New Lighthouse Visits Part I (Isle of Wight)

I have recently been working on two new books.

For details of Seven Dreams of Reality (dreamlike fiction) and Mud Sweat & Beers (non fiction - humorous hiking adventure) check out Amazon.co.uk or email hamcopublishing@AOL.com. One of the proposed new books will be a sequel to 'England and Wales in a Flash', which sees my father and I continuing our mission to visit lighthouses around the mainland coast with a foray into Southern Scotland. As a result, a handful of chapters documenting our visits to a few random lighthouses In England have had to be jettisoned, not quite in keeping with the theme of a book on Scotland.

Rather than waste them, I have decided to edit out some of the more raucous humour and lengthy observational passages (for that you'll have to buy the book) and include the chapters in this blog over the next few months. We begin with Day 1 on our visit to the Isle of Wight.

Joining our queue to board the Isle of Wight ferry, we broke open the ‘Yuk’ milkshakes [a reference readers of our first book will understand] and augmented its milky goodness with some chicken legs, slices of bread and a pork pie that we cut in half with the end of a Biro, not being in possession of a knife or any good preparation skills.

Once upon the ferry, we decided that it would be more pleasant to spend the journey upstairs plotting our course across the Solent, rather than while away sixty minutes in a small hatchback. This was a sensible idea, as the vessel had all the amenities that you would find on a cross-channel ferry (except duty-free of course).

So we ascended to the blustery observation deck, where we were rewarded with an attractive ride into Cowes, with its bright white vessels lining the River Medina, which is like a crack running half way into the island. The sight of the buildings creeping up the surrounding hills as though trying to escape gave a pleasant ambience. This was a gently scenic introduction to the island, only spoiled by my obligation to repeat the old joke ‘What’s brown, steams and comes out of Cowes backwards?’ Answer – the Isle of Wight ferry. The colour scheme has changed since those days.

We docked at East Cowes, a shady village, marooned from the main town by the river, easliy crossed using the ‘floating bridge’. This is what the islanders call a small shuttle ferry that saves the motorist, and indeed the pedestrian, a 12-mile expedition by road.

The River Medina sounds more like a waterway in Spain than on the Isle of Wight. In fact, it is true that the island is not without Iberian influence. After the Stone Age hunters and Neolithic farmers, the Spanish arrived and settled. There would be further influxes of in-migration to come, culminating with a couple of post-modern lighthouse hunters in 2003AD. (By the way, what will they call the post-post-modern era?)

The island, 23 miles from east to west and 13 miles from north to south, was originally joined to Dorset. This is logical really, as the chalk cliffs that disintegrate into the sea at the westerly Needles match up rather neatly with the white cliffs across the water near Swanage.

Cowes is of course famous for its regatta. At the time, a report stated that the people here feel ostracized from big business, and that there should be a drive to encourage such things. The downside is that the place could then resemble just about every other town in the UK. Is this really so desirable? 'What can be so bad about a little bit of individuality?

Our inn had an archway beside it that can be driven through to reach the quayside. We had pre-booked our stay; my father had seen a recommendation for the place in a real ale guide, and that was enough to send him scuttling to the phone to make an inquiry. However, there were no real ales on offer today, so we had to make do with a pint of Guinness which we quaffed by the window, watching the people wander to and fro on this cheery afternoon. A newsagency seemed to be the catalyst for these movements.

My dad Christened our lodgings 'the garret room’, for we were positioned up three or four flights of stairs. This brought to mind a vision of a reclusive author hammering away on an old typewriter by candlelight.

Now to me, the Isle of Wight is a bit like a miniature inverted replica of England. This is because most of the population is crammed into the northeast of the island; whereas on the mainland we shoehorn everybody into the Southeast. Similarly reversed is the topography of the landscape, with the hillier terrain in the south on Wight, whereas in Blighty Major it is the North that is renowned for its uplands. Interestingly, this area of downland can even be seen from Portsmouth and Southampton, making it look as though the Solent isn’t there at all.

Newport, in the centre of the island, possesses the isle's only dual carriageway, this being a mile of the A3020 to the north of the town centre. The town also contains that other great British hallmark – the multi-lane ring road. It is here that one encounters that other stalwart of British life - jams.

The 125,000 islanders own 70,000 cars between them. This increases dramatically in the tourist season and is certainly exasperated by the fact that a once expansive rail network has been whittled down to a single line along the East Coast. At least you can still get a ‘ticket to Ryde’ I suppose!

The nine-mile road journey from Newport to Ryde felt more like fifteen. Here we checked out the island’s only outlet of a high profile pub chain (at the time of our visit, at least). We opted to sample Ventnor brewery’s ‘Oyster beer’. This dark, slightly sweet bitter was the finest we would taste during our trip, and is apparently made with real oysters.

The open-plan pub, located in this seaside town of amusements and fun fairs, was heaving, and conversations knotted themselves into a wall of sound around us.

Although the beer was strangely moreish, this was enough procrastination. It was time to talk ‘lighthouses’ and wend our way to Wight’s most easterly point, across lush, undulating farmland to St Helen’s village, then on past a bay filled with yachts and sailing boats, to Bembridge, a village with its own little one-way system.

Eventually meeting the coast, we parked near a large ‘chain’ hotel surrounded by lawns so neat you wouldn’t dream of stepping on them. It was here that we noticed that the Solent was littered with flat-topped round towers, sticking out like water-borne ‘Martellos’. These Victorian era forts were built to defend the Solent from another perceived French invasion threat (1860s).

I’ve heard that one of these was sold as a bijou residence around the time of our visit (2003) for six million pounds. 'Was it worth the money?' I wonder. Great place to live for peace and quiet; not so great for running out of milk and popping to the local shop!

Standing by the lifeboat station, we moved our plane of vision a few degrees southward and around five miles out to sea, onto a hazy black cylinder protruding from the deep. This was the Trinity House light of Nab Tower, a 90-foot high, 40-foot wide cylinder, designed as part of a defence scheme to protect the English Channel from invaders, which began its work as a beacon in 1920. It was staffed by three keepers until 1983.

The bright sky gave our squinting eyes an effect similar to snow blindness. The distance was too much for the telephoto lens on my video camera to cope with, so we cannot really count it in our tally of lights and felt vaguely unfulfilled during our journey back to Cowes.

Tiredness began to encroach at a rate of knots, and just two things grabbed our attention during our truncated evening at our inn. The first was a ‘Back to the future’ machine. This was just a glorified quiz machine really, but nice to encounter anyway, as I have long thought this trilogy of films to be vastly under-appreciated.

It was holed up in our garret room that we had our second surprise. The only tea bag left for our edification resembled a four-inch-wide parachute. My father managed to dip this unwieldy object into the two cups for long enough to infuse something drinkable from it.

Like I said earlier, it's good to be different!

- Adam and Roger Colton

Sayings in English - As Tired as a Worn Out Cliché

As a writer I am always interested in the English language, so one night when I was unable to get to sleep, instead of counting sheep (I see enough sheep down here on Romney Marsh as it is), I started counting cliches. Many date back to things my grandmother said a lot when I was a child, but many are in common usage today. This is by no means an exhaustive list; just ones I have heard a lot down here in Kent. I hasten to add that being a polite kind of a chap, some of the less tasteful ones are not necessarily phrases I would use myself and that I would not approve of anybody using innocent cliches for hateful or divisive purposes.

As bald as a badger
As bent as nine-bob note
As black as pitch
As black as the ace of spades
As black as coal
As black as night
As blind as a bat
As bold as brass
As bright as a button
As bright as the day
As brown as a berry
As busy as a bee
As cheap as chips
as clean as a whistle
As clear as a bell
As clear as the day
As clumsy as a bull in a china shop
As common as muck
As cool as a cucumber
As cold as ice
As daft as a brush
As daft as a coot
As dead as a door-nail
As dead as a dodo
As deaf as a post
As drunk as a skunk
As drunk as a newt
As drunk as a fart
As dry as a bone
As dry as toast
As dull as ditch-water
As easy as pi
As fat as a pig
As fat as an ox
As fit as a fiddle
As flat as a pancake
As free as a bird
As fresh as the daisies
As good as gold
As happy as a sand-boy
As happy as Larry
As happy as a pig in s***
As hard as nails
As heavy as lead
As high as a kite
As honest as the day is long
As hungry as a horse
As keen as mustard
As light as a feather
As long as a wet weekend
As loud as thunder
As mad as a hatter
As mad as a March hare
As mad as a box of frogs
As meek as a lamb to the slaughter
As merry as the month of May
As miserable as sin
As much use as a chocolate teapot/fire-guard
As nice as pie
As nutty as a fruit-bat
As old as the hills
As pleased as punch
As poor as a church mouse
As pretty as a picture
As pure as the driven snow
As quick as a flash
As quiet as a mouse
As red as a beetroot
As rich as a king
As right as rain
As safe as houses
As sick as a dog
As sick as a parrot
As slippery as an eel
As sly as a fox
As smooth as an eel
As snug as a bug in a rug
As sober as a judge
As soft as silk
As soft as s***
As solid as a rock
As sound as a pound
As sour as a lemon
As straight as a die
As stubborn as a mule
As strong as an ox
As subtle as a brick
As sure as eggs
As sweet as a nut
As sweet as honey
As thick as thieves
As thick as a brick
As thin as a rake
As tight as duck's a***
As tough as old boots
As warm as toast
As wet as a dish-cloth
As white as a sheet
As white as snow
As wise as an owl

Thames Path & Ridgeway West - a Cycling Perambulation

This is a short resume of a cycling expedition that is featured in more detail in the 2016 book 'Stair-Rods and Stars' (ISBN: 978-1513605258) - available now on Amazon and by order from all good book shops.

From a place called 'Home' in deepest Kent, I caught the train to London Charing Cross and began a mission to follow the UK's second longest river for as long as I could on two wheels; a mission I imaginatively christened 'The Thames challenge'.

A flurry of bells struck midday as I cycled past the houses of parliament – an appropriate soundtrack to mark the beginning of an adventure.

It was when the Thames curved away southward beyond Vauxhall Bridge that I was in territory I had not visited before, and I crossed the river several times trying unsuccessfully to locate the cycle route.

After sheltering from the drizzle by means of eating a pasty at a table outside a convenience store, I crossed to the north bank again and soon found myself cowering beneath trees in a park in Fulham as the skies opened more ferociously. Here, I observed other similar humans standing motionless with bikes beneath various bushes. It felt like watching meerkats in a nature programme. The rains stopped and the humans burst back into motion.

I returned to the south bank using the rail and pedestrian conduit of Barnes Bridge.

Richmond impressed me greatly with its rural feel and the first truly rustic looking bridge over the Thames I had encountered. This seemed an appropriate place to stop for a cup of tea. Later came Kingston's 'doshed up' river front, and Walton where the trail gives up the ghost for a couple of miles as the River Wey feeds in. Having survived a burst of A-road at rush hour, and negotiated my way around an area cordoned off by police at Chertsey, the official route reutrned to traverse the north bank to Staines. The Thames had made a huge 'u' shape which just dipped into Surrey. It had a much different feel now, being lined with small boats and regularly splitting into strands to pass through locks – a far cry from the mighty torrent through central London.

After fish, chips and mushy peas in a modern pub with a loud and lively barman who doubted my sanity(!), I contemplated the hotels of Staines (£100+ per room) for around half a second. I also dismissed my 'Plan B' of camping beneath a secluded arch in the road-bridge on grounds that, whilst the town seemed quite pleasant, it is nevertheless the setting for TV's 'Ali G' character and may have been chosen as the location for the 'urban gangster' for a reason. Instead, I found a copse around a mile beyond the M25 bridge and set up camp there instead. Much safer.

Around here is the first glimpse of nearby hills along the river's course since the brief escarpment at Richmond, and there are some information boards which I had passed a couple of times but failed to read, presumably informing people of the signing of the Magna Carta in 1215 at Runnymede. Power to the people.


I was attacked in the night. Not by boy racers from Staines or even by wild boar or common adder; instead I awoke with a swollen lip that felt as though I had just been anaesthetized for a rather large filling at the dentist's. Ignoring this I continued along the path and a section of B-road via the village of Datchet into Windsor (& Eton), eschewing the prospect of exploring the impressive castle in favour of a hearty breakfast in a cafe. Glancing in the mirror my lip looked somewhat crooked. However, today's plan was to press on to Maidenhead, Marlow and Henley, with the river now making a giant 'n' shape and the towpath adorned with annoyingly frequent signs all beginning with the word 'NO'. I ignored the ones banning cycling, on grounds that I wasn't harming anybody and that the Internet did state that the towpath could be cycled as far as Reading

Planes buzzed their way in and out of Heathrow airport above me as I rode through the playing fields that supposedly once sent the rich kids of Britain into an all-conquering nationalistic ego-trip. How little changes!

I relaxed with a bottle of life-giving Lucozade beside the A4 road-bridge at Maidenhead, and as I continued, the opposite bank was now a wooded escarpment, reminding me of scenes of the Rhine cutting through deep gorges. After another rail/pedestrian bridge, the next part of the ride was very pretty with views of the Chiltern Hills, and the path often just a worn line through tranquil meadows.

Marlow's main street was typical of any small English country town, with the exception of a small suspension bridge at one end. The plethora of 'best kept village awards' would indicate that its inhabitants don't think of it as a town though. Tiredness was beginning to encroach and the barman was impressed as I ordered a Guinness and casually slipped in that I had cycled from Central London.

After passing stands for the famous regatta, I relaxed with a pint of Henley Gold ale in the salubrious town of the same name. I ordered a smoked salmon sandwich, and as rain was threatening I decided to check out the room prices. This was when I nearly passed out. Single room: £300, double: £500, deluxe: £600!

And so to Reading.

At the junction with the Kennet and Avon canal, I took a left turn to disect the town, but one look at the room prices sent me scurrying for the railway station. A £21 train fare home or a room for £80 with rain threatening to stop play the next day anyway. You do the maths!


It was over a month later that I returned to the country town of Berkshire to continue my trail. Returning to that same junction of canal and river, an elderly gent who seemed a little worse for wear, asked me if it was possible to walk the entire length of the Kennet and Avon towpath. Feeling proud at the amount of knowledge I was able to impart in spite of living around 80 miles away, he then asked exactly the same series of questions to the lady behind me. I realised that this was merely a means for him to obtain conversation. It is a shame that we live in such an introverted society that venturing any form of conversation with other people is often viewed with suspicion, unless it consists of asking for directions, brief weather-related chat or complaining about public transport. So as a single bloke from deepest Kent, I humorously muse on how so many people manage to bridge the gap from 'Nice day isn't it?' and 'This train has been late three nights running' to wedding bells and everlasting bliss. Is there a sub-clause in British behaviour that allows a more in-depth exchange that I am not aware of?

The slow demise of the British pub is another sad reflection of this trend. With so many going to the wall due to draconian legislation and '5,000 cans of beer for 50p' deals in supermarkets, just where are people supposed to socialise and meet new people? Or indeed, encounter any form of human interaction? Whilst I found this old man a little scary I did empathise with him.

Anyway, I set off along the Thames towards Goring. On the way I came to Whitchurch and crossed the toll bridge (40p to motorists). I called into the tranquil little church surrounded by salubrious looking houses for a brief sit down, and a little further up the road I passed a small art gallery. I was particularly impressed with a dolls' house completely covered with Ordnance Survey maps all perfectly lined up where the walls meet floors, etc. There was also a series of slightly Van Gogh-esque paintings by a local lady.

The path then descended back to the Thames through a wood, and soon I had arrived at Goring, where I enjoyed a 'posh ploughmans' at a hotel, which came on a wooden service board. I then left the Thames to continue its wayward woute to Oxford and beyond in favour of the western half of the Ridgeway. This ancient route runs along the Chiltern Hills from near High Wycombe all the way to near Avebury in Wiltshire. The Ridgeway is even reputed to be the oldest road still in use in the world, with some sections possibly dating back 20,000 years. Today, only the western section is completely open to cyclists, and I had over 40 miles of it ahead of me. You may recall a group of motorcyclists checking out the route in the TV programme Ridge Riders around 15 years ago.

The views were fantastic and, unlike the South Downs Way (which is a little closer to home), once up the initial climb, the undulations were not too severe, at least to begin with.

I set up camp in a small copse several miles after passing below the A34 – the dual carriageway that Swampy and co. had tried to prevent from being constructed by camping out in trees. Determined to keep my own camping at ground level, I tied up my two pieces of tarpaulin and laid out my sleeping bag beneath it. I concluded the evening with a wander up to the Wantage Memorial cross, by which time dusk was falling and I was nearly ready to blow some zeds.


I awoke to the sound of rain and a cacophany of wood pigeons all making the same 5-note pattern in different tones.

Having bought an avocado for breakfast, I realised that I had no utensils with which to eat it. I cut the fruit open with a pair of hairdressing scissors and scooped it out using a debit card. Bliss!

And then the rain turned to mist and I was on my way, with the industrial chimneys of Didcot visible in the valley below.

I serendipitously passed the highest point in Oxfordshire – White Horse Hill, and beyond this I stopped to view the 5,500 year old Wayland's Smithy burial chamber. A couple were eating lunch on top of this. After a brief exchange about the weather, I got them to take a photo of me by one of the large stones at the entrance. To get this into context, this 'barrow' pre-dates many of the famed sites in ancient Rome and ancient Greece by several millennia.

As the drizzle began again, I dropped down off the hill for lunch into the thatched-cottage village of Ashbury. After two cups of tea and a salmon sandwich, I sampled the local ale (Arkell's of Swindon) and the rain duly stopped.

It was a few miles beyond this that the Ridgeway became a lot more undulous, dropping off the hills to use a wide lane to bridge the mighty M4, before climbing steeply again as a trackway. And the rain was coming down!

In the next valley was another village – Ogbourne St George. I dived into a hotel for a coffee and lamented the fact that there was no village shop there where I could get some provisions to last me out until the restaurant and pub opened. Yet, another good reason to 'support the locals' if you live in a rural community.

It was then a steady climb to Barbury Castle – an Iron Age hill-fort. I had passed a number of these en route but this was easily the most impressive – a circular mound with a ditch around it and a raised bank encircling this. The views were again superb.

Another 5 miles later I had reached my destination of Avebury. I surrendered my 'green' avoidance of excessive meat consumption in favour of a juicy steak, and a friend drove out from Swindon to meet me for an evening drink. Now, Avebury is surrounded by a stone circle which is actually several hundred years older than Stonehenge. The pair of us were treated to some in-depth info about rituals, ley lines and the astrological significance of stone circles from a local Druid. Not the brief exchange about the weather I had expected!

Going back to the 'wonder of being single' I congratulated my friend on the recent addition to his family and we both mused on how life takes its course. In my own case, I tend to bring to mind John Lennon's lyric 'Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans' with increasing regularity as life progresses! The media onslaught of love songs, couples-only events, lack of single characters on TV and films (apart from a few oddballs!), expensive hotel rooms, supplements to go on holiday, more love songs, Valentine's Day marketing, family-orienated Christmas marketing, even more love songs, etc. do seem to give an unconscious message that it is pretty much a 'one size fits all' society to anybody who hasn't met the right person by their 30s. Well, I have added 'singles awareness' to my ever-growing list of 'enlightenment' campaigns!

Er, where was I? Oh yes, it was time to leave the only pub I have ever seen with its own 'pay and display' car park and cycle back to a copse I had spotted earlier to set up camp for the second night, although the wind and darkness made this something of a challenge.


The final day got off to an early start (loud adenoidal wood pigeon), and by the time I had descended back into the valley it was raining hard with lashing wind. I headed for the solace of a bus shelter and waited for this to pass. The next dry spell got me as far as Avebury church before the skies opened again. I was pleased to spot a shop, still surviving due to being run as a local community project, and I purchased a pasty and other comestibles to munch upon as I wandered the stone circle anti-clockwise.

Next up was a look at the highest prehistoric man-made mound in the Europe – another Neolithic creation, known as Silsbury Hill. Observing the haze of rain hanging over the hills to the south, I supped a pint of Devizes brewery's Wadsworth ale in a nearby inn while I evaluated the weather.

The plan of cycling 30+ miles to Salisbury was now abandoned in favour of the lesser feat of riding 12 miles to Swindon for the train home. And so, it was back up the now-familiar A4361 which is actually a section of the lengthy A361 cunningly renumbered to deter long-distance traffic.

The sustained climb was rewarded by a panoramic descent, where I succeeded in breaking the 30mph speed limit on a bike. Whilst my brief journey through Swindon didn't make a lasting impact upon me, it does have an impressive industrial heritage with the Great Western Railway, the Honda car factory and the world's most complicated roundabout. It is also the setting for an interesting novel my friend once leant me about a teenager with Asperger's Syndrome, but I am digressing wildly now!

And so, with a combined tally of almost 200 miles, the two-stage Thames and Ridgeway bike ride came to an end.