Wales Coast Path: Beachcomber's Cut Part 2

The unnamed wreck at Cefn Sidan

 Too much X Factor (far, far too much actually), too much port, too little sleep due to Harri’s terrible cough... thank goodness for today’s return to GMT which meant we still managed to vacate our Travelodge room at a reasonable hour.

As a quick aside, Harri and I are fast becoming Travelodge enthusiasts (where else can you find decent Saturday night accommodation for two for £40?) but he was a little alarmed when he recently spotted an online article  about a couple who liked the chain so much that they moved in for good.  I don’t think we’ll be doing that anytime soon, but low Travelodge prices have enabled us to pursue Harri’s hiking career while I’m not bringing in any money.

What a difference in the weather today. After yesterday’s all-day sunshine and clear, azure skies, it was so disappointing to open the blinds to the usual British mizzle.

Harri looks at a smaller wreck (with Gower in the distance)

Today’s mission was to find an alternative to trudging mile after mile on tarmac and gravel trails through Pembrey Forest (which even in its full autumnal glory isn’t particularly scenic). With the magnificent Cefn Sidan beach just a few hundred metres away, Harri was determined that coast path walkers should have the option of strolling along the water’s edge if possible.

It is possible. At a junction where the official Wales Coast Path waymarking directs you even deeper into the forest, is a unsigned track which meanders down to the beach. Confused? Us too. Who makes these crazy decisions? Why would anyone hiking the only ‘formal walking trail to follow every dramatic twist and turn of a nation’s coastline’ (extract from the Ramblers magazine, Walk) prefer to wander aimlessly through a sparse woodland of conifers and, er, other woody things? (Sorry, trees are not my specialist subject.)

Like Pendine, the far northern end of Cefn Sidan is closed Monday to Friday (the RAF uses it as a bombing range) but there are plenty of safe access points further south so missing it out altogether is a crime – and a seemingly motiveless one at that.

The friendly lady in the tourist information centre thought there might be a problem with shifting sands (the sandbanks in the estuaries are constantly shifting), however we don't understand how this constantly evolving landscape would pose a danger to people walking along the beach.

We kept well clear of this kite buggy

Despite the cold wind, there were plenty of people about, including someone whizzing along the water’s edge on a kite buggy and several people windsurfing with parachute, which looked kinda scary in the rough sea. 

As long as you wrap up warm (and remember the flask of tea), beaches are good places to be in blustery weather. 

We paused to look at what remained of an unnamed shipwreck (only visible when the tide is over a third of the way out). Gradually being subsumed by the sand is a large section of the hull, thought to be constructed of northern European oak and estimated to date from the mid to late 1880s.

My Canon Compact adds colour to the greyest of days

Across the grey waves was the distinctive shape of the north Gower coast and the tapering finger of Worm’s Head.

We left Cefn Sidan on an easy path between the dunes; it was just a short stroll back to the car.

Majestic landscapes like Cefn Sidan and Pendine Sands make the Welsh coastline spectacular; they are the reason holidaymakers return to Wales year after year. 

Would someone please inform the Wales Coast Path officials?

Wales Coast Path: Beachcomber's Cut Part 1

Pendine Sands - a vital stretch of the Wales Coast Path

Nearly two months after completing Harri’s guidebook for the official Wales Coast Path, we were still pondering some of the bizarre route choices, specifically why so many of Wales’ best beaches have been completely bypassed.

Anyway, Harri’s publishers, Northern Eye, were more than happy for him to suggest ‘alternative’ routes where he felt the official route wasn’t particularly scenic (or anywhere near the coast), which is how we found ourselves heading back to the Carmarthenshire stretch yesterday.

The first beach we were planning to ‘reveal’ to would-be Wales coastal hikerswas Pendine. Now there is a very good reason why this seven-mile beach is closed to the public sometimes. During WW2, it was acquired by the Ministry of Defence and most of the beach is still used as a firing range from Monday to Friday.

An MOD watch tower 

At weekends, however, there is no logical reason for the long Wales Coast Path detour along the busy Pendine to Laugharne road. We’ve walked this route three times, twice out and once back, and believe me, it sucks. Anyone expecting a coastal walk will be sorely disappointed as the open sea remains hidden behind swathes of MOD land and views of the estuary only become visible towards the end.

Harri’s plan this weekend was to investigate the more scenic route along Pendine Sands and find out if it was possible to head inland at Ginst Point to reach Sir John’s Hill (which later links to Dylan Thomas’s Birthday Walk ).

As you enter the beach at Pendine, there are signs warning of the dangers of unexploded munitions, but if the red flag is not flying, visitors are permitted to stroll along the firm, sandy beach, for miles if they so wish.

Ripples of sand at low tide

On a bitterly cold but gloriously sunny October morning, we set off to uncover the delights of this magnificent beach, the location for many land speed records.

At the Pendine end, we were surrounded by dog walkers, family groups, holidaymakers, outdoor enthusiasts, even runners with dogs, but gradually, as we clocked up the miles, the people fell away until it was just Harri and me, and a vast expanse of sand, sea and sky.

At low tide, Pendine is a beachcomber’s paradise. As we headed east the sea was barely visible. The hard, damp sand was strewn with shells, driftwood and plastic bottles. We passed the remains of a tree, decorated with garish detritus, presumably by passers-by, a heavy wooden door, numerous oil drums and frequently, bundles of hay woven with knotted nets.

The detritus tree adds a splash of colour to the beach

At Ginst Point, there was good news. After leaving the beach we joined a gravel track leading to two car parks and then walked along the old sea wall embankment, enjoying views across the estuary towards Llansteffan Castle and the old ferry crossing point.

We retraced our steps, which is usually very boring but with the tide in, the beach was transformed and we walked along the water’s edge, me looking for shells and Harri just enjoying the late afternoon sunshine.

Today’s walk took a little longer than usual, mainly because I was experimenting with my new Canon Compact camera. The crisp, cold weather was perfect for landscape photography but it didn’t mean I couldn’t have a little fun with the various settings (my current favourites are monochrome and vivid colours).

Discovering the delights of monochrome

We timed the end of our 18-mile walk perfectly and were just arriving back at Pendine village (too tired even to stop at the pub) as the sun was setting behind the hills of distant Pembrokeshire.

As I pondered which setting to use for that all-important sunset photograph, Harri reminded me that today’s walk had fulfilled all my criteria for the perfect hike: it was coastal, flat, there was no mud and, most important of all, the sun had shone all day.

I agree. It was the perfect hike along a magnificent stretch of sand – so why don’t coast path officials want you to walk it?

Just one of my many sunset photographs 

Something's getting sore on Route No 4

The original Route 4 through Tredegar Park 

All that blogging about (stolen) bikes must have been prophetic because two weeks ago our trusty X-reg Astra was handed the death sentence by the garage and, for the first time in eighteen months, I found myself back on the saddle.

I have to admit to being an intermittent cyclist. I tend to have mad bursts of enthusiasm, like the few weeks in spring 2010 when I decided it was a great idea to cycle to work regularly and duly pedaled all the way to Croesyceiliog (and back) several times a week. Then there was that awful journey home, the day of our big Queen’s High School reunion at Malpas Cricket Club, when the heavens emptied on me and my run-proof mascara ran and ran until I could barely see where I was going. By the time I reached Fourteen Locks I resembled a one-eyed Alice Cooper, squinting desperately and trying to avoid careering off the towpath and into the lock. The whole experience put me off cycling for quite some time, I can tell you.

On another occasion, Harri and I were cycling in the vicinity of Mynydd Machen and I needed to slow down before negotiating my bike through a rather narrow gap in a fence. Now I can do the nifty little manoevres; I can also (just about) click my way up and down the gears. I’m just not so adept at doing both things at the same time; one minute I was happily wobbling towards Harri, the next I was on the floor with a heavy mountain bike toppled on top of me.

The canal towpath is full of wildlife

There were good times, of course, like the time I realised that cycling uphill was infinitely easier in gear 1:1 and the numerous times I’ve free-wheeled down Laurel Drive; however, of late, my love affair with cycling has dwindled and had Harri not had his ‘brainwave’ (that we could cycle to Cwmbran to look for a new car before he started work in Caerleon at 10 am), I’d probably have left it that way.

But Amazon doesn’t yet sell used cars, so we had no alternative but to go searching. So, at ten past eight on the morning after I’d pounded the streets of Cardiff for 13.1 miles, abandoning gel soles, socks and a water bottle along the way, I found myself perched behind the handlebars of my mountain bike about to tackle another half marathon (and a bit), only this time on wheels.

The world goes by a lot more slowly on a bike – it took me nearly three hours to cycle to Cwmbran, look at two cars and cycle home alone via the longer (flatter) route – and once I’d re-acclimatised myself with the gears, I actually started enjoying meandering around Newport on two wheels.

A landmark which tells me I'm almost there(ish)

When you don’t have to concentrate on the road, predict (I think the proper word’s ‘anticipate’) the entirely unpredictable actions of the driver in front, behind, to the left and to the right, then you start to wake up to the world around you, tuning into the wildlife living in the city.

Like the family of swans preening their feathers on the edge of the canal –  mam and dad swan proudly fussing their four grown-up children; the moor hens darting around on their spindly little legs; the grey squirrels, so used to humans that they barely glanced up as I cycled past. When a rat scampered across the cycle path running alongside the River Usk, it was just another factor in a hugely enjoyable morning.

Despite the aching bottom, I decided that I liked cycling after all.

So much so that the following day I was off again, this time heading to Asda, Raven House Trust (where I am now an enthusiastic volunteer), Capel Court (to deliver Dad’s shopping) and finally, home. By now, my confidence was wheelie soaring (sorry!) and I ignored the well signposted Route 4, choosing instead to pedal through Tredegar Park and beyond. Interestingly, this was the route of the intended cycle path but agreement was never reached on the section through the former golf course.

The now very overgrown Tredegar Park Golf Course (yet more land owned by Newbridge Estates, the company which fought so hard to ruin Rhiwderin village and have now turned the century-old allotments into a monstrous housing estate) is familiar running territory for me, but the uneven terrain was tough on two wheels. After struggling across a stretch of muddy footpath, I headed enthusiastically towards an ornate bridge (it looked solid – and flat) and took a sharp left turn, bouncing down a muddy bank towards the Ebbw. It was only after I’d cycled a fair distance over bumpy ground that it dawned on me that I was on the wrong side of the river and the only way to reach Ford Lane would be to clamber up a ten feet wall with a bike on my shoulders or turn back.

It's tough going up, but even tougher bouncing down

You see, that’s the problem with cycling... take a wrong turning, misjudge a gear and you end up having to extricate a dead weight lump of metal out of a tricky situation... or risk falling off!

On the evening of the half marathon the only muscles that weren’t aching were my gluteals... now two long days on the saddle had ensured that my posterior was suffering as much as everything else.

And so... I abandoned the bike and started walking everywhere, which took even longer, especially when your walking companion is Harri and the marvellous Tredegar Arms pub is en route.

The Easiest Crime in the World

Nothing to do with cycling or bikes but I like the photo

Well, I promised I’d publish the results of my Freedom of Information request to Gwent Police about the number of bikes stolen in the Gwent area in the years 2009, 2010, 2011 and this year to date.

I must admit to being pleasantly surprised by the speed in which Dylan (the FOI officer) responded to my questions.  By law, he’s allowed 20 working days to respond, however he emailed back in an impressive nine days with most of the information I asked for. Thank you Dylan.

Unfortunately, that’s where the good news ends, because as the figures below confirm, if you're unlucky enough to have your bike stolen in Gwent:

• you're unlikely to ever set eyes on it again
• the bike thief is even less likely to be caught.

Amazingly, of the 2682 bikes stolen in Gwent since 2009, only 77 have ever been recovered. That’s a recovery rate of just 2.88% - and it's probable that some of these will have been stripped of their more valuable components.

Even more depressing is confirmation that since 2009, only 149 bike thieves have ever had any contact with Gwent Police and of those only half i.e. 75, have been charged.

Basically if someone steals your bike the likelihood of them being caught and brought to justice is tiny. On the other hand, as Harri found out, if you cycle up Caerleon High Street the wrong way on your own bike, the likelihood of Gwent Police reprimanding you is very high!

But back to bike theft. Someone told me that it's now so well organised that professional thieves actually follow cyclists home from popular mountain bike trails, like the one at Cwmcarn Forest. 

They then break into their garages/sheds when the cyclists are sleeping or at work. It's easy, the perfect know-you-won't-ever-be-arrested-and-go-to-prison crime. 

If this is true, why aren't the police doing more to crack down on the highly-organised gangs of bike thieves? Harri's bike wasn't stolen by an opportunist teenager, as the CCTV film footage clearly shows, and my brother-in-law's bike was securely locked in premises far removed from casual passers-by. In both situations, the thefts were carefully planned and professionally executed with strong metal cutters, but the police don't seem interested (and that's the polite version).

As we suspected, these official figures from Gwent Police provide indisputable evidence that bike theft is a crime where the perpetrators can be almost 97% certain that they won’t ever be caught and brought to justice.

And that's just not acceptable.

For anyone interested in the full figures, here they are:

Bikes Stolen
2009	821
2010	725
2011	724
2012	412 (so far)
Grand total	2682

Recovered
2009	35
2010	18
2011	14
2012	10 (so far)
Grand total	77

Charged 2009                  14 2010                  33 2011                  17 2012                  11 Grand total          75 Summons 2009                    1 2010                         0 2011                    3 2012                    2 Grand total            6 Cautioned  2009                   20 2010                   13 2011                   18 2012                     3 Grand total          54 Youth restorative disposal 2009                     0 2010                     0 2011                     1 2012                     2 Grand total              3 Discontinued at court* 2009                     5 2010                     4 2011                     0 2012                     0
Grand total              9

* a prosecution may be discontinued before or during the trial. This might arise where, for example, it is clear that there is no longer a realistic prospect of obtaining a conviction.

Bike theft - the forgotten crime

Best to keep a bike owner's identity secret

I don’t usually write about bikes; generally, I prefer to get around on four wheels (or foot) but bikes are very much on my mind at the moment.

The reason? My lovely brother-in-law had his new bike stolen from a locked garage last week – he’d used it just four times and was understandably very upset and angry about the theft.

The crime appears to be the work of professional thieves who, not only knew when their property would be unattended, but arrived with metal cutters strong enough to cut effortlessly through a large padlock.

The whole incident was over in seconds – and if you’re wondering how I know that, it’s because Harri had his own bike stolen in broad daylight in Caerleon High Street in July 2010. We didn’t have to surmise what happened because it was all there, captured on the grainy black and white film of the Roman Museum’s  CCTV camera.

The previous day’s footage revealed two tall, hooded men walking confidently into the forecourt in front of Harri’s place of work (then closed) and checking out possible escape routes – they had a good look around, it’s all there on film.

Coincidentally (!), on his way home earlier that week, a group of younger teenagers hanging around on the pavement had shouted ‘nice bike’ as Harri cycled past. Maybe it’s wrong to put two and two together but there are kids who will do anything for a tenner.

Fast forward to the following lunchtime when Harri disappeared to the staff room at his usual time. He returned half an hour later to find his bike, which was padlocked to the metal railing, gone.

Needless to say, he was gutted. Which is exactly how Paul felt last week. Bikes are not cheap and neither are they automatically covered by most people’s household insurance policies.

In our case, all was not lost. Afterall, the CCTV footage suggested the thieves were the same men who’d stalked the place the previous day. Not kids but big, strong men, one of whom pulled large metal cutters from under his hoodie. As one man kept a lookout, completely unperturbed by the passing cars, the other leaned over the high railing, cut through the lock and lifted the bike effortlessly onto the pavement. Armed with this footage, we were confident that the police would quickly recognise and arrest the culprits.

Not a chance. The police’s standard reaction to a non-violent crime is to issue a crime reference number – for the insurance you usually can’t claim. And just in case, you’re thinking the police had carried out some investigations, the CCTV footage came to light when concerned museum staff presented it to Harri. Stealing a bike, however valuable (Harri’s was worth about £1,500) simply doesn’t rate as a crime in police eyes. Or not one they care to do anything about.

My brother-in-law, who was on holiday when the theft of his bike took place (it was reported by his brother), was promised a visit by police officers last night. Unsurprisingly, they didn’t show; no phone call, no explanation, just no show.

Nothing’s changed then. In 1994, my daughters’ new mountain bikes were stolen from our padlocked garden shed. After a tip-off, my ex found both bikes in the garden of the teenage thief. We tried talking to his mother but she said she couldn’t be expected to know what her son was getting up to, the boy himself said he’d found both bikes abandoned on wasteland and the police . . . did absolutely nothing.

Okay, I understand they have to prioritise resources. Bike theft isn’t (usually) violent so it’s never going to warrant the attention given to more violent crimes; nonetheless, it is a growing crime and it affects a lot of hard-working people who are simply trying to get to work without getting into their cars and polluting the atmosphere. Theft is theft. If I was to steal a pair of knickers from Tesco, I’m pretty certain I’d be prosecuted, but bike thieves know that they’ll get away with it.

An article on BBC News claims ‘More than 26,000 bicycles were reported stolen to the Metropolitan Police last year, up a third on five years ago, BBC London has learned. Arrests for thefts and numbers of bikes recovered by the police are also down on last year.’

When you consider that only one in four bike thefts are reported in the first place, that’s an awful lot of bikes disappearing, around 71 a day in London alone.

Given my family’s experiences with bike theft and the dire response of the police on each occasion, it’s no wonder people don’t think it’s worth the effort of reporting this upsetting crime.

There’s some interesting stuff about avoiding bike theft on this blog.

In the mean time, I shall be putting in a Freedom of Information request to Gwent Police asking how many bike thefts were reported last year and how many arrests/bike recovered. 

Watch this space.

The Cotswolds: Cider with Harri

A top contender for our favourite Cotswolds pub - the Lock Inn Cafe

If there’s one thing the Cotswolds has in abundance, it’s charming, centuries-old inns, resplendent with stone fireplaces, flagstone floors and floral facades. We strolled into several Cotswold villages to be confronted with not just one enticing pub, but frequently two, and sometimes more. And thrillingly, the majority seem to remain open all day.

This situation takes a little getting used to, I can tell you. As Wales-based hikers, we’ve long stopped fantasising about sipping a cold pint at the end of a twenty-mile day. Hard experience has taught us that you can’t even assume the local pub will be open when you’re walking the Pembrokeshire Coast Path on August Bank Holiday. It’s a similar story in the Black Mountains, the Brecon Beacons and, most recently, in Kidwelly.

Historic, picturesque... and open

Outside the cities and popular tourist spots Wales’ pubs are fast disappearing. No doubt, the majority of the closed rural pubs we encounter on our travels are casualties of the recession and people choosing to drink at home rather than pay high pub prices.

Others have, through necessity, transformed themselves into upmarket eateries with extensive menus and vast car parks (and prices to suggest two scruffy hikers with a fiver to spend are not their target market).

We often stumble upon rural pubs which would probably be referred to as ‘life style’ businesses, meaning that the doors only open when the publican cares to position himself behind the bar (and our own experiences suggest this rarely coincides with the end of the hiking day).

Uley brewery - keeping the Cotswolds flowing

But these problems belong to Wales and, as we traipsed through the Cotswolds’ rolling hills and valleys, our spirits soared as neighbouring villages vied with one another to provide the best draught beer/cider. This was a land where friendly locals perched on bar stools happy to idle away their afternoons with visitors and where a fit, young South African gardener was willing to stop and talk Virginia Climbers with this old gal (Harri had disappeared to check something out).

In short, from Wiltshire to Gloucestershire, the Cotswolds were a delightful surprise where pubs were concerned; and not only were they all open but they offered an amazing range of beers and ciders.

The obiquitous Strongbow and Magners were nowhere to be seen; this was a land of abundance which catered for a grown-up palate.

Sadly, our alcohol consumption was restricted by the need to remain upright on numerous, and surprisingly slippery, wooded slopes – and to drive back to our Travelodge room. So, despite the abundance of temptation, we had to restrain ourselves to one drink at the end of the day.

With so many perfect hostelries visited (and so many others resisted), it’s difficult to single out just one, but high on our list of favourites must be the enchanting Lock Inn Cafe, next to the canal in Bradford-on-Avon. 

Al sheddo dining at the Lock Inn Cafe

This family-run pub is a worthy tourist attraction in its own right; it feels organic, its colourful decor evolving gradually rather than ever being planned. It’s lively, quirky (a penny farthing is one of hundreds of items hanging from the bar ceiling), garish (not one of the table cloths was the same) and has fun stamped all over it. 

The cafe spills onto the canal courtesy of a narrowboat covered with flowers; on land, assorted garden sheds, filled with tables, chairs and benches, provide additional undercover eating areas. Best of all, the menu is a literary work of art and kept us thoroughly entertained while we enjoyed our two halves of scrumpy.

The pub reminded me of the wonderful Admiral Benbow in Penzance, which, coming from me, is high praise indeed.

Nourishment, alcohol and advice on child-rearing

Other notable pubs were The White Hart Inn, (at Ford, near Castle Combe) which dates back to the 1500s, The Bell in Sapperton (boasting its own horse parking and home of the aforementioned Virginia Climber (and gardener), and The Ram Inn in Bussage where we were immediately welcomed into the fold and thus felt obliged to stay for a hitherto forbidden second drink.

It's going to be so hard to return to Carmarthenshire pubs and their closed doors the week after next!

Arriving on horseback? Parking;s no problem at
the Bell at Sapperton

The Cotswolds: Walking nine to five - what a way to make a living

The English countryside - so different from 'our' side of the channel

One of the perks of being ‘workless’ is that I don’t have to worry about booking annual leave when Harri is offered a well-paid but very last-minute outdoor writing commission.

This one was particularly exciting as we were venturing over the border and the work was being offered by none other than the mighty Automobile Association (I write this in full to avoid any confusion about the nature of our work). The timescale was extremely tight but once you’ve said ‘yes’, there’s nothing for it but to get the miles walked.

To be fair, compared to our usual terrain, hiking in the Cotswolds is a walk in the park; the ‘hills’ are small and paths are well-maintained, so well-maintained, in fact, that Harri experienced continual bouts of ‘footpath envy’ throughout our three visits.

Bradford on Avon is definitely worth visiting

From the dry nature of the majority of footpaths, we could only conclude that rainfall is far less frequent in the Cotswolds than in sunny south east Wales.

Our task was straightforward enough. The AA is updating several of its hiking guides, including one called 50 Walks in The Cotswolds, and its editors have commissioned freelance writers to do the groundwork.  Harri’s brief was to check 13 existing walks, making sure they were still walkable, that the number of stiles was unchanged, parking remained available, toilets open and eating places were correctly named (and were still open). It sounds simple – and mostly it was – but quite a few times the directions were confusing and we ended up retracing our steps, several times having to walk  downhill and start again from the bottom.

Great Chalfield Manor, Holt, was built in 1480

It’s strange but once we crossed the Severn Bridge into England everything felt, well different. It’s hard to put my finger on what  changed exactly, but the whole landscape, the ambience in villages, the architecture... everything felt, well, foreign and unfamiliar.

Harri uses the term ‘gentrified’ to describe the pristine villages, former farmhouses and country pubs/restaurants that we often encounter on our travels but, somehow, it’s more than that. England just feels different from Wales and, with the exception of my beloved west Cornwall, I’ve not always warmed to middle England’s landscape.

Our first walk in the Wiltshire Cotswolds did little to change my view. Holt was a pretty enough village boasting several pubs, the obligatory upmarket (and over-priced) delicatessen and a National Trust manor, but the busy through-road and narrow pavements were not conducive to relaxed strolling. The neighbouring fields with their wheat crops and well-defined footpaths made for pleasant walking but, fresh from our trip to the Gower, there was little about the landscape to impress.

The Kennet and Avon Canal at Avoncliff

Fortunately, things picked up after elevensies when we headed for Bradford on Avon where we had two routes to check. We didn’t park in the town but further along the Kennet and Avon Canal in Avoncliff where it was free (one of the big pluses of Cotswold walking is that the parking is almost always free).

Both afternoon walks were thoroughly delightful and thankfully the ominously named ‘water meadows’ alongside the River Frome were solid underfoot. 

This was the quintessential English countryside, the idealised rural idyll Hollywood producers are convinced is enjoyed by all Brits who don’t live in London (Londoners, we know, live in four-storey, terraced mansions with butlers to answer the door, as portrayed in The Parent Trap, or, if young professionals, in vast, converted Victorian warehouses). And this deluded view of everyday life doesn’t stop with Hollywood producers if the friendly American woman we encountered on the Paris metro a few years ago is typical. Having established we were Welsh, she then asked the eight-year-old Alanna if she bought her school uniform at Harrods! Er excuse me, BHS no less.

While all this annoys me intensely, I couldn’t help getting a little bit excited when I spotted a  gorgeous detached cottage perched halfway up a hill; within minutes, I'd convinced myself that this  was the home of Kate Winslet’s character Iris in the immensely silly but very watchable romantic comedy The Holiday. For most of the film the cottage was covered in snow but I was as sure as anyone could be... until I got home and checked the facts out online. Iris’s cottage isn’t real – a fake exterior was built in two weeks in the middle of an empty field. Worse, the fictional character lived in Surrey and not the Cotswolds at all.

It was all beginning to make sense. I’d always been sceptical about Iris’s daily commute  – travelling from the Cotswolds to central London seemed an awfully long journey to do every day. Then an estate worker (though with that accent, he could have been the owner) confirmed that many people do commute from the Cotswolds, including the Wiltshire villages, and when the proposed super fast Bath to London trains are running, the journey will be reduced to just one hour, 20 minutes each way.

Maybe it’s me, but that still sounds like an awful long time at the beginning and end of each working day!