Vi Environmental Tour of The Bristol Channel. 
 Graeme Hogg and 'Tall' James. 10th - 18th September 2009

Thursday. 10th September.

We packed and loaded up then we drove to Pembrokeshire. 

We had spent 30 minutes driving the wrong way down the M5. Talking had distracted us. 
I only noticed when I realised the Severn Bridge wasn't anywhere nearer. When we got to West Hook 
farm it was getting dark. Out at sea some big ships anchored. Illuminated like floating villages. 

This is the Atlantic. The rocks around Skomer and Skokholme Island the first to break the back of the fetch 
travelling two thousand miles, if you forget about Ireland. The Bristol Channel does not start here. 

The Atlantic comes to rest here and Milford Haven is suited in its enormity for the task of 
providing a safe anchorage for big oil ships. It couldn't have been better designed by God. 

An Ocean must be given some grace in its slowing down to a sea or channel. So this area of 
sea doesn't really have a name by the locals when they look south. Neither the start of the Bristol
Channel or the end of the Atlantic. Such a thing cannot be named, apart from the fact that its
St.Georges channel really and before that, before even the Atlantic its the Celtic Sea.


James prepared food out of the back of his van as I made some video of the big ships.
Later I felt freezing in my paper thin sleeping bag and when I was awoken at 4am by a crow
cawing immediately outside my tent (I knew they would, they did last time I was in Pembroke)
I regretted not setting up a mic and the Nagra.




Friday. 11th September.

In the morning we spoke to the camp site guy. He told us the owner of the field we wanted 
to set up in was called Owen Morgan, 'A good welsh name' he said, and he told us where
we could find him.

Ten minutes later and we were in his yard as he came trundling along in a great big tractor
for spearing hay bails. I asked him if we could set up a video camera, a table, some gear
and quietly as I coughed to clear my throat, some..er..speakers.

He said 'no worries, go right ahead'.

Playing outside in bright daylight posed some problems. I couldn't see a single thing
on any of the electronic instruments. It was impossible to arrange, set, programme anything. 
The LEDs were drowned by the daylight. This problem was to become a defining issue on the tour.

People in deckchairs fell asleep as I dubbed around under a blanket trying to get some tones
from the machines. Weirdly a beat and some sounds appeared which seemed to fit moment.

As we were finising a walker on the coastal path overlooking Marloes asked us what we were doing.
I said we were packing up after doing a gig. She said the weather was good for it
nd that the nice weather was due to the Azores high pressure rising. 

Later we drove around and explored the oil refinery known as 'Chevron'. One has to spare
a thought for places like Rhoscrowther. Once occupying an immeasurable coastal bliss overlooking
one of the deepest natural harbours in world. 

Flanking the northern part of a sea peninsular having only outstanding natural coast to the south. 
But now a ghost town, perhaps only the church remains. Scalpeled out of the surroundings by the knife of 
the refinery. As we climbed the gentle slope leading to the triple fenced corner of the 'Chevron'
site a sign stuck out of the hedges by the bend, barely visible for a green pollen petina accrued over
decades of disuse.

'Careful. Childrens Playground' it read.

At West Angle Bay where James made dinner out of the back of his van I grabbed the Nagra 
and wandered off to make some recordings. As it got dark people turned up who were going fishing
with the whole family in tow and proceeded to light a massive fire on the beach.

Tall suggested I set up in the light of an old BT telephone box, the only light in the whole 
car park. I wished I had.

When we had finished here we went to explore more the Chevron site. On the OS map there
was a strange looking network of roads by the refinery. After much driving around we found a track 
leading down a hill towards the giant oil city. A locked gate blocked our way. I took some pictures and 
recorded some audio, crickets and refinery hum. We wandered down the track after climbing through 
the fence. It lead to an overgrown gate and a series of road/tracks which, after some investigation
seemed to have no purpose.

Later on looking for the Devils Quoit (we never found it) we drove through some sinister tufts 
of grass and sand and eventually found a big car park to stay. James suggested we both 
stay in his van which became the routine every night. This involved rearranging every cab, box
flight case etc. The gap for me to sleep was thinner than my (tiny) camping mat and slightly 
shorter than me. We both slept well.




Saturday. 12th September.

We awoke to the morning sounds of gravel being crunched by rubber as people started to arrive
next to where we about to make breakfast. James was up and about. 'Its amazing here' he said after 
returning from a stroll. 'Its a big rocky coast, really beautiful!'.

We'd landed in Fresh Water West. A big surf spot, beauty spot, coastal path spot, tourist spot.
It was everything to everyone. There were a couple of camper vans over there (the open door 
revealed every EU country sticker). The Rinky Dink Cinema guy pulled in in a big merc with his family.
A stall selling ice creams cranked up his genny. The place even had a toilet (unlocked all night) with
a preposterously thick roof beams, where we could wash our teeth in a sink.

Tall said he found a place further up the road to set up. The sun was beating down. It was going to be
a good one. After breakfast we parked on a verge by the spot and just down on the grass was a hut 
for drying seaweed. I took a look around and decided to set up inside it so as to make use of the shade. 
The trip up and down with heavy amps and bass cabs was hard and  we both broke out into sweats. 
The sun baked overhead. Surf was up. The verge was getting busy with vans with guys sunning themselves
on their roofs and more worryingly the dreaded deckchair lounger.

Much better conditions to make work in. I started by recording some dry seaweed that I found the day before.
And as this was a hut for drying seaweed it seemed apt. 

An hour later and I was lost in what I was doing. The area was really busy now. I kept sensing people
coming in behind me. Coming and going. As I took a break a load of guys turned up who were looking to surf.
They all piled into the hut and started eagerly querying me on what I was doing. 

I demonstrated the track I was working on and told them the basics of the Tour idea. Said I was based 
in Bristol. They all were too. Said I worked at the Cube Cinema. One of them said he'd knew it as he'd
shown his surf film there recently. I told them the web site address as they went. 

The structure I was in was known locally as the 'piss hut'.

Later a guy and all his elderly relatives turned up. He said he used to be a professional drummer in a band
but the band could never hear him playing. So he built a similar system to ours. 
'Then they fuckin' well could hear me' he said.

As we packed up I noticed what looked like twenty black bin liners all stashed at the rear
of Talls van. 'What the fuck is all that shit' I said to Tall.

Turns out that Tall, bearing the guilt of us ruining peoples peace in this beauty spot had spent
a few hours coming the beach for rubbish, litter, waste, junk and other debris!

The pack up was hard and after an ice cream from the consumer truck we went for a swim. 
The water was warm and incredibly clear. Even Tall could see his feet. 
We giggled like children as the golden sun hung quietly over a bronze and azure sea. 

There was enough hourage in the day to make a trip further along to explore the area around
St.Govans Head and find somewhere to park up.

The military ranges around this area add a surreal twist to otherwise crafty and bendy back roads and 
hedge swallowed lanes. Every few miles or so you would come across a small plastic cabin big enough
for one man to sit in. On a chair with a phone on the table next to him. Across the road a little red 
and white striped barrier. They looked like part of a Dr.Who film set.  While the army spent thousands on
each tank shell or missile, here was this childs toy security checkpoint. 

From St.Govans head I spotted a land mass far out to see. I was momentarily confused, was that Lundy?
Examining a map I ascertained that it was. Visible only on its own, no part of mainland England could be seen.

From this viewpoint the immense scale of the channel strikes one. The view from here to Lundy maybe 30 miles.
This seemed significant as uptonow a parallel journey directly south in England would be tackling the westerly
sands and cliffs of Cornwall and the full force of the Atlantic, the Channel dropping away drastically
and steeply after Hartland Point. Seeing Lundy assured us that this was now the Bristol Channel proper.
The sea was immense and immeasurable, endless blue and flat as the sky. A lone canoeist paddled past the head.


Walking back past the cliff top climbing belays my phone went, a fairly rare event as the coverage 
had been practically none. It was Andrew Binnie and Matt Davies, driving up from Bristol. 

'Where is good to meet?' they were asking. 
I knew we wouldn't be able to get to the Gower despite what my recorded phone message said.
I said I'd examine some maps and get back to them.

Back at the car park and James was making dinner out the back of his van.
I spotted a climber friend from Bristol, Sarah-Jane. She was there with her teenage daughter. 
Distinctly not climbing by the looks of it, more like playing video games in the back of the van. 
'Ive been fishing!' She proclaimed. And proceeded to demonstrate her rod and casting technique.
'We come here all the time. Big cliffs. My photo is in the new Pembroke guide. Do you fish?'

Tall and I perused the map for Carmarthen Bay and the Gower. We spotted somewhere roughly halfway.
A small roundish peninsular, far from dwellings. I phoned through the details and after a hasty visit to the
famous Chapel we left.

It was deathly dark as we neared Llansteffan . We'd been forced inland by the nature of the estuaries of
the river Taf and the Towy. Removed from the sea and forced to hightop along the A40 we felt slightly lost.
Now we'd arrived back near the water it was utterly pitch black and only a rough picture of what the bay
could be like was possible.

The meeting point was Wharely Point, 2K south-west of Llansteffan. There was a P sign at the end of a track
and very little else. At least that was the map and the theory. In actual fact we were lost and couldn't find it.

Driving up a steep hill I spotted a car ahead on a bend. Pulling alongside I knew it was Matt and Andy.
'Follow us' I said confidently, knowing I didn't have a clue where we were.

After several drives down sodden bridleways and dead ends we finally arrived at the car park. 
A lone car was there, a pool of orange light dissappearing as we pulled in. 
Out the back of James's van the Whiskey flowed. I thought It must have felt very strange for Andy and Matt to
turn up here, in this damp and owl infested wilderness. 'Did they come prepared to crash out in the car?'. 

'No'.

Matt was keen to inspect and celebrate the Nagra. James lent Andy a blanket. It was amazing they were here at all. 
We went for a walk around Wharely point. At the edge one could palpably sense the majestic bay in its entirety
by the dim mist, blinking lights, sounds of birds and the gentle lapping of water. But it was absolutely black
as the ace of spades. 
We all crashed out wondering what the fuck this guy was doing here in his car!





Sunday. 13th September

In the morning he was gone. We were basically in the middle of the whole estuary almost surrounded by
water. Perhaps the most northerly inland section of water along the Bristol Channel.  Over to the west was the
beauty spot of Laugherne and Dylan Thomas's boathouse. To the east the rolling hills of Kidwelly and St.Ishmael.

Matt and Andy went off to make some recordings as I composed some video of the bay. Tall made breakfast
out the back of his van.

We all made a plan to head for the Gower, Llanrhidian Marshes. The map showed big flat spaces with few
dwellings. We had no idea what was in store for us this day. The sun began to pour into the shady car park
and it seemed as if someone had turned a green light on as we head off.

Turning into the Gower after Llanelli I felt a great sense of optimism. I'd never been to the Gower in all
the twenty or so years I'd lived in Bristol. What would it provide for me? Approaching it from the north as
the Welsh would and passing or missing out on what we knew would be interesting areas to explore along the 
River Loughor we felt like our dedication and faith would be rewarded in some way. 

We hugged the northern coast and the road climbed very gradually to afford us views of the extensive Llanrhidian
Sands. I spotted some tracks leading straight out into the void of sand and mud and then on the map spotted a really
long track, probably the best part of 2 kilometers long. At its start was Weobley Castle.

The road leading down to the track was steep and gated so we decided to stroll down to investigate access for vehicles.
It eventually drew level with the marshes and finally we came to a closed gate and what felt like the end. 
The track stretched out straight in front dissappearing into a vapour of heat and haze. 
Almost as afar away as one could see was what appeared to be some kind of small structure on stilts.

We pondered the expansive. Slowly, emerging to each of us in turn was what appeared to be somekind of vehicle heading
straight down the track. Minutes later we realised it was a quad bike and rider. All this time it was utterly silent.
Like the rider emerging at the beginning of Laurence of Arabia the biker crept up becomming less and less enigmatic
and more a possible threat, maybe it was the farmer coming to ask us what we were doing. Still it was silent. No sound
travelled before it. Eventually after what seemed an eternity we heard the 2 stroke buzz of the engine and before we
knew it the rider and bike were at the gate. She ushered for us to open it. As she passed we asked who we could talk
to about getting vehicles down onto the sand.

'The Pritchards she said. Williams the son, Roland the father. You can find them in the shop by the castle', then she
sped away.

I crossed my fingers as I walked into the shop by the castle. A ruddy faced youth tended an almost empty shop, save 
the smell of fine meat and the cool presence of fridges somewhere in the back room. I ascertained he was William the son. 
I fumbled out my words. 'Set up cameras, speakers, art project, vehicles blah blah'.

He understood and grimaced as if he immediately knew he was going to regret his answer 'Yes, ok, go ahead'.
I couldn't thank him more but did manage to refrain from buying a kit kat from the basket on the counter.

Once through the gate where we let the biker past we could see the marshes on either side, cut up into a maze of rounded
lumps by a zig zag of water channels. Sheep dotted everywhere. This family had won many prizes for their sheep who graze
on the salty grass, Id noticed the pamphlets and framed newspaper cuttings in the bare shop.

We kept driving as the grassy cushions faded away and we were surrounded by sand. The track petered out but the structure
now clearly visible as some kind of tower seemed to becon us on. We carefully idled forwards checking the tyres out of the
window to see if they sank. The sand seemed firm all the way to the building, now obvious as a delapidated brick shed 
on concrete pillars. We all got out and were rendered speechless by the spectacle of this basic desert.

I could set up and play in the shade of the shed. We could position the cabs underneath.
We couldn't believe our luck. Matt prepared his equipment and shot off back to the drainage ditches to record, Andy helped
us wheel amps and cabs and boxes of gear over to the table. We toiled under the high sun baking down like 
a blessing from above. The black shade was blacker than last nights panoramic vista. 
In every direction, for 360 degrees was a distant slither of green. The castle where we started a grey fleck on the wooded
slopes of the ridge.

The absolute flatness and serene quiet allowed me to push the volume on the sound system. 
I was playing sounds of gentle waves mixed in with bass tones, radio noise and the old iron ring 
I'd found at West Angle Bay. Andy walked almost too far away to see him and later reported that 
wherever he went the sound of the water felt like it was following him around whereas the other 
sounds had diminished. It was as if his brain was hard wired to listen out to sounds of water when in
a big open dry and scary place, like a desert.
	
After a good hour session we called it a day.

After we'd packed up and driven off the marshes I dropped in on the Son in the shop to thank him.
'Does the tide ever come in?' I asked.

'Oh yes, all the time. Comes in quick and covers the whole area'.

'So we were just lucky today. How deep is it around the tower?' I asked playing it cool.

'You'd be walking around in it, up to your knees'.

That would look good I thought. Maybe next time.

We drive to Worms Head and had a swim in the incredible Rhossili Bay. The sea was a glass plane, reflecting
the setting sun and the deep blue of the burning sky. We turned to the south and decided to swim to the cliffs
which seemed close. After a mile swim we dragged ourselves out. James found 2 hermit crabs in a little pool.
We ate dinner in the pub on the cliff top and after a pint and some recording of readings from Brian Waters book
said our goodbyes.

It had been 4 days in wales and I felt like we needed to cover some ground. Although I very much wanted to explore
the industrial landscape around Swansea and the Kenfig area we decided to head for Dunraven to park up. 

Under the thick black sky, pulling into the car park by Southern Down (Ogmore By Sea, Dunraven) we disturbed various boy 
racers and their nocturnal activities. It occured to us that 2 guys in a white van loaded with boxes had the higher 
status in the night time car park world. We drank some whiskey in the darkened cab and rearranged the boxes to make 
space for the beds. England was visible, albeit sodium lights of unidentifiable towns. 

I was pleased to find the public toilets unlocked.






Monday. 14th September

The morning was grey and silver, a mist hanging in the air. James handed me a cup of coffee as had been the custom
every morning as I poked out of my sleeping bag and gulped in fresh air from the open back doors of the van.

A woman silently moved around the beach cleaning litter. Later she will appear in some video plates I made.

Shortly the mist cleared and revealed a sudden England. The north Exmoor coast. 

Today we would explore the bridges. At least the old Severn Bridge. I don't regard the new crossing as a bridge.
Its more like a long pier or platform. It has its own slender beauty of course but for me and this project the old
bridge is far more fitting. 

Driving towards Aberthaw we spotted a power station and took a road behind the garage to explore. 
After appreciating the well kept grounds of the power station we took another small road and stopped
by a boulder blocked entranceway to some kind of derelict cluster of buildings.

Getting out we decided to explore on foot as the way was blocked. It was a tiny village sized settlement
totally abandoned and derelict. Known as Boys Village. We spent what felt like too long exploring
like one does in places like this. Looking in every building, every room in case you find something.

All we found was each other as we went randomly about our own private drifts, occasionally bumping into
our own shadows.

The Welsh English border runs up the river Wye. We headed for Beachley, the place on the small spur of land 
which one of the big white towers more or less stands on. Eventually ending up exactly underneath the bridge 
the huge behemoth above seemed quite thin. I set up mics and made the only stereo recording on the whole journey.

A guy asked what I was doing, said he was really curious. I told him and later it would transpire he
was friends with Ben Langham who does the TunnelSounds project. 

The English side was now little more than the other riverbank. I felt a little down about making the crossing into 
England. The weather had seemed to cloud over and I knew the area so well that it would require some extra effort to
explore and probe the unknown. 

On the map we spotted Old Passage, a promising no mans land in the shadow of the 66 bridge.

Gritting our teeth we climbed around the feeder roads and flew over the crossing.
After careful negotiation of the M48 and A403 Aust junction we pulled up close to some houses
nestled into the bank of Old Passage. 

A dirty track lead to a fence with a big 'National Grid. Do not enter' sign. It wasn't locked.
It lead down past Aust cliffs onto a concrete rampart and provided access to the base of one of
the giant river crossing electricity pylons. We drove on in, confident that the white van would
attract no attention.

I set up a mic deep inside the long grass and made some recordings of the filtered wind and some
tuneful traffic on the bridge.

People kept turning up talking on their phones, not dog walkers. I stopped one lady and asked what 
the attraction was. 'People come over from Avonmouth' she said laughing at the possible intrigue.
'Its somewhere to get away from it all'.

My phone went and it was Danny, a friend from Bristol who wanted to know where we were. 
I told him we were planning on being in the WSM, Brean Down area tomorrow and he was welcome to 
come out and do something.

When we'd finished we headed for Avonmouth. The sun came out over the Seabank Power station.
Gas powered and built in 2000 this is where all the electricity in Bristol comes from. It looks
like a giant boiler with twin chimneys. A gun metal blue finish. Its symmetry invited the idea
of performing outside, square on between the stacks. Another time maybe.

The industrial expanse of Avonmouth rolled past. We made a half arsed attempt at getting access to
Royal Portbury Docks, eager to discover the sonic environment there. However the right person to talk
to wasn't around so we pressed on for Portishead.

A few wrong turns later we pulled up on the sea front at Portishead. 'Danger. Deep Mud' a sign read.
The daily ritual of a swim in the sea wasn't going to be possible here. During a stroll we saw another 
Danger sign, this time warning us not to go near the sheer 4 foot drop. Because it was getting late
we felt that the moment was right for a night time hit. We explored the area behind the Lido.
'Danger. Badger Holes' read yet another sign. Portishead was an edgy, risky place.

We reached Battery point. It felt like there was potential here. It was nearly dusk. The thing was
there were a lot of dog walkers around. Curtain twitches and frustrated teenagers. 
Retirement homes and elderly evening strollers. The sky and panorama can be beautiful from here but
the mud and the discouraging nature of the sea will make you go mad. Driving off to investigate the 
marina we found only horrible new homes, fancying the romantic allure of a sea marina the developers
forgot to build an actual harbour. We also needed gas for the cooker and our options were fast 
running out.

We got totally lost in the maze of deepest urban Portishead looking for light relief in the guise
of the Avon Police HQ. We never found it. Twisting and turning through the maze we broke out into
a cheer when finally reaching a dead end. Look at Portishead on a map. Nearly every single road 
is a dead end. Its a town of Cul-de-sacs. A dormitory town full of sleepers.

We parked back by the sea front and James prepared dinner out the back of his van using the 
remaining gas. The toilets nearby were locked. That was it. I'd had it with Portishead and England's
attitude to public toilets.

James made a suggestion. 'Lets drive back to the national grid lane. Do a set up by the bridge.'

We kissed Portisheads arse and made our way back to Old Passage and the lane made of concrete. 
As we pulled into the track our headlights lit up a guy with his bike leaning against the national grid gate. 
As I got out to open the gate I asked what he was up to 'Came down here to have a shit' he said.

The bridge sung sodium and HGV's as we set up under the blue glare of Tall's big work light.
With the genny on I felt sure we'd attract attention from the nearby houses. As soon as everything was set up
I started making electrical sounds. Perhaps they'd take one look along the rampart at the scene and think
otherwise.

The mighty severn bridge was an awesome background. I had to keep looking up to really believe I was there.
I'm sure Tall actually sat down and listened for once instead of dissappearing as he normally did.

When we disbanded it must of been late. We drove up the lane to Old Passage and parked by the side of the road.
Drinking some slugs of whiskey in the dark cab looking out at the lights on the new bridge I had time to
reflect on what had happened. I think the last musical artist to make an appearance here was Bob Dylan.
On the cover of 'No Direction Home. The Soundtrack'.








Tuesday. 15th September.

The common Rushes waved us goodbye as we head of after coffee and breakfast. We had another chance to idle slowly
through Avonmouth peering out and marvelling at the magnificence of industry.

Careful to avoid Portishead we pushed on for Clevedon where I imagined we might be able to make some recordings
on the Pier there.

Taking a route which included Clapton-In-Gordano, the picturesque village sitting almost directly underneath
the gigantic pillars of the M5 as it careens down past Cadbury Camp and the wooded slopes of Gordano we reached Clevedon
by mid morning.

I wanted to try out contact mics on the structure of the Pier. We loaded necessary gear and went to pay for entry.
A rather stern and puffed faced Lady spotted the Nagra in its conspicuous BBC type looking bag and stopped us.
'Where are you going with that?' she said pointing at the tape recorder. We looked at each other then back to her.
'I was hoping to make some sound recordings'. 'We charge for media!' she said proudly. 'It costs thousands to insure
the pier. We have to charge people to use it for media. People lie to us. They say they are just a small unit, then turn
up with loads of people and equipment'.

'This is just a personal project. Its not commercial. Just me and a tape recorder'.

'50 pounds minimum' she reiterated. We felt deflated knowing she wasn't going to budge. We riffed for a while about how 
nothing in life is free and I swear she stood a little straighter when she told us that they'd had Keira Knightly on the 
pier recently. 

Strolling along the front we decided to get down to the legs and do what we wanted there anyway. This whole episode isn't
worth going into in much detail. It only really involves a failed attempt at recordings and James and I underestimating
the speed of the tide and getting a good soaking. I could see the mistress of the pier leaning over cackling to herself.

Next was going to be Weston-Super-Mare and meeting up with Danny. Id rang the guy who had keys for the gate that would 
let us drive to Brean fort but it was too short notice for him. Driving through WSM we spotted Danny at a fish n chips 
counter. We pulled in and after sampling his chips decided that we should get some too. They tasted good and more than
adequately prepared us for the drive around the coast and down to the weird flat world of caravans, mobile holiday homes
and drive-on-sand that is Brean Sands, the second longest stretch of sand in Europe. I was looking forward to exploring 
this area but as soon as we pulled into the village and started passing column after column of mobile home I suddenly felt 
it would be impossible to experience this place without the taint of cheap tourism. At the very end of the road by the
strange bird sanctuary we parked. Danny had gone on ahead and we spotted him outside the cafe with a tray of tea, etc.

'Danny thinks this is a bloody holiday' someone said.

Not being able to drive to the fort meant we 'd have to lug our gear. And at nearly 2k in length and with steep stairs
at the start this was not an undertaking we were relishing. Danny had his bass clarinet and I'd use the DV camera to record
the audio. The walk was hard as we were buffeted from the north by a strong wind. The fort felt like a welcome refuge when
we arrived there. There were hardly any people. I recorded Danny blurting into a large chamber and then found a partial
rock cave down on the lee side where the wind was calm and the sea lapped quietly. In this rock groove the acoustic was
noticably dry. In the headphones one could only hear the clarinet and the waves. Nothing else. It was like natures studio.
As I recorded Danny wailing at the sea I filmed Steep Holme. Perched serenely out in the Channel 4 kilometers away.

'I came out on this trip to watch your gig and ended up playing by myself!' said Danny.

The walk back was even harder and never has the cab of a van felt so peaceful. 

We're heading for Burnham On Sea and eventually Hinkley power station' I said to Danny, 'Do you want to come?'.
Danny was game so we set off in convoy failing along the entire way to find a cafe for tea.

Burnham On Sea felt like the same as WSM, Portishead or any other town along this stretch of coast. A place where the
sea is dangerous, not because it is a large body of moving water but because its basically mud! And all these towns 
share a strange atmosphere that I cant put my finger on. They are not 'Seaside' places. They are 'Mudside' places and 
that must be a difficult thing to accept and come to terms with, especially when you have a geared up tourism of sorts 
and a self image based on some notion of 'The Seaside' that someone long ago started, perhaps as a cruel joke. 

WSM has the highest rate of teenage pregnancies in England we heard and accounts for 10% of the UK's drug 
rehabilitation centres. Its hard to imagine those statistics for Brighton!

Hinkley was fairly easy to find being sign posted. We drove all the way onto the main site and found a huge
car park with only a few nightshift workers cars. Like at Chevron, it felt weird to drive down tiny country lanes
with bends and hedges and badgers and foxes and then turn up at a nulclear power station. Surely they have a big
road leading to them.

The nuclear power station hummed and seemed to be manned by rabbits.

On an info board was a telephone asking visitors to call when they intended to walk the wildlife trail 
which circumnavigated the station. Danny and I made a half arsed attempt to walk up to the security check
point to ask if we could come in and make some recordings. Instead we chatted at the back of Tall's van
while he made some dinner. After eating we decided to make the stroll (against the advice of the sign).

We said our goodbyes to Danny after we finished the walk and then headed for Kilve. 

Chancing it at Kilve paid off. I'd heard and read about Kilve and as we pulled into the car park at
the bottom of the road it immediately felt right. A nice looking car park, sided by trees, not tarmac'd.
Homely for the camper van traveller. 

James reparked so the van was perfectly flat. Then we did the usual evening ritual. A couple of slugs
of whiskey (I think we finished the bottle here) and rearrangement of the boxes to sleep.





Wednesday. 16th September.

James had already had his morning stroll when I awoke to a morning brew placed by my nose.
'Its nice here.' he enthused.

We ate breakfast and the sun came out. Down by the sea a large outcrop of flat grey and black rocks
stretched out from the rolling cliffs, the edge of the Quantocks. The sea looked blue again and we filled
our lungs with the green calm which pervaded the place. It felt really good to have got away from 
the muddy bays and inlets of yesterday. Walking up the coastal path we spotted a small shabby brick hut.

For a while I forgot what I was doing. The purpose of it all escaped me. When we'd returned to the van
James nudged my memory by suggesting we set up in the brick hut. We approached some nearby houses and 
knocked on a door to ask for the farmers number for the field. An energetic lady answered and gave us
the number as she kept looking past us at cars arriving in the car parks.

A little while later and we were driving up a deeply furroughed track and setting gear up inside and
out the brick shelter. Tall's white table fitted perfectly inside. We had a set up going in no time and
I made several recordings. We only saw a handful of walkers who merely glanced over. Inside the shed
the wind blew. Outside the sun was back, blazing down on us like an eternal star in the brass sky.

When we'd packed up we dropped into the tea shop that was near the houses we went to earlier.
We entered what seemed like the rear of the house by the garden and made our way up to the signs
by the back door, ringing the bell for service. The energetic lady appeared. We ordered 2 cream teas
and found a nice table to sit at. In a short while she returned with the goods. 

'So what survey are you doing?' she asked.
'We are doing a survey of the Bristol Channel' I said. 

'Oh ok. What for?' 

'Have you ever heard of glatting?' I asked.

She said she hadn't. We told her it was the custom of hunting conger-eels with spaniels. 
The eels would become trapped in pools and inlets amongst the rocks as the ebb tide flowed away. 

A good dog would hold a conger with his teeth ; thus a great eel could be dragged from its hole in 
the rocks by pulling both dog and fish from its slimey lair.

Happy with a set-up by early afternoon we returned to the open road and cruised onwards for north exmoor
and the coast along this stretch of England.

We flew through Blue Anchor and stopped for provisions in Watchet.
The road was good and took us quickly onto higher ground past Minehead and down through Porlock.

After climbing back up the very steep Porlock Hill we drove high across the national park where the views
of almost the entire Bristol Channel were extraordinary. In its enormity we felt small. Like a Sea it 
stretched out wild to the distant Gower. Pembrokeshire hidden by the distance and simple curve of the 
earth.

It occured to me that nothing I could ever do could fathom or summarise that place.

We were off the map now. We needed a few more for the remaining part of the journey.
Stopping in Lynmouth to try and find some we found only a quiet, closed and sleepy town only able to
provide some excitement via the water powered lift and the 'toss a penny into the local hospital trust'
game mounted on the side of the hospital.

The sky was darkening. A lone stunt cyclist practiced his moves on the sea rocks in Lynmouth.
We pushed on to look for somewhere near Ilfracombe to park up. We admired Woody Bay train station and the 
moors which billowed away from us on the left in yellow and green undulations.

The car park overlooked the approach to Ilfracombe and the rocky outcrops around the harbour.

As the light faded and only the sodium glare of distant towns lit the low clouds we ate quietly
and prepared our beds. The light of a lone fishing boat bopped up and down out on the black sea.


Thursday. 17th September.

In the morning we formed the loose idea to catch the ferry to Lundy and have time after to complete
the tour at Hartland. In Ilfracombe though at the ferry shop we found out we'd missed the boat.
Instead we made our way onwards to Woolacombe, Croyde and the sandy dunes around Saunton.

The map (we picked up in Croyde) showed a large dune area called Broughton Burroughs. 
We liked the idea of getting back to the sea. The cliffs and rocks of Exmoor made the sea seem distant
and hard to connect with. Following only the information on the OS map we headed into the dunes along
a narrow track eventually coming to a car park. The track did lead on, through an opened gate with military
signs next to it. It was a firing range. The gate was open so we thought it would be cool to go on in.

The terrain was sandy, bumpy and very bendy. We drove for what felt like miles. Each turn we expected the
sea to present itself to us and we would discover the privacy we'd been lucky (or spoilt) with 
in the Gower. But the sand got deeper and the dunes higher until we realised that if we proceeded we might
get stuck. I got out to to check out what was around the bend. James went up the side of the dune
to see if he could spot anything ahead. 

As I was testing the ground in a smallish clearing with grassy verges I heard shouts behind me. I hurried back 
up the track as a huge army vehicle crashed around the corner. I jumped up onto the side to get out the way. 
It looked like a vehicle for carrying a large gun except the gun was missing and there was just an enormous 
swiveling turret. The driver had close fitting black shades on. 
The co-driver looked like his instructor. They rumbled past kicking up sand behind them. The tyres were
as high as my chest, as thick as my whole body. That was what you needed to get around these dunes.

We returned to the van a little worried about what might happen next.
'They pulled up next to me and talked into their radio' Said James. 'They said "someone left the gate open. 
Better close it just in case" and then they just drove off without even looking at me.'

We managed to turn the van around and headed back the way we came. We past a car park we hadn't spotted on the way down
where a car and some soldiers were gathered. They told us that the gate was probably locked now and that last week
a guy had got stuck in the sand in his van. He was here to empty the portaloo. They had to tow him out. 
We explained where we'd got to and they confirmed that if we'd gone on further we would of been 'ball bagged'. 

'Our mucker has got keys. Whether you get out or not will depend on how he feels' they said as we left.

I texted my brother who was in the army. I thought he would be amused by our predicament.
'Don't worry' he replied 'the closer you are to the target the safer you are'.

All the way back eventually by the gate and we found it locked. Shit. How long would we be waiting here. Examining
the fence/gate posts we knew we couldn't break out. Instead we explored a tiny track, footpath really to our left
which might lead around. After much pushing through bushes and undergrowth we mapped out a route and drove on.

It lead all the way around to another gate but this time we sussed out that we could dismantle 
it and get the fuck out. As we headed for the gate with our spanners and wrenches we spotted another big army wagon
parked on the other side of the fence in the public car park. I went up to him and smiled. 

'You got locked in did ya?' he asked peering at me with eagle eyes.

'yeah' I said as I smiled. 'You got the keys?' 

'Yep' he replied with no change in his stare. For a split second there was a standoff. Then he laughed and
started off for the gate. 'You lucky our mucker isn't here, he'd be really fucked off'.

We trundled out of the burroughs with a tail firmly inbetween the rear wheels.

We had to head into Barnstable to get across the river. We were aiming to get to Instow which looked
like a perfectly reasonable place to stop. But we headed into a big cycling event and had to take a detour.
When we finally arrived at Instow we saw some Marine Army landing craft practising manouevers on the beach.
The craft chugged in to shallow water with heavy bass diesel engines. Then a little tractor thing would
roll out and drive up on the beach. Then a weird looking vehicle resembling a lump of metal would gingerly
crawl from the beach, into shallow water and climb up the ramp. It all repeated several times to the 
huge amusement of onlookers as they licked their ice creams.

In the village store we spotted a poster advertising a literary event with the image of a bouncing bomb.
'What is the relevence of the bouncing bomb?' I asked the girl at the til.

'Panjandrum' she exlaimed with emphasis on every syllable, 'yeah, the panjandrum. They tested it here.'

Finding something promising on the map near Westward Ho! we head off but the place is a nightmare. A strange
vibe permeates the air. We move on and realise whilst on the A49 near Upper Clovelly that Hartland Point is
within easy reach. At Bucks Cross we follow a road down to the sea to a place called Bucks Mills. A quaint tiny
cluster of houses which all seemed to have been re-built by the local builder. We ignored the signs asking tourists
to come no further into the village by car and parked up, unloaded and head down to the little dock. Here I made
some recordings with the glass plate and contact mic buried in stoney gravel and sand. The idea of Hartland Point
loomed large in our minds

'Shall we go there now?' asks James. I didn't see why not. There was still plenty of light. We were a day early
but that didn't matter. So before we knew it we were driving down the windy lanes leading to the final destination
on our journey. The car park and NT hut for Hartland Point were closed so we armed ourselves with the cameras and
walked down. A team of painters were busy onsite with something. We pushed on for the ridge overlooking the light house
and the rocks below. The wind was picking up and the light was turning. We reached the observation point just as the 
orange sun dipped down into the ocean depths and lit the sky with tinder and flame. I had time to make some video recordings.
The view was impressive. Lundy sits like a guard out in the mouth of the channel. The Atlantic presides over the horizon.
We stood for a good hour watching the sky slowly darken. We realised the painters were painting the lighthouse. Whitewash.

The massive light from the lighthouse started showing up in great switching beams across the cliffs. We'd finished.
  
970 Miles or therabouts. We felt elated but also slightly empty. All the experiences in the previous week stacked up
and counted but it always feels hard to accept that a journey is over. We still needed to find somewhere to sleep and 
we still had tomorrow though so we navigated our way towards Clovelly which we saw on the map earlier.

We soon found ourselves in the very large car park and James proceeded to preapre dinner from the back of his van
for the last time. Checking out the really large visitor centre we learnt that one had to pay an admission charge
to get into the village. We had absolutey no idea about what Clovelly was like and after eating we walked down into
the village, glad to miss the charge. We soon realised. It was like stepping back in time. The place had no roads.
Instead were cobbled lanes no wider than half a road. The whole settlement was built into the side of the hill which
was steep. People transported stuff around on sledges built out of bread baskets. The place was quiet. A salty sea dog
of a man wandered slowly up the hill past us, pacing his old frame for the steep ascent. We got down to the harbour.
The pub/hotel had just closed. It was unreal. Almost nothing from the 20th century had any prominance here. 

James discovered that the green starboard harbour light was just a domestic bulb.
 
Another man meandered out of the Red Lion and prepared himself for the climb. In the daytime the place must of been 
utterly overrun by American Tourists. We found a piece of wooden scaffold for what looked like a fake wall. Perhaps
it was all a film set? 

Eventually we pulled ourselves away from the living past of the village and made the steep climb back to the comfort
of our sleeping bags.


Friday. 18th September.

We awoke to the rattling clamour of a tractor or something pelting up and down a hill somewhere in the trees around us.
We decided not to return to Hartland Point. We'd finished and we wanted to drive home. We head south into the north of Cornwall.

Cornwall was deserted and wild. At Coombe we turned off and parked down at Duckpool where the beach was cleft in 2 by a stream.

One last time we soaked our limbs in the swell of the Atlantic.  The sea was cooler. 


G.Hogg November 2009


We awoke to the rattling clamour of a tractor or something pelting up and down a hill somewhere in the trees around us.
We decided not to return to Hartland Point. We'd finished and we wanted to drive home. We head south into the north of Cornwall.

Cornwall was deserted and wild. At Coombe we turned off and parked down at Duckpool where the beach was cleft in 2 by a stream.

One last time we soaked our limbs in the swell of the Atlantic.  The sea was cooler.