I never thought a village this small could get caught up in big time politics....
Take for instance our post office— a well used and essential part of this village. It doesn't just provide a place to buy stamps— one can do one's banking, exchange in foreign currency, buy umpteen licenses, pay bills, collect pensions— you name it and it probably does it. Without it, the shop it's attached to would close and loads of disabled and/or elderly people (of which this village has many) would be up a creek— not to mention killing off the life-line to the "outside world" this village has.
Unfortunately this government sees it a different way.
It started when they decided to sell off Royal Mail to the private sector. He-who-shall-be-obeyed immediately began closure proceedings— just lopped off over umpteen little post offices around the country, one of them being ours in Old Newton. I was outraged and quickly got on my soapbox about "...how this would never happen in the 'States blah blah blah..." without scandal, shame, loads of negative publicity, and a damn good ol' fight. I couldn't believe how all the post offices laid down and died— without qualm, without fight.
But I was wrong.
Little did I know that the person in charge of the Save Our Post Office campaign was already rarin' ta go with his six-shooters a'blazin by serving papers— actually suing the conglomerate who closed our location in the first place. Ha-le-LUya baby and pass the ammunition!!
How quickly news spread thanks to our brave soldiers. Out came the news reports from all the major channels— our little village got its fair share of its fifteen minutes of fame that's for sure. Surprising how a little scandal DOES work.
For now, we've a reprieve until they can settle this— which may be months.... could be years. As far as I'm concerned, as long as its opened, I'm happy.
Tuesday 15 July 2008
Tuesday 8 July 2008
Summer Holiday
It's a shame I haven't written in a while. But quite frankly, there was nothing to write about. Since my last entry, it had been raining non-stop. I've never known rain to be so miserable.
Nah, that's not true. Try staying dry on your commute to work/school into the (New York) City. Now that's miserable. However we were somehow comparatively spared this year. The storms eventually stopped a few days before our vacation which we planned a bit earlier in the season than last year. So, we had two glorious weeks camping on the coast of Norfolk. Miraculously, we beat the rain.
Actually, it wasn't quite the "normal" camping of sleeping on dirt and digging the mandatory ablutionary hole in the ground. I'd consider it luxury camping since we were with our trusty 1996 Conway Countryman folding camper complete with running water, an electrical hookup, daily rubbish pick up (at designated points), and proper shower and toilet facilities (thank you very much). The weather was kind and we couldn't believe our luck at the amount of sunshine we had. My pallid English husband actually turned a golden brown reminiscent of enthusiastic sailors. I on the other hand was only too happy to shake off the jaundice color my Mediterranean skin had developed over the winter. Now I look human.
The sun had us up— well me— at 4am every morning. Sparrows, swallows and starlings chirping away— and the wood pigeons— yowza the wood pigeons — trying to get it on (it's a constant mating season around there). I sat outside enjoying nature's peacefulness and clean sea air with my customary cup of freshly ground, french-pressed, free-trade Colombian java— ya just can't beat a good cuppa. Ahhhhh, I love camping....
But I digress (so what else is new?).
We purposefully kept our agenda open. No touristy things– no schedules, no castles, no shopping, no mansions— only pubs. Yep, pubs. However in order to enjoy them in our grand style, we made a pact. Our first goal— every day— was to go for a long walk—towards a designated local. We could then rejoice in our accomplishment in said local which specialized in Norfolk's regionally renowned delicacy— namely Norfolk's Woodforde real ale or some other obscure one. I shudder to think that all these years I was drinking the fake stuff.
Real ale.... I never thought I'd relish it, but it was like no other. It was rich and flat, and relatively warm. None of this mamby-pamby gaseous, pale, low-alcohol, pasteurized, COLD lager— but the REAL stuff that grows hair on your chest and a belly to match. Afterwards, with our heads swooning over the richness of our liquid manna, we'd saunter over to the chippy for a requisite bag a'chips for additional sustenance on the bus back to the site. Thank God our walks were never less than 5 miles or you'd have to tow us home— on a crane— individually.
I have to give credit to Britain. It is a land of walkers. And they cater to those that will endeavor. Hundreds of maps are dedicated to the avid walker and the paths are well marked. My husband collects maps— and actually uses them—what a concept! We used three from his collection but were sorely disappointed that the government has evidently allowed the sea to reclaim some of the coastal paths.
Tangent: Story told is that the present government thinks it's too expensive to fortify the Norfolk coast. Whether or not it's the present national contingent or the provincial one I'm not sure. But I find it scandalous... and quite haunting. Its almost like a sacrificial lamb the Norfolk coast has become. And I'd like to know "what for?".
Still, we took loads of pictures and kept memories... I think. *hic!*
So, if you're in the area, I'd highly recommend stumbling uh walking the Norfolk coastal paths. Something truly memorable. In the inevitable words of Arnie, "We'll be baaack... "
...even if its not there.
Nah, that's not true. Try staying dry on your commute to work/school into the (New York) City. Now that's miserable. However we were somehow comparatively spared this year. The storms eventually stopped a few days before our vacation which we planned a bit earlier in the season than last year. So, we had two glorious weeks camping on the coast of Norfolk. Miraculously, we beat the rain.
Actually, it wasn't quite the "normal" camping of sleeping on dirt and digging the mandatory ablutionary hole in the ground. I'd consider it luxury camping since we were with our trusty 1996 Conway Countryman folding camper complete with running water, an electrical hookup, daily rubbish pick up (at designated points), and proper shower and toilet facilities (thank you very much). The weather was kind and we couldn't believe our luck at the amount of sunshine we had. My pallid English husband actually turned a golden brown reminiscent of enthusiastic sailors. I on the other hand was only too happy to shake off the jaundice color my Mediterranean skin had developed over the winter. Now I look human.
The sun had us up— well me— at 4am every morning. Sparrows, swallows and starlings chirping away— and the wood pigeons— yowza the wood pigeons — trying to get it on (it's a constant mating season around there). I sat outside enjoying nature's peacefulness and clean sea air with my customary cup of freshly ground, french-pressed, free-trade Colombian java— ya just can't beat a good cuppa. Ahhhhh, I love camping....
But I digress (so what else is new?).
We purposefully kept our agenda open. No touristy things– no schedules, no castles, no shopping, no mansions— only pubs. Yep, pubs. However in order to enjoy them in our grand style, we made a pact. Our first goal— every day— was to go for a long walk—towards a designated local. We could then rejoice in our accomplishment in said local which specialized in Norfolk's regionally renowned delicacy— namely Norfolk's Woodforde real ale or some other obscure one. I shudder to think that all these years I was drinking the fake stuff.
Real ale.... I never thought I'd relish it, but it was like no other. It was rich and flat, and relatively warm. None of this mamby-pamby gaseous, pale, low-alcohol, pasteurized, COLD lager— but the REAL stuff that grows hair on your chest and a belly to match. Afterwards, with our heads swooning over the richness of our liquid manna, we'd saunter over to the chippy for a requisite bag a'chips for additional sustenance on the bus back to the site. Thank God our walks were never less than 5 miles or you'd have to tow us home— on a crane— individually.
I have to give credit to Britain. It is a land of walkers. And they cater to those that will endeavor. Hundreds of maps are dedicated to the avid walker and the paths are well marked. My husband collects maps— and actually uses them—what a concept! We used three from his collection but were sorely disappointed that the government has evidently allowed the sea to reclaim some of the coastal paths.
Tangent: Story told is that the present government thinks it's too expensive to fortify the Norfolk coast. Whether or not it's the present national contingent or the provincial one I'm not sure. But I find it scandalous... and quite haunting. Its almost like a sacrificial lamb the Norfolk coast has become. And I'd like to know "what for?".
Still, we took loads of pictures and kept memories... I think. *hic!*
So, if you're in the area, I'd highly recommend stumbling uh walking the Norfolk coastal paths. Something truly memorable. In the inevitable words of Arnie, "We'll be baaack... "
...even if its not there.
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