feet if you choose a spot on the veranda at high tide. Its cosy corners are covered in pictures from the annual White Swan Raft Race held to raise money for the RNLI. The race takes place in July, the height of summer, surely one of the best times to visit a pub with such an excellent location.

Warmed by red wine we began the return leg of our journey in the fading light. The river carried us along at quite a pace, giving the impression that our paddling was more effective than it really was. In just two hours we had been transformed from amateurs to pros. 

To be taken seriously, jacket and paddles must match

The late afternoon gloom adds an air of mystery to riverside London. It becomes hard to make out the detail of objects until you are close to them: trees and boats become merely looming shapes and birds you didn't know were there take to flight nearby, giving one a start. As the sky darkened I had the feeling that we were making our way into an unknown and perhaps dangerous place. It was that familiar feeling of excitement and trepidation that accompanies exploration and new discoveries.

Back onboard Serenity, we wriggled out of soaked clothes and warmed our hands with mugs of tea. Aching shoulder muscles and huge appetites were our souvenirs from an afternoon well spent. The Mayor’s Thames Festival, a ten-day celebration of London’s iconic river, takes place in September every year. I know where I'll be watching the fireworks in 2014: from a kayak, bobbing gently on the swell. 

Fancy your own trip on the tidal Thames? Find out more here:

http://canoelondon.com/places-to-canoe-in-london/kayaking-on-the-tidal-thames/

Escaping the hubbub in a V-Dub: Pembrokeshire

You don't have to try hard to enjoy Wales’ most westerly county. 

Welsh rugby fans are in high spirits this weekend after their side’s record defeat of Argentina at the Millennium Stadium. Away from the bright lights of the autumn internationals, a long weekend on the Pembrokeshire coast will give you something to cheer about too.

Taking the plunge

I stood on the edge and looked down at the water. The drop seemed much further from above. I looked up to an even higher ledge, where a young boy was about to jump.

‘I didn't drive all this way to be upstaged,’ I thought, ignoring the trembling in my knees. I took a step forwards and threw myself into space.Time seemed to slow as I fell, my face contorted into an involuntary gurn. I hit the water at speed and sank quicker than a stone. The rush was addictive and I swam around for another go.

The Blue Lagoon, near Abereiddy in Pembrokeshire, is entry number one in the Wild Swim book and its position in first place is well deserved. Formerly a slate quarry, the sea has now broken through the walls to create a sheltered pool, which despite its name owes its green hue to the mineral content in the rocks.

The Blue Lagoon, Abereiddy, showing the ruined quarry buildings in the centre

The quarry walls have been breached and the ocean flows in

As I waited for my second jump a man in a wetsuit (everyone was wearing wetsuits apart from my girlfriend and I – more foolhardy than hardcore) told me that the Red Bull cliff diving championship was to be held here in a few weeks.

‘Right here?’ I asked, as school aged children swarmed around me chattering excitedly.

‘No mate – up there.’ I followed the man’s finger to the top of the quarry wall. It was almost 100ft high and not vertical so it would take a superhuman leap to clear the rocks at the bottom and avoid certain doom.

‘They build a platform sticking right out over the water,’ the man continued. ‘I’d love to be here to see it.’

The prospect of scrumming down with the Red Bull cavalcade made me shudder so I contented myself with another death-defying leap of mine own before scrambling onto the beach to warm up.

Holy dozers

Two days earlier, on Friday evening, my girlfriend and I had set off from London in Gerty, my VW campervan. I didn't fancy tackling the whole 300 miles in one go and arriving in the wee hours, so I used the satellite imagery on Google Maps to locate a place just over the Severn Bridge where we might find a secluded lane for a bit of a kip. My girlfriend dozed as I drove down back roads in the pitch black, listening to a podcast about a voodoo curse. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end and there was not a cosy lay by in sight.

It’s hard to locate a good sleeping spot when you can only see as far as your headlights but soon the lane emerged into a small town and we parked in the driveway next to a church. Perhaps I was seeking sanctuary from the disquiet of the spooky story. I wondered if we would forfeit protection from evil spirits by peeing on the hallowed ground.

The next day we were away early before we could be told off and were soon breakfasting in Sainsbury’s in Swansea, whose cafe was suffering from a plague of wasps. Was it the voodoo or the vicar catching up with us?

With plenty of food onboard, we also needed gas for the stove so I didn't have to think of an excuse to detour via Go Outdoors, the Mecca of the camping equipment world. So hypnotised do customers become by the rows of head torches, portable showers and inflatable kayaks that there are members of staff on hand to guide the bumbling fools towards the exit, after relieving them of £27.99 for a floating key ring.

High, dry and no Wifi

Saved from any wallet-melting buffoonery by my level headed girlfriend we carried on towards Hillfort Tipis, which, like other sites I have found using coolcamping.co.uk, did not disappoint. Located on farmland in Pembrokeshire National Park near to the town of Fishguard, the site sits above the coast with views down to the headland and the Irish Ocean. We drove in and were directed to park in the middle of a field by the owner, John. There was not a motor home in sight and there were acres of space between the nearest guests and us. If you like your camping more bumpkin than Butlins then Hillfort is perfect.

The view to Strumble Head from Hillfort Tipis campsite

We got to know John a little during our stay - he delivered firewood every evening in his battered Vauxhall Corsa and he asked us, jokingly, if we could find him a wife in London. He went on to lament that people rarely come to settle in these rugged parts, despite the outstanding scenery. It is true that city dwellers like to experience nature in bite-sized chunks and few would forego their friends and jobs to move away permanently. 

We were soon on our way again, driving to St Davids, the UK’s smallest city, for a boat tour around Ramsey Island. As we stood on the slipway next to Fishguard lifeboat station waiting for our captain, a claxon sounded, warning us to stand clear as the lifeboat was about to be deployed.

‘Who are they going to rescue?’ Asked the little boy, looking up at his dad, his eyes wide with excitement.

‘The previous tour group,’ I chipped in, fixing the youngster with an evil glare.

When nature doesn't nurture

We sped around the island nature reserve on a twinned-engine RIB (rigid inflatable boat), pausing to admire basking Grey Seals, wheeling Guillemots and curious rock formations. The captain handled the powerful craft with skill, manoeuvring deftly across The Bitches, a treacherous reef, which has sunk many ships over the years and is now a popular spot for white water enthusiasts to pit themselves against the rushing currents.

AGrey Seal basks near Ramsey Island

Tragedy struck the Bitches in 1910 when 3 lifeboat men lost their lives after rescuing the crew of stranded ship, which had been delivering coal to Ramsey Island. There has been a lifeboat station at St Davids since 1869 and the volunteers manning it would battle the gales and high seas in little more than a wooden rowing boat, until 1912 when the first motor lifeboat was introduced. The bravery of the crews is well documented on the plaques that line the walls of the station and each of the 330 lives saved gets a mention. 

The sea was calm as we looked down on it from our pitch that evening. When we asked John if were allowed to build a fire, his response was typically relaxed. 

‘That wall over there’s two hundred years old. Grab some stones from it and make a fire pit.’

We carefully undid the work of long-dead hands and cooked our supper over charcoal before lying on our backs to watch the stars sparkle in the black sky. Our quiet enjoyment of the celestial display was disturbed intermittently by things slithering over our legs and hands – the damp grass was a paradise for slugs.

Unsung hero

Ellie and I had agreed to be prepared for bad weather; ‘It always rains in Wales,’ but we were lucky, which is why the next day found us swimming in the Blue Lagoon and lunching in the tiny harbour at Abercastle where the tidal reach is long, the sea sucked in through a gash in the cliffs and lapping at the crab traps parked on the beach. The village was the landing site of the first single-handed sailing of the Atlantic from west to east in 1876 by the Danish fisherman Alfred Johnson, who spent sixty six days covering over 4,000 miles from shore to shore. Why is Alfred’s remarkable achievement not more widely known? Perhaps because the story of his adventure is out of print and the one new copy remaining costs £405 on Amazon.

Taking a considerably smaller risk, we spent a couple of hours stretching our legs along the Pembrokeshire Coast Path, heading west as it followed the fractured outline of the cliffs perched above inaccessible beaches battered by waves.

The Pembrokeshire Coast Path near Abercastle

That evening there was little else to do but relax. We made gin and tonics and took them up to the highest point of the campsite to watch the sun set across the smooth ocean. As the light faded the beam of Strumble Head lighthouse swung around, warning ships away from the rocks.

Sunset over the Irish Ocean, and yes, those are VW vans on my mug

All too soon it was Monday morning and we bid farewell to John and Hillfort Tipis, driving west again to pay a visit to the car boot sale near St Davids. The reformed hoarders and cottage entrepreneurs lined up on either side of a rugby pitch like opposing armies with their wares spilling out of vehicles that wouldn't have looked out of place in an episode of Wacky Races.

Crab-racadabra 

Just in time for lunch we arrived at Solva and pulled over at a sign announcing ‘Fresh Crab Daily’. We followed the arrow on foot until another sign pointed through a gate into a back garden, where we were greeted by furious barking. We waited nervously, wondering if we were about to be attacked when a lady appeared and ushered us inside where piles of dressed crab were on display. Her husband catches the crabs on his days off; a canny way to diversify his livelihood during these economically challenging times.

Down by Solva harbour we sat in the sea breeze, scooping crabmeat out of the shell while watching families pile into wetsuits and onto the water in kayaks, canoes and sailing boats. A stroll by the water following the receding tide took us past a collection of limekilns. Built in the 18^th and 19^th centuries, these large ovens would have been used to heat limestone brought in by sea, creating lime to enrich the local soil.

Further down the coast we stopped at Newgale, where there is a 3-mile stretch of sandy beach. The flat expanse is a popular place to learn to surf and kids can splash around in the gentle swells. We reclined with ice creams and savoured the final doses of Vitamin D before the long drive back to London.

The camping season is sadly over, as temperatures dip below zero and most sites close for the winter. While Wales will be hoping that they can build on the victory against Argentina in order to try and retain the 6 Nations title in 2014, I'm looking forward to spring and another fine performance from the cliffs and coves of Pembrokeshire National Park. 

Grazy days on the Pembrokeshire coast

Pembrokeshire resources to make your stay:

Where to stay http://hillfort-tipis.co.uk/

What to do http://www.ramseyisland.co.uk/marine-tours-2/

Red Bull cliff diving at the Blue Lagoon http://www.redbullcliffdiving.com/en_DK/video/cliff-diving-wales-stop-motion-film

Welsh mountains, lakes and curly fries

The Travelodge in Oswestry has fine…

That is a difficult sentence to complete. A friend and I arrived there late one Thursday night and struggled to find anything of note. We had driven from London after work and Oswestry was the staging post for a weekend among the peaks of Snowdonia.

‘There is something reassuring about a crap hotel,’ Lewis remarked as we padded down the generic hallway. We were certainly comforted by the price; £37 for the room and a view of grassy verge covered in empty crisp packets to boot.

The next morning, fully loaded with grease and caffeine, we continued west and were soon rolling along on the A5, next to the River Dee, which tumbled through fields where sheep munched placidly. The verdant landscape was a tonic for the soul, bathing screen-tired eyes in a million shades of green and causing me to exclaim excitedly.

Freedom this way

The road took us across a border visible only on maps and into Snowdonia National Park. The northernmost of the Welsh parks, Snowdonia was the first to be designated in 1951 and is named after Mount Snowdon, the tallest peak in Wales. The Welsh name for the area is Eryri, which could be pronounced similarly to the Jamaican patois expression irie, as in ‘everything is irie’, conveying goodness and serenity. A very apt name indeed.

Our campsite lay at the head of Llyn (Welsh for lake) Gwynant, to the south east of Snowdon and within walking distance of the summit. It was too late in the day to claim the main prize but armed with the Wild Swim book and an Ordnance Survey map, we planned an afternoon’s walk punctuated with a dip in Llyn Bochlwyd.

Expert orienteers 

We parked in a lay by next to the A5 and began to hike. A set of steep steps took us up and away from the road and the landscape breathed a rugged vitality: all water, sky, rock and earth. Soon the path was not so clear and we had to clamber over large boulders, losing our way among false trails and dead ends. We ploughed on; convinced that our route lay around the top of the slope. At intervals, fighter jets roared low through the valley, on training sorties from RAF Valley on the Isle of Anglesey.

We reached a plateau between the rocks from where we could look down several hundred metres to the road below and the lake we were planning to swim in. Orientating ourselves, we realised we were not on the path we had chosen on the map and were instead walking up Tryfan, a mountain two kilometres to the east.

It's upside down

We scrambled up the final stretch, feeling vigorous and pioneering, only to stumble on a group of slackliners setting up their gear in preparation for a daredevil walk between two outcrops.

Slacklining

Taking the plunge

Passed the summit, we hopped between clumps of heather down the boulder-strewn slope towards the green flatness that bordered our swimming spot. A breeze ruffled the surface of the lake and though we were walking in t-shirts we knew it would be cold. We had wisely decided to leave our wetsuits in the van so there would be no neoprene to defend us from the icy embrace of the mountain pond.

We stepped off the grassy bank, watched only by the rocky crags. It didn’t seem too bad until the water lapped at my vital regions. A bit further in and my chest tightened. Once fully immersed breathing became difficult and my plan to swim to the far side was quickly abandoned. A few more desperate splashes and it was about face and rapidly out of the water to clamber back into dry clothes. To celebrate, Lewis and I split a Jamaica Ginger Cake and washed it down with a dram of whisky from the hip flask. 

Making friends

Back in the campsite we met Geoff, a lone motorbike tourer. He was an expert practitioner of what I like to call the campsite creep. This is an ancient skill where instead of just walking up to people and having a chat, you assess their amenability to conversation by slowly approaching them in small increments, creeping across the space between until there is none. Perhaps this technique is borne of experiences with fearsome rebel groups who have to be approached cautiously, or maybe it’s just social awkwardness. Either way, it’s disturbing to start a conversation practically shouting across a field, before suddenly finding a large, hairy biker looming over you while you chop onions.

The big day

In the morning we cleared fuzzy heads with coffee and stoked our engines with porridge. We had chosen a circular route that allowed us to walk directly from and back to the campsite. Our plan was to head up the Watkin Path and place our flag on the top of Snowdon before coming back down over Crib Goch, which had piqued our interest when we read the following on the wall map next to the campsite office: ‘People do die up here.’

We packed our bags with plentiful supplies for the 15-mile round trip before setting out along the northern shore of Llyn Gwynant. The surroundings were so beautiful it felt like we were walking through a soggy Eden. We picked our away across moss-covered rock falls and ducked under the lichen-heavy branches of trees. The path was difficult to follow in places and quite clear in others, stones worn smooth over the centuries by the feet of sheep and men. To our left the lake lay grey and cold and to our right the heavily vegetated slope disappeared into low cloud. There was no one in sight.

Ascending through clouds

It’s been a long time since I used an Ordnance Survey map and the network of tiny lines on the paper was hard to follow. After misfiring down a lane that led back to the main road we found a gate with a sign fixed next to it, ‘Watkin Path’ and a large arrow showing us the way. The path wound up the valley alongside a rushing stream, hurtling down to feed Llyn Gwynant. We paused to wolf down macaroons next to Gladstone Rock, where a plaque commemorates the day in 1892 when the 83-year-old Prime Minister William Gladstone officially opened the path.

The sun teased us as we climbed, appearing briefly from behind the clouds only to disappear again a short while after. The path swung northwest revealing the sweep of the valley below. We walked hard and talked little, heart rates rising as we sweated healthily. I could feel the burn in my legs but resisted asking the fatal phrase ‘how far to the top?’

The final stretch of the Watkin Path is notoriously treacherous, traversing a scree slope with no solid footing. We scrambled our way across, trying not to shower the walkers below with stone. Soon we were at the top and jostling with hundreds of other walkers, all swathed in lurid shades of breathable fabrics. There are several routes up Snowdon and a train too, so we had to sharpen our elbows to get a turn next to the stone marking the highest point.

The summit circus

Despite not being able to see the landscape the human activity was entertainment enough with gangs of scouts carrying flags and endurance athletes in tiny shorts taking part in a 24-hour triathlon. As awful as it sounds, this brutal event involves attempting to complete as many sprint distance triathlons as possible in 24-hours. It can be done solo or as a team. The 2013 solo winner completed 16 circuits. That’s 3.8 miles of swimming, 179 miles of cycling and 41.6 miles of running. Excuse me while I doff my cap.

We found a clear patch of ground and sat down at the foot of a wall to devour a well-earned lunch. Hiking boots came worryingly close as we perched on stones in the mud. An enthusiastic American walker spotted our feast and complimented it in the way only enthusiastic Americans can, with a high volume exclamation.

‘Now that’s what I'm talking about! That’s a lunch!’

Yes, my friend, it certainly is.

The clouds began to clear just in time for our descent. Looking north we could see a great swathe of Wales laid out, like a green patchwork quilt, all the way to Anglesey and the Irish Ocean.

The Ridge of Death

Emboldened by the clear skies we confirmed our decision to eschew the popular and busy routes down and take the more exciting Crib Goch instead. We could see walkers on the ridge silhouetted against the blue firmament and no one seemed to be falling off. Crib Goch is a grade 1 scramble, which means it’s somewhere between a walk and a climb.

Crib Goch

The ridge was exposed with a decent wind whipping up from the valley. At points the path was not obvious and the scramble, using our hands just for balance if at all, became a climb, using our hands to hold our weight. Our position on the spine of this younger sister of Snowdon afforded a wonderful perspective. To the south we looked down on lakes Glaslyn and Llydaw. To the east we could see the sheer face of the bigger mountain with the specks of walkers toiling to the top and to the north, the lumpy slopes leading down to the A4086.

Lakes Glaslyn and Llydaw

 We passed several groups of people who were clearly out of their depth on the ridge and not enjoying themselves.

‘How much further?’ Asked one lady, her voice quavering, as she clung to the rocks like King Kong was in the area and on the prowl for a new bride.

‘Five hours,’ Lewis replied without missing a beat. Her eyebrows rose in horror before we reassured her that it was actually only four and a half.

Led astray

Beyond the roughest part the path led us down towards a grassy ridge where we rested and contemplated the scene. Nearby, a pretty sheep lay sprawled on a rock, gazing up at us with its large, dark eyes. Faced with such provocation, perhaps it’s not so hard to imagine how a lonely farmer might fall foul of a woolly temptress.

Time to think

Shortly after we passed a lone walker sat on the ground staring into space. It reminded me how the mountains are a place for excitement and adventure but also reflection. People immerse themselves in nature in order to better understand their problems or to be alone with powerful emotions, away from the myriad distractions of modern life. The stark beauty of a rugged landscape can be a crucible for melancholic introspection; or strange comfort drawn from the feeling of insignificance engendered by the awesome surroundings. I wondered what demons the man was facing, or whether he was just having a bit of a rest.

In good company

Finally we arrived at Pen-y-Pass where crowds waited for the last Sherpa bus back to their lodgings in nearby towns and villages. We carried on, passing the sinewy maniacs powering up the road on the bike leg of their 24-hour nightmare. Our final prize was a pint in the hotel at Pen-Y-Gwryd, which Hillary and Tenzing used as their base while they trained for their 1953 attempt on Everest. It was hard to leave the cosy watering hole, described on the website as a ‘haven safe from the relentless grind of modernity’, as the exposed beams and collections of climbing memorabilia invited an extended tipple.

Nine hours after we left the campsite we marched back in again, feasted on pasta and beer and battled against heavy eyelids before accepting the inevitable and turning in to sleep like babies.

From boots to boats

On our final day in Snowdonia we decided to take to the water and hired a two-man kayak to explore lake Gwynant. We cruised up the small river that feeds the lake, negotiating our way through the arches of an old stone bridge and swearing at cows.

On the lake proper we discovered a mouldy old boathouse to hide in and prepared to ambush imaginary victims. At its south westerly corner the lake flows out again and over some small rapids, which looked tempting but we didn’t fancy dragging the kayak back over the rocks so we resisted the urge to plunge in.

Game of Thrones

We made our way back to London via Harlech, where there is an impressive castle, built by Edward I in the late 13^th Century to keep the Welsh in Wales. Perched on a rock with breathtaking views, the mighty towers and thick walls allowed me to entertain my Ned Stark fantasies for a few sweet moments. 

It was off-season and the town of Harlech was somewhat quiet and forlorn. We found an arcade next to a café where we vented our latent combat rage playing Time Crisis while waiting for heart-stopping Mega Burgers. The waitress told us that they had run out of curly fries so we’d been given a mound of onion rings instead.

‘I think she likes us,’ said Lewis.

In a fleeting moment, like a cloud crossing the sky, I imagined settling down in a small town like Harlech, with a castle to muck about on, cooking up cholesterol-steeped dinners for miserable tourists alongside my trusty serving wench. Then the ketchup bottle exploded, quickly bringing me back to my senses. I shuddered and swallowed the last of my onion rings.

Triumphant return

Our return journey was fuelled by a desire to avoid the Sunday evening jam of city-dwellers returning from weekends away. Miraculously our bladders held out a full five and a half hours without stopping until we were around the dinner table regaling our housemates with our exploits until they could take no more.

If you've never been to Snowdonia, go at once - and take a wetsuit.

  

The Revenge of Captain Bizarro

My girlfriend and I were eating dinner outside on a balmy Friday evening in August when it happened. As I rose from the table to clear the plates I heard a voice exclaim from the neighbouring garden.

‘He'd be perfect!’

I looked over to see a group of women holding drinks. One of them, a glamorous looking middle-aged woman with red hair, was gesturing excitedly and pointing at me. I have never had those words shouted at me over a garden wall. Over any wall, for that matter. I was intrigued and walked over to find out what it was I was supposedly perfect for. The women were not wearing amulets or animal skins, so I was reasonably confident I had not been selected for a shamanic ritual.

Down to business

The woman introduced herself and handed me a business card. Orange and yellow lines radiated from one corner of the card like sunbeams and on the lines were written the words, 

“Camilla Arthur Casting”.

‘Can you do an Australian accent?’ she asked me.

Now, I have been told by my Australian flatmate that my Antipodean impersonation is ‘a bit bogan (which means scally) but passable’. Emboldened by the memory of this glowing endorsement I proceeded to unleash my finest stereotyping.

‘Yea mate. I'm Australian and I love barbecues.’

Camilla’s face lit up and she turned back to the gaggle of women, giving them a double thumbs up.

“Are you free next Wednesday? There's something I'd like to put you forward for.”

Checking her credentials

Over the next couple of days, I began to receive emails from Camilla. I looked at her website and read about the campaigns she had recruited people for. I learned the term ‘street casting’, which means finding normal people, not trained actors, who might be good for a brand's campaign. The second email had an attachment with a heading in block capitals:

CASTING BRIEF FOR KOREAN ELECTRICAL VIDEO

The brief was to play Dave, an over-enthusiastic Australian cameraman. Dave is excited to be making a Youtube video about his new invention; a mini steady cam called the Galluscam300 that he been testing using a headpiece attached to his pet chicken, Laura.

Right. This definitely ranks up there with the strangest emails I have ever read. But unlike the plea from the son of the exiled ruler of Omanistan to allow him to place some funds in my account ‘for security’, this was not one to ignore. I read on. Whoever ended up being chosen as Dave would be starring in a viral video for LG phones, taking part in a two day shoot in Amsterdam and getting paid £2,000 for their trouble. It sounded like fun.

The final email I received from Camilla had text only in the subject line:

‘PS Olly, can you look kinda rough and rugged at the casting’

Dedicated to the cause

As luck would have it, I went camping the night before the casting (see previous post ‘Eight go wild in Berkshire’) and so I had a veneer of outdoor grime and the fusty odour of a cameraman recently returned from an extreme filming expedition. I arrived late, flustered and sweaty, hoping that my greasy sheen would only add to the authenticity of my look; cargo shorts and check shirt with casually rolled up sleeves and the kind of trainers cum walking shoes, so loved by film crews, that say, ‘my job is ACTIVE involving lots of ACTION and definitely MUCH cooler than yours’.

I was also lugging my camping gear in a large North Face holdall and had practiced being Dave after a few drinks the previous night. Never before has this level of Daniel Day Lewis like rigour been applied to preparation for a viral video casting.

At the entrance to the building, I paused to compose myself. I figured I should start as I meant to go on and so I strode into reception and launched straight into character.

‘G’day mate. I’m here for the casting?’ I ended my sentence with the upward inflection that turns every Aussie sentence into a question.

The guy muttered directions without looking up from his paper. I had fooled the receptionist. It was a good start.

Through the looking glass

I followed the corridor along and down, passing a bloke on the stairs who gave me a wry smile as we passed. Was he a Dave? It felt like I was in a surreal world full of cameraman wannabes, dreaming of a fast buck and a free trip to Holland.

As I opened the door with the words Casting Cabin on a plaque, Camilla skipped across the floor to greet me and my cover was immediately blown.

‘Olly, daaarling! Thank you so much for coming.’

I was taken aback and suffered a temporary split personality disorder, unsure whether to respond in character. My real self won over, I answered in my normal voice and then silently cursed my lack of resolve. ‘Dammit,’ I thought. ‘Stay focused. Channel Dave.’

I was given a form to fill in. The usual stuff: address, phone number, agent’s name, head size. I left the last two blank. I looked around the waiting room of the casting studio and observed that I was not alone; there were two other Daves. Both of them were real Australians, all suntans and 'no worries', and one, a burly fellow wearing flip flops, looked exactly like a cameraman who’d just got back from testing his gear to the max filming Ukrainian cliff top boxing. If I had any chance at all, which I suspected I did not, I was going to have to out Australian some Australians.

Eventually I was called into the studio, a large windowless square with exposed brickwork on every wall apart from the one in front of the camera, which had been painted white. There were two techy guys hunched over monitors, a mysterious man wearing shades sat on a deep sofa that looked impossible to get up from and the only person Camilla introduced me to; the Dutch director, Willem.

When the filming starting, Camilla was going to prompt me with some questions and then I was to ad-lib the character. I have never done anything like this before but I have been unwittingly preparing for several years by tormenting my girlfriend with demented characters and silly voices. She assures me that enduring my barrage of bullcrap is giving her frown lines. 'Showing off' she calls it. I was getting ready for one almighty show off.

Time to shine

I stood in front of the camera against the whitewashed wall. I was nervous, but raring to go. I bounced from foot to foot, rubbed my sweaty palms together and ran my tongue over my dry lips.

‘And…ACTION!’

‘So, Dave. Tell us a bit about yourself and your life as a cameraman.’

It was like opening the stable door to a horny stallion. I was off, rattling away in a high speed bogan brogue about how filming was my life. I made up fantasies about a recent trip to Mongolia and waxed lyrical about my sidekick, Laura the chicken. I was actually getting laughs with this stuff and that spurred me on even more. I ranted about the Galluscam300 and how it was going to change the film industry forever, earnestly expressing how proud I was to be sharing it with my internet buddies.

I paused for breath and Camilla rushed forward with a glass of water. I gulped it down.

‘That’s great, Dave. Tell us how you designed the Galluscam and the adventures you had along the way.’

The question had the same effect as jabbing a cattle prod into the side of an angry bull. I began again, waving my arms around and gesticulating towards the camera and my imaginary audience. I was genuinely excited about the utter rubbish I was spouting. I prattled on about the Heath Robinson contraptions I had built in my shed and how many times I had nearly killed Laura during my search to get the perfect shot.

Cheers for the nonsense

Finally the stream of farce began to run dry. I rounded off by thanking ‘the web heads’ and imploring them to ‘check back soon for the latest’. I ended with a suitably cheesy two-handed point at the camera and a manic grin.My heart was racing and sweat ran down into my eyes. The director shook my hand on the way out and I felt like I had done a good job. Probably nothing would come of it but at least it had been fun. I said goodbye to Camilla and went to catch the bus home.

What are the chances

The next day Camilla phoned me.

‘Olly, it’s f*cking brilliant,’ Camilla likes to swear. ‘You’re down to the last four!’

I was shocked. They had seen 26 guys in total at the casting, most of them real Australians. Maybe I did have a chance after all. Camilla tempered my excitement.

‘We’ll find out more tomorrow but, you know, even making it to the final four is f*cking amazing.’

This is the language of someone well rehearsed in preparing people for disappointment. It is true that I would be more disappointed now, having made it onto the shortlist. The next day was the Friday of August bank holiday weekend. I was in the office, looking forward to a few days camping. It was about 11.30 when I got a text from Camilla.

Olly – this is very important.

You're down to the final two.

But they've decided they don’t

want an Australian. They want

an English guy. Can you call

the director straight away and

arrange to go to his flat for a

second casting. Let me know

as soon as you have spoken

to him. F*cking brilliant,

Camilla xoxoxo

Another twist of fate

I laughed out loud. This is was unbelievable. Just when everyone thought Captain Bizarro was dead, he had kicked down the door and stormed in, ready to wreak a terrible revenge. This development distracted me more than a little from my spreadsheets and I immediately ran into the bathroom to call the director.

‘Willem? Hi, it’s Olly. Yes, it’s great news. Hackney Road you say? Fantastic, I can be there at 1.15. Same brief but English? Okay, that’s fine. I'm not dressed like a cameraman today though, is that a problem? No? Okay, see you soon.’

My mind raced over the routine I had invented a couple of days earlier. Same brief but English. In my head the words sounded Australian and I found putting on an accent made it much easier to play Dave, with his overabundance of enthusiasm. I also wasn't sure if paying the director a home visit was normal. I hoped it wasn't an elaborate ploy to induct me into some kind of Nazi sex ring. Before dashing out of the office, I scribbled the address on a pad and made sure my colleagues knew where I had gone, just in case.

Second time lucky

I jumped on my bike and cycled from Moorgate to Hackney Road, rehearsing as I rode.

‘Hi, my name’s Dave and I’m a cameraman. I’ve being filming for 10 years and it's my life.’

For some reason the new, English Dave sounded like Bear Grylls. I wondered if it would help my chances of getting the job if I staggered into the director's flat muttering, 'must…keep…going'  and took a bite out of his cat. Willem buzzed me into his smart apartment block and told me to come up to the second floor. There was no one else in the apartment and no camera equipment visible anywhere. My spidey senses were tingling and Willem must have noticed me peering around with a furrowed brow because he said,

‘I know, I'm a director and I don’t have any cameras. It's ridiculous!’

Setting the standard

I kept my eyes peeled for Nazis. The professional set up involved Willem balancing his iPhone on a broom handle and standing on the sofa to film. I was wearing standard office attire of polo shirt and chinos so Willem offered me his rain jacket to make me a look a bit more like a cameraman working in the elements. The apartment was already quite warm and once snug under a few layers of Gore Tex, I began to sweat profusely.

A wooden carving on the coffee table kindly stood in as Laura the chicken and I did 3 takes, taking instructions in-between and trying to provide a consistently high level of nonsense. The English Dave felt more serious, less ‘kinda crazy’. Perhaps they’d go full circle and end up with an Australian pretending to be English.

Back in the office, I tried to concentrate on my work. At about 2.30 I got a phone call.

‘Olly? Hi. My name's Hein, I’m calling from Amsterdam. Do you know your head size? In case you get the job we're gonna need your head size for the helmet.’

‘Um…no. But I can find out. I’ll call you back!’

Earning my keep

I immediately began scrabbling around for a tape measure. I pulled open desk drawers and churned up the contents. There was no tape measure anywhere but I did find a piece of string. I could use the ancient technique of holding a length of string around your head and then laying the string flat and measuring it with a ruler. Genius. At the precise moment I was holding the string around my head, concentrating hard, probably with my tongue sticking out of my mouth, my boss walked down the corridor. He gave me a look as if to say, ‘Who the hell hired you?’ I smiled. Soon enough, I knew that I had a 56cm head. I phoned Hein and told him what he needed to know.

Getting away from it all

Now there was nothing left to do but wait. My girlfriend and I drove to Pembrokeshire that evening and spent the weekend in the glorious surroundings of South Wales. The phone didn't ring. It didn't ring on Saturday or Sunday. It didn't ring on Monday as we lay on a huge sandy beach in the warm sun and steeled ourselves for the 6-hour drive home. Finally, I cracked and texted Camilla to ask if she’d heard anything.

A little while later, as we drove down the motorway, my phone beeped.

‘Olly – sorry. I just found out

they went with the other guy.

You did great though. I’m

f*cking proud of myself for

spotting you over the garden

wall xxx’

I pulled over at the nearest shop I could find, bought a bottle of whisky and began drinking heavily.

‘I could have been somebody!’ I hollered skywards as my girlfriend tried to sooth me.

Once I had recovered from the crushing disappointment, back on the motorway I soothed myself with a long, nonsensical monologue in a Southern States drawl. From now on, I tell my girlfriend, I have every excuse to give voice to the weirdoes in my head. I'm practicing for my next role. 

Willem Gerritsen is the director whose flat I wound up in and Liquid Mountaineering is a short documentary he shot. Enjoy...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oe3St1GgoHQ

Eight go wild in Berkshire - camping with colleagues

“What’s all that stuff around your desks?” Asked a colleague in the kitchen as we waited for the kettle to boil.

 “We're going camping,” I replied.

The look on his face was quizzical. “On a Tuesday night? Together?”

“Yep. We're having micro-adventure*.”

Potential for disaster

I love camping but I've never been with my workmates and never on a school night, heading straight back into the office the next day. It was either going to be a fun and interesting way to spend a Tuesday night, or a complete disaster resulting in mass resignations.

Thankfully this wacky plan had not been devised as an official team bonder, with specific tasks designed to practice skills like ‘leadership’, ‘teamwork’ and ‘covert infiltration’. It was more of an extended social event, which, amazingly, and perhaps foolishly, the whole team had signed up to.

The original idea was to wild camp but there is nowhere ‘wild’ a short train ride from London where 8 people can subtly pitch tents and spend the night. I pictured a bedraggled horde of my bleary eyed colleagues staggering along in the glare of a tractor’s spotlights, being marshalled back to train station by an angry farmer at 3 am.

The wilds of Berkshire

We did contact a farmer and ask if we could use his field but he was worried about the ‘mess’ we might make. So, we found a sweet little campsite next to a lock on the Thames in the commuter belt haven of Cookham, Berkshire.

Two of the team had never been camping, so tents were borrowed and rollmats bought. We joked, at their expense, about foraging for food and, more alarmingly, gathering wood for sacrificial pyres. I pictured a Battle Royale or Hunger Games type scenario; a fight to the death in the woods with whatever weapons we could lay our hands on. In reality, there was little chance of death. Perhaps there was more chance of alcohol and the campsite’s proximity to water combining, resulting in a skinny-dipping event and those mass resignations I previously mentioned.

We piled out of the office at half 5 and onto the tube to Paddington, where we caught the train to Cookham. Laden as we were with bags and tents it looked like we were heading off for a month in the Himalayas, not one night under the stars. We squeezed in with the commuters, who were no doubt bound for a night of chicken kievs and bad telly, smug in the knowledge that this was no ordinary Tuesday.

Taking it seriously

0.8 miles is not far, but I regretted not attaching the shoulder straps to my holdall. The thin handles of the heavy bag dug into me as we made our way from the station, through the village towards the campsite. Being one of only two men in the team of eight, there was no way I could lose face by displaying my discomfort. It was paramount to appear unruffled at all times and demonstrate the quiet confidence of a seasoned expeditionary. That is why, along with food, clothes and cider, I had packed a hunting bow, a flare gun and an inflatable raft. You might think this excessive but if disaster were to befall us in the form of, say, a gang of wayward youth on the rampage, I could fend them off with the bow, alert the community to our plight with the flare gun and then paddle the team to safety, after inflating the raft. Stranger things have happened and it pays to be prepared.

A watery past

It is at Cookham where the River Thames meets the Chiltern chalk, causing it to make a sharp turn to the south. Centuries ago this area would have been a maze of narrow river channels, between wooded, marshy islands. Chalkstones fell from the sides of the river and barges were sunk so the first lock was built in 1830 to control the lively interaction between land and water. Fast forward to the 21^st century and thanks to the Environment Agency, certain locks on the Thames can now be used for camping and Cookham is one of the most picturesque.

We crossed over a roaring weir, beneath which three men sat just beyond the tumbling water, keeping a watchful eye on their fishing rods. The campsite was simple and pleasant in its unfussiness; an expanse of grass bordered by the lock on one side and a field of cows on the other. I thought of my bow and wondered how long a whole cow would take to cook on the disposable barbecue we had brought with us.

Here's to freedom

Tents were pitched, ciders were cracked and we raised a glass to camping on a school night. The sun shone down on our green enclave next to the Thames and it felt good to have escaped the metropolis for an evening amongst nature. I pondered which would be the best tree to shin up to get a good signal on the satellite phone and where would be the most advantageous spot to position the water filtration system, but I soon became distracted by shovelling crisps and hummus into my face.

Life in the camp hummed to the natural rhythm and my male colleague Richard and I soon found ourselves hunched over the disposable barbecue monitoring the burgers. No words were needed; a low grunt and a jab of the finger indicated when a piece of meat needed turning and a successful flip and the resulting sizzle caused a satisfied grunt of approval. This was man work, as it has always been.

The wine flowed and my hip flask was passed around. We played that most ancient of camping games; Heads Up on the Iphone. It’s a good one. You choose a category, famous people for example and, holding the phone on your forehead, try to guess the name from the clues being shouted at you by your friends. Guess right and tilt the phone forward to bring up another name. Great fun until the battery dies. I was dissuaded from firing up my portable generator due to some ridiculous concern over noise.

Under blue moon...

The cool glow of a full moon cast long shadows through the trees and the evening mellowed towards bedtime at around midnight. The ladies retired to their giant, multi-room tents for a night of spacious luxury. As they settled down I could hear them shouting from one end of their cavernous abodes to the other. Things like, “Where’s my pillow?” and “I think you left it downstairs.”

Meanwhile, Richard and I cosied up in our tiny, storm-proof, two-manner. He was not thrilled when I warned him that I occasionally suffer from ‘night terrors’, with accompanying thrashing and moaning. He was no doubt hoping for a little more room to avoid an elbow or knee in the back but I knew we would have the last laugh if a typhoon were to hit Cookham. We would be safe and dry while the ladies portable mansions would be wrenched from their pegs and blown away into a herd of stampeding cows.

Waking up naturally

We rose, groggy, to a beautiful dawn. Low swathes of mist rolled across the stillness of the fields while a lone heron stood like a sentry on the edge of the lock. This was a very different waking experience to the usual squeal of buses’ airbrakes on Dalston Lane in London. Back on the train with the well-scrubbed commuters and we wore our dishevelment, and aroma, with pride. We had survived, in fact immensely enjoyed, our micro-adventure and there was very little chance of any P45s being issued. Unless one of my colleagues has been so inspired by the experience that they decide to jack in the nine to five and become a lama farmer in Peru. That remains to be seen.

Recipe for success

This trip was a success because we all get on well as a team and we have previously spent some time socialising out of work. For work teams where the dynamic is less easy, this might be the perfect idea of hell. The term ‘bonding’ has been sadly sterilised by its use in the corporate environment but it is nevertheless the correct one to describe this experience. There are of course different levels of seniority within my team and there is one ‘head of’ but the hierarchy is not a stifling one and the atmosphere in the office is relaxed. This translated to the campsite where it everyone was able to enjoy themselves as friends.

In summary, if you get on with your work mates and fancy doing something a bit different; go camping with them on a weeknight. Just don’t forget your bow.

*Our micro-adventure was inspired by a talk given by a true adventurer Alastair Humphreys. Read more about his exciting escapades here...http://www.alastairhumphreys.com/