Festive travels with P

After a fabulous Hermosa Christmas, P and I jetted off to the UK for just over a week. It was a little experiment in ‘travels with P’, to see how we fared on a long haul trip without TLOML. He loves my family and my homeland but not quite as much as I do, so we spared him the British winter weather, and the hours inside doing jigsaws on dark afternoons. I was a little trepidatious about the 20 something hour trip (flying straight up to North Yorkshire after our LAX to LHR flight) but we didn’t encounter any problems some M&Ms and an ipad couldn’t solve.

And it was totally, absolutely and completely worth it. Everything I wanted, and more. Plenty of goofing around with cousins, playing with aunts, uncles and grandparents for P. Mince pies, decent cheese, bread and chocolate for me. We had some muddy walks, fish and chips on the sea front on New Year’s Day, and even a little snow. P’s delight at seeing misty breath – ‘look mummy! That dog has smoke coming out of its mouth!’ – and moss, something she mostly sees in Brambly Hedge stories, was priceless. And I got to enjoy some fine evenings of conversation and vino collapso with my lovely sisters and a couple of very dear friends. Bliss.

'Look mummy! Moss!'

Just enough snow for a snowball fight with cousins

I hope by exposing P to a slice of British winter to continue her education as a Brit. Albeit a Californian Brit. But as we stepped out into the Valley Gardens, she looked in horror at the muddy path she was walking on and wailed ‘Mummy what is this we are standing on!?’, I realised we still have a long way to go. I’m not sure I want to abandon TLOML every New Year, but a trip along these lines may have to be repeated at some point. For P, you understand (nothing to do with the bread, cheese, and vino collapso at all).

Cramming it all in

We're back in the UK for our annual trip, and working hard to cram it all in. Last year we came for a month, which was indulgent, and not entirely successful: we couldn't take holiday for that whole time, which meant doing a slightly poor job of keeping up with work and of catching up with friends and family at the same time. This year we are here for just two weeks, which in theory means better quality time, if less of it.

So far, so good. Within 12 hours of landing I had eaten more cheese than in the previous 12 months. Cheddar, stilton: quite a reunion we had. Within 24 hours of arriving at our first base camp we had caught up with a dozen friends and their children, done a fair amount of reminiscing, and drank a solid volume of Pimms. The next day we packed up and headed north.

And within a day of arriving in Saltburn, Lady P has played - joyfully, I might add - with 4 out of her 6 cousins, seen several steam trains, and more cows and sheep than she could even imagine. Certainly we could go a long time in Hermosa Beach without seeing so much livestock, so many steam-powered vehicles, not to mention so many family members. She is beside herself, and so am I.

Skipping through a tunnel with cousins and aunts 

Grosmont station

We are only a few days into our trip and loving the quality, and the extra intensity of this year's experience. Only one thing may not - ever - be compressed: the time it takes a wash to dry, on a clothes horse by the radiator, on a wet day in May.

We definitely will have a brilliant time up here. But will the clothes I washed today be dry before we leave Saltburn? I will keep you posted.

Our trip in numbers*

*Lazy format I know. But I have a month of rather low productivity to catch up on, so please forgive the shortcut.

Nights in the UK: 30
Days with rain: At least 20. But, as ever during an English summer, it didn't matter one bit.

Dips in the sea: 1 for me (3 for my dear friend the Gambler, who is made of stronger stuff). That's one swim more than I've managed in Hermosa Beach thus far. It was lovely. Shark free too.

Visitors to Saltburn: 11. That's right, lucky old us, eleven lovely friends made the schlep to come and hang out in our little holiday house by the seaside. Combined with the handful of friends we caught up with in London, and our brilliant family weekend, and almost daily contact with my sister and her crew, this made for a very highly peopled and really very very happy holiday.

Lady P's always assumes people are thrilled to see her, wherever she is, as she rushes about shouting 'HI!'. In the case of a transatlantic flight, or our presence in the airport lounge, this isn't the case. But in the case of the many days spent with friends and family, it was always true. Her sense of self-worth is at an all time high.

% of washes we messed up because we couldn't understand the washing machine: 30. Yes, one in three. I guess TLOML may have a point about all those symbols - and I have clearly been out of the country too long, for I was as clueless as an American about it all.

Nights we had curry for dinner: 4. Which is 13% of our total dinner consumption. On reflection maybe we should have had curry a couple more times. Still, we enjoyed getting reacquainted with a couple of favourite curry houses.
Days without consuming alcohol: 3. I think. But it might only be 2.
Days during which I took any meaningful exercise: 7. Which is pisspoor, especially combined with all those curries, not to mention vast quantities of proper cheese, bread and butter. And leads me nicely to...
Pounds I think I probably gained, and quickly need to shed: somewhere between 7 and 14. At a guess. I have decided not to find out for sure.

Outfit changes required due to uncontrollable, um, bodily eruptions during our 10 hour flight home: for Lady P, 4. For me, 2. To be clear, I wasn't the one doing the clothes soiling.
Hours early Lady P arose today: 2.5. Which, given she just covered an eight hour time difference is not bad. Although it does mean I got up at 4am.

Too busy to blog about it

Wow. I've managed to post at least once a week through several complicated house moves. Through the birth and early weeks of Lady P. And through the return to work and the beginning of that juggling thing we do when we work with small children and still want to have a life that includes cooking proper dinners and taking the odd run. I always kept posting.

But this trip has defeated me. For the first time ever I have been too busy to blog.

There are two good reasons for my lack of words:

1. Despite being away for a month, I'm actually still at work
Only without childcare, and in a different timezone, and with no data roaming on my work phone. Which makes me a bit busy and quite stressed. I didn't want to fritter all my holiday allowance away so agreed with my boss I'd work most of the time I'm here. I thought it would be easy. It is not.

After a few fractious days, TLOML and I sorted out a schedule of sorts. We both get short windows of time each to sit and properly work. For the rest of the time it's conference calls from the playground, and hurried emails between putting Lady P to bed and having dinner with TLOML.

2. There is way too much fun to be had here
So this is the other reason and it's a better one, I think. There are cousins to play with. Granny to chat to and toddle about with. An aunt who knows all the good songs and games. Auntie Kath & Uncle Al's garden to explore. Ducks and sheep and horses in fields to gaze at. Cliff lifts and slides and see saws too. There's a lot here that six short months ago was a bit beyond Lady P and is now completely enthralling. We have enough help around us that we could just palm her off on her favourite auntie, or my mum, and get on with our work. But I'd really rather be there for the fun stuff.

I don't want to miss this

Something had to give and I'm afraid it was the blog. Rest assured, I've got my priorities straight.

My sister

My sister and her family are away enjoying the pistes of Courchevel this week, and I am bereft. I miss them!

I miss her boys rushing in to our house, loudly announcing 'it's only us', followed with shouted news along the lines of 'I've got a sticker!' or 'I saw a helicopter!'. I miss stopping by on my way home with Lady P to have a cuppa with her and her lovely husband, because I haven't seen them 'since yesterday'.

I miss her popping in to use our printer, or drop off some outgrown baby clothes, or me popping in to borrow a lemon. Sometimes twice in one evening. Often three or four evenings a week. She is the master of the 'I'm not stopping' chat.

I miss her texting me saying 'I've got the baby' half an hour before I'm due to collect Lady P, because when my sister picked her boys up from the childminder, Lady P 'insisted' on going with them. She loves a bit of Lady P baby talk as much as I love a bit of train talk with her boys.

I miss those days when we swap emails, see each other after work, chat on the phone after dinner, and then one of us still pops in to see the other on some errand or other. And TLOML says 'Your sister, again?!'. But he is only kidding, because he likes it too. And after all, she is my sister. In fact, I think she's my best friend too. Ah, I miss her when she's gone.

They're home on Saturday, so don't worry, I'll see them then. And a couple of times on Sunday, on Monday, and so on for the next week. But then we're off, to sunny LA, so very far away.

It's silly to mind this. After all, we were never going to live in Saltburn forever. I can't work from here, so living on the same street as my sister was always temporary. I couldn't have anticipated quite how very much I'd like it, though. Moving back to London was going to be hard enough. But moving to LA, a 10 hour flight and 8 hour time difference away - ouch! We'll get by with Skype and emails of course. But I'm already looking forward to our month back here in the summer and settling back into our high frequency, high contact ways.

Small Town Christmas

We were at the Big Switch on last weekend. Perhaps ‘Big’ is relative. Certainly the tree is no Trafalgar Square NorwegianSpruce. And the lights pale rather if compared to those at New York's Rockefeller Plaza.

Still, Saltburn got properly festive. It was more than just a light switch on. There were roasting chestnuts to be had, and a brass band playing – my nephews got to join in and shake bells along to their rousing rendition of Jingle Bells. The butcher and the local restaurateur tycoon were selling hot dogs and mince pies, and all the local cafes had mulled wine on offer. A little teacup ride and face painting gave the kids something to do while their parents sipped mulled wine and waited for the big switch on itself.

In fact the build up may have been a little much. After much festive waiting around, there was a count down, MCd by an exuberant Geordie. TLOML couldn’t understand a word he was saying as he whipped the crowd up into a mild murmur - but he caught up by the time we’d got down to 7… 6… 5… After ‘1’ there was a brief pause, a technical hitch perhaps. Then the tree lit up, and while all the crowd cheered, TLOML muffled a surprised laugh. He had expected more lights, I think. ‘Modest’ was the watchword for the 2013 Saltburn Tree Committee, I think.

After the tree lights went on a small parade took place. First Mary, on a donkey rather confusingly lead by a Christmas elf (Joseph, getting in the spirit? No, wait, that doesn’t make sense.) A steady stream of beaming Brownies and Cub Scouts. Then Father Christmas on the back of the fire engine. Hard to say who my 3 year old nephews were more thrilled by, the firemen or Santa. Suffice to say there was high excitement all around.

In a former life I might have scoffed a little. But in lovely little Saltburn I brushed away a sentimental tear and took a tonne of photos.

The next day the Yarn Bombers had visited, and added two festive knitted figures to the fence around the tree. Like the tree, and like the town, they are small, good humoured, and perfectly formed.

Post turkey collapse

A lady laden with Christmas shopping

The tree by day (it's prettier by night)

     

Parmo night

California has its egg white omelette and, of course, the California roll. New York has the papaya/hot dog combo and the New York strip steak. London has… hmmm…. What does London have, as signature foods go? Well, perhaps the fact there’s no obvious answer to that says it all. Either about the wonderful diversity of London’s food, or the paucity thereof, depending on your point of view.

Anyway, enough about those other places, for now we are in Saltburn. You might think the signature dish around here is fish and chips. And it’s certainly unquestionably true that the North Yorkshire coastline is the source of the best fish and chips in the whole world. But there’s another dish which is the local speciality: the parmo. The parmo is more Teesside than Yorkshire, and Saltburn straddles both places: look right from the pier and you see the rolling cliff top fields and wooded hills of picture perfect North Yorkshire. Look left and the industrial glories of Teesside – the steel works at Redcar, big ships queuing up to go into Teesport– fill the horizon.

While tourists, seeking North Yorkshire’s old fashioned seaside delights, opt for fish and chips, the locals eat parmos.

‘What’s a parmo?’ I hear you ask. Well, clearly you’re not from round here. Neither is TLOML and he has asked the same question many times. Mainly because there’s so much talk of parmos. TLOML’s swim club buddies keep asking him when he’s going to try one. Every pub and most restaurants have a ‘parmo night’, when all the specials are parmos. Chicken parmos, pork parmos, mushroom parmos, and so on.

 

Thursday is parmo night at The Ship

Allow me to put you out of your misery. A parmo is a piece of meat (or mushroom mush), bashed about and flattened a bit, breaded and fried. Sounds a bit like those chicken escalopes you see in greasy spoons in London, doesn’t it? (Is that London’s signature dish? No, it can’t be. Teesside claims it). But what makes it more than just an escalope, what elevates it into a parmo, is that it is then topped with béchamel sauce and grated parmesan. And chips. Boom! Heart attack! They are served in Styrofoam boxes to drunks up and down Linthorpe Road every Saturday night. And to civilised people in Saltburn pubs on parmo nights.

TLOML tried his first parmo at the weekend – under the expert guidance of my brother-in-law, who knows a first rate pub chef who makes a good one (no reformed chicken, or cheddar instead of parmesan, for him). 

TLOML with his parmo

His verdict? He liked it. But he didn’t see it catching on outside Teesside. I'm not so sure. Despite its healthy image and all those fro-yo shops, LA is also home to Roscoes, which served quite possibly the least healthy meal I’ve ever eaten (half a fried chicken, waffles, and so much salt I was thirsty for  two days afterwards). I wonder if we might open up a parmo shop on our return, and show those Californians what they're missing.

I could see this having an exotic appeal on Santa Monica Boulevard

A Tourist's Guide to Saltburn

Despite moving to the far Northern reaches of this land, we have had plenty of visitors this summer. Some people just won't take the hint, eh?

I actually think they couldn't quite believe we weren't having a miserable time all the way Up North so they came to see for themselves. One friend said, upon leaving, 'I feel I can go away satisfied that you're alright, after all.' I was glad we could set her mind at ease. We appreciate the concern - and have very much enjoyed showing off the delights of Saltburn to our guests.

Wherever we live, we've had a well-trodden path for guests. This is usually designed to take in places we think might not be completely obvious to visitors. Most people come to LA expecting to see Rodeo Drive, the Hollywood sign, and the Sunset Strip. We insisted that - as well as those sights - they also partook of a tuna burger at our favourite roadside seafood shack, and that they wandered around the Venice Canals. While visitors to New York had ideas about seeing Times Square, the Empire State Building and Central Park we used to nudge guests downtown for a burger at Smith and Mills, as well as taking them for a walk along the Hudson riverside.

Of course, no-one comes to Saltburn with any kind of sightseeing agenda. There is no guidebook to Saltburn - the 'tourists', such as they are, are day-trippers from Middlesbrough in the main. To the rest of the country I suppose it's just off the map. So our guests come here expecting to see nothing but us. And Londoners are usually just excited if they can pick up a 3G signal and order a proper cappuccino.

We get extra kicks from showing them the sights of our current home town. All guests are promenaded through the lovely Valley Gardens, where we can point out delights like the miniature railway, the Italian garden, and wholesome children fishing in the stream. We always walk along the seafront, and onto the pier to see the knitting and the excellent view back up to the town. A ride on the Victorian funicular Cliff Lift is a must.

A trip on the Cliff Lift is a must...

...as is a walk on the pier...

...and a look at the knitting

It is a hidden gem of a town, and I think we've done as much to boost tourism here as those knitters and the Cliff Lift put together.

Hot water

Lady P is not a fussy baby, but she does struggle if her milk is fridge-cold. At home we warm her bottle in a mug TLOML's Aunt made for us, which is the perfect size and shape.

Bottle warming. No-one is getting hurt by this activity.

When we're out and about, enjoying a coffee in one of Saltburn's many nice cafes we ask for some hot water in which to warm her milk. As people do. It's not an unusual request, nor an unreasonable one.

Until recently the request was always met with either a straight 'yes', or a brief discussion about the size and shape of the receptacle we need.

But this past week or so, something has changed. Now, at at least three cafes in town, the staff have clearly been briefed against the bottle warmers. They look at you with suspicion, mutter something about 'checking with the manager' and come back with a defiant 'no'.

'We can't just, like, give you a thing of hot water', said one waitress to me, as if I was a lunatic for suggesting it. 'We have to warm it for you here, where we can see it,' said another.

Why the change of heart? TLOML and I wonder. There are two competing theories.
Either - someone had a bad accident involving hot water and a baby in Saltburn and the word has gone round. Health and safety guidelines are being updated and a zero risk policy being adopted.
Or - people were bringing their own teabags and ordering hot water, ostensibly for the bottle, to steal a free cup of tea.

This being Yorkshire I'm inclined to suspect the latter.

It's no big deal, the bottle still gets warmed. But it's kind of a hassle to leave the bottle with them and then go back and get it. Lady P is going to have to get used to a chillier bottle milk in the mornings.

An English Country Garden

More gorgeous summer weather here: long, sunny days, bright blue skies with little fluffy clouds in them, and only a very occasional shower. It's the perfect weather for stretching out on a lawn with a glass of Pimms, or perhaps a cup of tea if it's before 11am.

Sadly, we have no lawn. Nor does most of Saltburn. At least not those of us who live in 'the town' ( the suburban streets that stretch out beyond the town centre are a different story). These terraces all have yards, instead. A yard, over here, is not the grassy area with trees and a white picket fence that Americans might be picturing. A yard is a small, paved outdoor area that is more about utility than leisure. It was a space to house your coal, dry your washing, and even house your outdoor loo, back in the day. Now we have the luxury of indoor plumbing, most yards are probably a more balanced mix of business and pleasure.

Ours is probably fairly typical. Yes, it houses our bikes and our bin. And we use it to hang our washing to dry on 'good drying days'. But we have space for a couple of pots of plants, a barbecue, and a place to sit.

It's a little crowded, but it works for us.

And for those who want more outdoor space, Saltburn has plenty of allotments - little patches of land for rent, to grow fruit and veg, flowers, or just have a little grassed area for chilling out in. I'm explaining it for the benefit of American readers, because I think the closest thing you have there are 'Community Gardens' in cities. But here, most cities and towns have allotments, in many cases a relic of World War II, when people were encouraged to 'dig for Britain'.

There are more allotments here than I've ever seen in a town. Walking out of Saltburn through the allotments it feels as if the allotments go on for longer than the town itself.

Allotment City

Neatly kept and well secured

Allotments are a lot of work, and if you don't keep yours up to a decent standard, the council will send you a strictly worded letter. Or, worse, take the allotment off you. So you really have to be out there once or twice a week, keeping up with your weeding and harvesting your crops.

Last year we rented the most cockamamie flat in London because of its garden - which we then admired through the window all summer as sheets of rain came down and turned the patch of lawn into a quagmire, and fat, rain-happy slugs ate all my peas. This year, I'm perfectly happy with our little concrete patch, our pots of herbs, and a place to sit and sip a beer while TLOML fires up the barbecue.

Two drinkers, off to see the world

Followers of this blog will be familiar with my love of a good drink. I do appreciate a quality, hard liquor beverage, perfectly served. Indeed, TLOML and I built our relationship on sharing such pleasures.

So those who know of Saltburn's Quaker past might wonder how we are faring - living in a town which didn't have any pubs at all for over a hundred years. Saltburn in the 1800s had just an old smugglers inn - The Ship - at the bottom of the cliffs. Thanks to the Quaker town planners, the town proper at the top of the cliffs was a model of sobriety. Only the hotels and restaurants could serve alchohol. My dad remembers enjoying a pint at the Queens Hotel while my oldest sister was being born in the nearby maternity hospital. (Those were the halcyon days for expectant dads. TLOML barely had time to pee, never mind go for a pint, when I was in labour).

Times have changed, thank goodness. The Queens is no longer a hotel but its bar remains. The other hotel bar, the Alexandra Vaults, is still running as a pub despite the fact the hotel is now a block of flats. It's known locally as the Back Alex as it's, um, round the back of the Alexandra Hotel.

The old Alexandra Hotel

The Back Alex - nicest pub in Saltburn, despite (or because of?) being up an alleyway

The Victoria, another favourite

Those former hotel bars look rather different to the hotel bars I have previously enjoyed - fancy places like SLS in Beverly Hills, the Pleiades (with the fancy nuts) in New York's Surrey Hotel. They are good honest boozers, rather than glitzy bars with astronomical prices. And they're supplemented by some more good honest boozers, the pubs that were created when Saltburn shook off its Quaker past: The Victoria, and the Marine, replete with sticky carpets, hand pulled bitter, and pub paraphernalia on the walls. Then there's Rapps, a cafe which is all buzzy with drinkers on a Friday night. So there are plenty of options. More options than we have nights out to explore them, frankly.

It's a somewhat less sophisticated drinking scene than TLOML and I have been used to in our previous, posher, postcodes. Gin and tonic is rarely served with a slice of lime (still less, cucumber - they'd probably hound you out of town for asking for that). And there's nowhere we can stop into at midnight on our way home for a range of single malts, or a Perfect Manhattan. The hipster speakeasies of lower Manhattan, the beach bars of Malibu, and those fancy hotel bars I just mentioned, seem very far away.

But for a pint of bitter shandy, served without pretension, you can't beat Saltburn. And these days, a pint of bitter shandy is about all we get out for anyway. So I'd say we have the perfect drinking scene here on our doorstep.

Keep on running

I have waxed lyrical more than once on this blog about how small Saltburn is, and how lovely life in a small town can be.

But there is a down side. Having everything on hand and close by means it takes no effort at all to get anywhere. Which means the classic new mum exercise of walking to the shops is just completely rubbish. Walking to the shops takes less than five minutes. That just is not going to get me back into those pre-Lady P skinnies.

So I turned, again, to running. I'm not a natural runner. I hated it at school, when I was always at the back of the pack, being shouted at ('with those long legs, Isadora Watts, you should be at the front!'), feeling hot and tired and humiliated. But I took it up when we were in Malibu: living with TLOML and eating like Kings every night had taken its toll, and there was this beautiful running track up by TLOML's swim club with a great view over the bluffs to the sea. I'd go along and jog a very short distance, quite slowly, and enjoy the view. I figured it was better than nothing. I kept it up in New York, running off all those steaks and burgers, and actually managed to cover a bit more ground after a while. B by the time we got back to London I was pretty well hooked.

Running really is the perfect exercise. It's free - once you've invested in a decent pair of shoes. You can do it anytime and anywhere. If I only have half an hour, I can still get out for a quick jog. And it works. I am back in those skinnies. Albeit unable to sit down and eat a large meal in them. Still. And for that, I have my Saltburn running routine - not all those walks to the shops - to thank.

Saltburn is so small that actually even making a run worthwhile you have to be a little bit creative. The natural 'loop' from our house, down through the Valley Gardens and back up the cliffside steps, is only 2.8 miles. I have to put a little extra lap in round the posh houses near us to make it up 3 miles. To get up to five miles I'll probably have to head right to the edge of town. Or do two laps I suppose. Which is why I greeted the news that there is going to be a Saltburn Marathon this year with some scepticism. On checking the route it made sense - they're starting in Saltburn, doing a 22 mile + loop out onto the moors and back into Saltburn.

I think I'll pass on the marathon. But maybe I'll do a couple of laps of town next time I put my running shoes on.

More on life in a small town

At the last census, Saltburn had a population of 5,900. Since then we have swelled the numbers by three, but it's still on the small side of a small town. It's geographically small too. Malibu has a population of around 12,000 but stretches for 27 miles along the coast, and straggles up to the Santa Monica mountains. Saltburn by contrast is a compact little place.

I like this about it. Everything is right on hand. My sister lives ten doors down the street - so close that I get continuous wifi coverage when I walk from her house to mine. My old school friend (and current land lady) lives 3 streets away. My yoga class, personal trainer and doctor are all about a three minute walk from home. Three or four coffee places can be reached within five minutes - or if I want to really stretch my legs, I can get down to the beach and Surf's Up in ten minutes. Sainsbury's, Boots, the butcher and the baker are all less than a five minute walk away.

The whole town would fit neatly into Chelsea, our old neighbourhood in Manhattan

Mind you, it always takes much longer to get to any of those places. That's because we always end up bumping into someone we know, and having a lovely chat. Such is the nature of the small town. I've posted about this before - and it remains a source of fascination to me. Everyone knows everyone, or at least is connected in some way. Or so it seems to me.

For example, the butcher - who we spend a lot of time talking to about meat and other matters - sends his daughter to the same childminder as Lady P goes to. My sister's twins go there too, so they all play together. His wife goes to the same personal trainer as I've been working out with. That personal trainer was recommended to me by my sister's husband's friend. He's an old friend of the guy I was at school with who runs the best place to eat in Saltburn, and a couple of posh food shops too. That guy I was at school with used to train with my trainer too. The lady at Surf's Up who always gives the twins a biscuit is knitting something for Lady P, since she sees us all the time.

I could go on. It's all just quite circular. In a really nice 'How's your sister, I haven't seen her for a while?', 'I hear you're looking for a personal trainer, let me recommend Harry', 'I'm popping to the supermarket, do you need anything?' kind of a way.

After the anonymity of New York, and - to a lesser extent, but still - of London, it's really rather nice. Of course, if you had secrets it would be your worst nightmare. But for us, living here temporarily and with no skeletons in our closet or dark behaviours to hide, it's rather nice. It's a ready made, tightly knitted community and we weaved ourselves right on in there.

Dining and driving

Saltburn is a brilliant town, and small enough to be perfectly walkable. There are half a dozen lovely places for a coffee, two or three good lunch options, and a handful of great pubs all within a short stroll of our house.

There are also some good places to grab a casual bite: a great curry house, and a nice, vibey place that does a good pizza. And all of the pubs of course offer grub. In fact the homemade steak pie at The Marine is quite possibly the best meal I've ever had for a fiver.

But for an actual dinner, Saltburn has nothing to offer us. By 'actual dinner' I mean, a sit down, table service, multi-course, might even start with a cocktail, date night dinner.*

At the risk of sounding like a massive restaurant snob, I want to go on a date where the butter doesn't come in little portion-sized plastic packets

So we have to get in the car. Within a twenty minute drive we have some great options. The Fox and Hounds is a destination restaurant (it'd have to be, as it's in the arse-end of nowhere), and the seaside towns of Whitby and Sandsend draw enough tourists to have a range of interesting places to eat. So we have some options. It's just a shame we have to drive to them.

I guess it's just another way in which Saltburn is like Malibu. We had to drive everywhere then. There were a couple of places to eat and drink within a five minute walk of our old beachfront apartment, including the legendary Moonshadows. But the walk was along the side of a somewhat terrifying dual carriageway, with no pavement. As a result we always hopped in the car.

Driving isn't be such a big deal to us, therefore. But we are parents now. And new, neurotic parents at that. What if the house sets on fire and we're out and the lovely teenage babysitter doesn't know how to call the fire brigade? Or Lady P starts to choke and the only one who can do the baby Heimlich manoeuvre is TLOML and we get home seconds too late? We don't like to be more than spitting distance away when we leave Lady P. The first night we left her with the babysitter we only dared venture to Guisborough, a seven minute drive away, where we had a lacklustre Italian and talked about all the places we could have gone if we'd dare drive just ten minutes further.

So we've had to book a posh Yorkshire hotel - rather than just the excellent restaurant therein - for our wedding anniversary. We can leave Lady P in baby-monitored safety, metres away, while we dine in style. And perhaps enjoy more than one cocktail before dinner, since we won't be driving home. Plus if the hotel sets on fire we'll be there, so we'll know about it. And if we hear her choking, TLOML can run in and administer the Heimlich manoeuvre immediately. Assuming that extra cocktail doesn't render him incapabable, that is.

Ah. Enforced minibreaks. I think I may have just found the silver lining in the cloud that is Saltburn's limited restaurant scene.

*Disclaimer There is one Saltburn restaurant which could provide such an experience. But given that we have breakfast, elevenses and lunch in the attached cafe, about three times a week, we want to avoid it.

Cousins

We moved to Saltburn for the summer for a number of reasons. Economics and the fact that it's a lovely little town are but two of those reasons. The proximity of family was another.

Now, I love my family dearly, but I never felt the need to live spitting distance from them before. Still, we had this vague feeling that, with a new baby, it would be rather nice to be close by.

We were so right. It's not just that it's great for me - especially when TLOML is off on his travels - to be able to go to my mum's for Sunday lunch, or that my sister pops round unannounced with a Wispa when I've had a hard day of buggy-pushing.

It turns out that it's also rather marvellous for Lady P. I had thought she was too young to form a relationship with her aunt, uncle, cousins, and grandparents, but oh how wrong I was. She already knows them well, and enjoys many a cosy cuddle with her grown up relatives.

Cuddles with Aunty

But it's the socialising with her cousins that really makes me - and I hope, her - happy. How much more fun it is to go for coffee not just with your mother, aunt, and uncle but with your rufty tufty twin cousins for company too? Sometimes the kids outnumber the grown ups, and that must be very nice for them I imagine.

Hanging with the big boys

I happen to know the boys like hanging with Lady P too. Ollie told me last week that included in the space rocket he was drawing was not only him, his brother and his dad, but his baby cousin too. Sweet!

And look at Eddie, in a moment he may have thought was unobserved, waving the cat toy at Lady P to try to amuse her. Not sure it''s working for her, but I love the sentiment.

That blur is the cat toy, being waved furiously

Yes, all in all there's a lot to be said for living near family. And it's not just for the free babysitting.

Yorkshire Mix

Yorkshire folk have a reputation for being tight. I used to wonder why. Now I'm back in God's County, though, I'm starting to get some ideas.

This is a 'jar sweet' (as in, sweets you buy by weight, from a large jar), called Yorkshire Mixture.

I have never seen Yorkshire Mix for sale outside of Yorkshire. You can buy it in our local corner shop, the one where you have to order the fish two days in advance. It's an odd little shop - the shelves are half empty and it looks a bit rubbish and yet, despite having a limited selection it's actually good stuff. And they sell some locally baked cakes, plus locally grown veg. And of course a range of sweets in jars.

Anyway, back to the Yorkshire Mix. It's basically the odds and ends, misshapes and factory floor sweepings from all the other jar sweets. And this is our great county's official sweet. It says it all, doesn't it?

The yarn bomber strikes again

We may not have the cultural profile of London, NY or LA, but Saltburn has a thriving arts scene all of its own. The main attraction appears to be the yarnbomber.

I've posted before about the yarnbomber - the Royal embarrassment and Olympics displays of last summer. I thought you'd like to see up close some of the treats that that cluster of people on the pier are examining.

It's a sort of homage to Saltburn and seaside life.

Local star Meg the surfdog, and her owner

Those donkeys I mentioned

A heroic lifeboatman

A seagull turning its back on fish and chips (rather unlikely, that)

A full catch. Didn't know they caught octopus here. Wonder why it's so darn hard to buy then.

Alright, it ain't LACMA, nor the Tate, nor the Guggenheim. But this knitted art is worth more than all those galleries' contents to me - for they will raise a daily smile.

Sometimes

To quote the popular poem*, 'Sometimes things don't go, after all, from bad to worse'.

Sometimes, after a week of absurdly wintry weather, the sun comes out. Instead of going back into the house to grab a rain coat, you go back in to pick up your sunglasses and ditch your quilted jacket. The sun shines so convincingly that the icecream van makes the trip up from Whitby, to sell 'gothic' (blackcurrant and liquorice) icecream on the cliff top.

Sometimes, after a month of waking constantly during the night for snacky, comforty, unnecessary-but-impossible-to-deny feeds, a baby sleeps for four or five hours on the trot.

Sometimes, after weeks of refusing to take the 9am nap that is the bedrock of a pleasant morning, the baby just shuts her eyes and sleeps for fifty minutes straight without any fuss.

Today was such a day. At first I was lost. What to do with my morning, now I didn't need to spend it pushing Lady P around Saltburn in the grumpy pursuit of sleep (for her) and caffeine (for me)?

The answer was to take my rested self, and my smiling, happy baby, off for a walk on beach and some coffee and cake with my sister and her family. To sit in the sun and watch my nephews play sweet twinny games. And to amble along the cliff top eating a Whitby gothic icecream.

Good times. Long may they last. And, oh yes, may they happen for you.

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*Like many people I first saw these lines on the tube, in the Poems on the Underground series. Apparently Sheenagh Pugh 'long ago got sick of it'. It's a solid poem, but perhaps she felt it was cheapened by its popularity - kinda like the way I imagine the way The Lumineers might feel about that Ho Hey song. Anyway, for those who didn't see it on the tube, here it is in full.


Sometimes
Sheenah Pugh (b. 1950)

Sometimes things don't go, after all,
from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don't fail,
sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.

A people sometimes will step back from war;
elect an honest man; decide they care
enough, that they can't leave some stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.

Sometimes our best efforts do not go
amiss; sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen: may it happen for you. 

Trading Hours

We love Saltburn. It's a lovely place to live. One of the things we love about it is the quality and diversity of the local shops. It's a little short on good restaurants, but there are plenty of nice places to get a coffee, there's a decent deli, a great bakery serving locally baked bread, and an excellent butcher. Our corner shop does a great range of locally sourced produce, too.

So far, so good.

And yet...

And yet, we fall foul of the English disease - as TLOML puts it - of a lack of financial ambition. These local traders would rather have a shorter working day than make more money. So the butcher knocks off sometime around 3pm, or whenever he's done for the day. On Saturdays the independent green grocer closes at 5pm and the gift shop at 4.30pm. Our corner shop shuts at 6pm and isn't open at all on Sundays. Half the shops selling clothes, jewellry and bits and bobs are closed every Monday. And the chippy near us closes at 9pm.

Our favourite chi-chi coffee shop is closed Monday to Friday.

According to TLOML in the US these quirky hours would just never exist, for everyone who runs a store wants to be open for as long as there might be people who want to buy from them.

I'm not sure lack of shopkeeper greed is the whole reason these places are open for such short hours. I think it's actually lack of demand. After all, up here most people eat their dinner by 7pm - what kind of lunatic would want fish and chips after 9pm? And who on earth goes gift shopping, or wants for exotic vegetables, on a Sunday? Only a foolish Londoner, used to being able to spend money 24/7, I suppose.

No, I think its the lack of consumerism which means this town's many lovely shops just aren't terribly available. The good people of this town are spending their time surfing, walking their dogs or sleeping - while idiots like TLOML are saying things like 'let's pop out and buy some bok choi to have in that stir fry' or 'it was S's birthday yesterday, I'm going to go and find her a present'. I wonder if, after a few months of living here, we'll be better organised and less eager to shop at all hours. Or if we'll just become massive internet shoppers instead. In the interest of keeping Saltburn's local traders healthy, I hope its the former.

The Saltburn Steps

I told you, it's just like a little slice of Los Angeles beach life up here, it really is. Who needs the legendary Santa Monica steps, when we have the Saltburn steps?

The Santa Monica 'stairs' are 189 steep steps running up the side of a sundrenched canyon, overlooking the sparkling Pacific. I haven't counted the Saltburn steps but they too provide a lovely seaview at the top. Unlike the Santa Monica steps, the Saltburn steps are not usually thronged with hardbodies in lycra, stretching ostentiatiously or bounding up them, shiny ponytail swinging with each step. In fact the only other person who appears to run them regularly - according to Strava - is my favourite little sister.

The Santa Monica Steps

The Saltburn Steps

I know all this because I am on a major health kick. The 'just had a baby' excuse won't wash any more, and I miss the ability to wear all the clothes in my wardrobe. I have been not a little shocked by the impact of pregnancy and childbirth on my body, and have found looking in the mirror rather uncomfortable lately. So I'm on it. It's time to shed those pounds before I start shopping in this size.

We're going away for a wedding and a week on a beach in a few days, and that was enough to motivate me to start running up those steps. Sadly I started too late, and won't be back to my former self in time to wear a bikini next week. But if I hit those steps frequently enough when I return, I'll be bikini ready by the time summer hits Saltburn, I hope.