A History of Poaching

There are not many affordable luxuries in life that make you feel like a millionaire. That was certainly my experience on a recent holiday in the beautiful county of Cornwall in the very south west of the UK where the rental of a cottage for the week included a hot-tub. There is something quite magical about sitting out in the open in hot water, in this case with an aspect over a wooded valley and pasture beyond dotted with sheep.

In a moment of reflection brought on by the constant 39 degree temperature and with the jets and nozzles silenced I wondered what genius minds made this possible.

Here is an article from a US Trade Magazine on the origins of the hot tub.

"In the beginning, there was water"

Whilst water is integral to our existence and somewhat taken for granted by those with easy and plentiful access to it, we’ve also come to realise it feels pretty good when warm. So good, in fact, that an entire industry emerged to provide everyone with the benefits of hot water.

But we all know it’s more than that. To look at a hot tub now is to look at the sum of decades worth of invention and innovation, a history of problem solving and change.

To honour that entrepreneurial spirit, we’re taking a look back at the history of hot tubs. It should not be regarded as fully comprehensive by any means, but hopefully it will serve as a potted history of the industry, which although still at such a young age, has accomplished so much.

And the exciting thing? Who knows where it’ll go next. 

1950s

Five of the Jacuzzi brothers gather around a series of industrial injector pumps.

• In California vineyards, wine officianados fill old wine vats, tanks and barrels with hot water to create the earliest hot tubs in American history. Those who were especially cunning took advantage of hot springs to enhance the experience.

1956

• Two guys wonder if they can harness the power of water to help alleviate a family member’s arthritis, and that’s how the hydrotherapy pump was born. When it proves successful, they peddle the invention to hospitals and schools. 

By the way, the last name of those two gentlemen? Jacuzzi.

1960s

• A new craze begins to take hold in residential design: the addition of a small body of hot water positioned next to a swimming pool. While these small bodies of water — which had just one jet at the time — delighted homeowners, they are seen strictly as accessories to a swimming pool. It will take time before we start to see standalone spas.

• The Jacuzzi brothers’ hydrotherapy pump is featured as a common prize on game shows, thus bringing hydrotherapy awareness to a national audience.

• At the same time the wealthier class begin enjoying their Gunite spas, the first wooden spas hit the California hills. Inspired by the traditional Japanese bathing tubs, they are typically made with materials from wineries. The wooden tubs appeal to a different audience than their Gunite counterparts: the classic flower child of the ’60s.

1968

• Roy Jacuzzi invents the first self-contained whirlpool bath. It has 50/50 air-to-water ratio jets and fully-integrated plumbing. In honour of the ancient society known for its bathhouses, Jacuzzi names his model the “Roman.”

1970

• After the success of his whirlpool bath, Roy Jacuzzi tries something new. He attaches a pump, motor, heaters and filtration system to a self-contained vessel and creates a prototype of the modern portable spa.

1970s

• Around this time, a product and industry are born. Gunite spas in particular surge in popularity, but getting one is a hassle. The installation of a gunite spa requires an assembly line of different craftsmen handling different aspects of installation. It’s common for the process to take two weeks or more.

• Len Gordon, a Southern California contractor frustrated by the slow pace of spa production, seeks a faster way to meet demand. He manufactures the first fibreglass spa — a mould coated with a non-stick separating agent, gel coat and then fibreglass for strength.

• One inconvenience of early hot tubs: the electrical system. Switches and controls were located a short walk from the tub, a problem everyone tried to solve. Gordon creates a simple solution: an air switch.

• Throughout the decade, wooden hot tubs dominate the spa market. They are low-cost and better known than fibreglass or acrylic — yet the other segments were beginning to grow.

1973

• Baja Products begins producing acrylic spas, which eventually become the champion of the industry.

1974

• The largest and best known of the wooden tub makers, California Cooperage, begins operations.

1976

• Baker Hydro creates the spa pack for HydroSpa. An integrated unit fitting under the skirt, it helps streamline the industry’s approach to plumbing.

1979

• Fibreglass spas grow popular among customers, and everyone wants a piece of the pie. People begin setting up workshops in garages to whip out copies of fibreglass spas — oftentimes doing so by borrowing a hot tub, making a mould from it and using the mould to make new copies. 

This practice, called “splashing,” is deemed illegal.

• As both reputable and couterfeit spa manufacturers flourish, so, too, do complaints and scepticism toward the industry. Problems with poorly-made fibreglass spas plague the industry and force some manufacturers to close — yet this opens the way for acrylic spas to join the party.

Early ’80s

• As other manufacturers begin to see problems with surfacing — blistering, splintering and more — the Watkins brothers release a spa made of Rovel, a co-extruded material from Dow Chemicals. An innovation from the boating industry, the material uses vinyl ester resin and acrylic instead of polyester resin, swiftly resolving surface problems.

• The wooden spa begins its decline in favour of portable spas.

Mid-80s

• Thanks to their convenience and ease of installation, portable spas begin surging in popularity and soon take the sales lead over permanent versions.

• Basic controls begin to appear on hot tubs to help manage the various features. More and more, the portable spa begins to resemble what we see today.

1988

• Spa sales reach a record 280,000.

The ’90s

• The product turns a corner in reliability and quality. “In the ’80s, consumers hoped the product would work, and in the ’90s, they expected the product would work,” says Stan Chambers, AQUA’s West Coast account executive and 30-year industry veteran.

• While the spa industry has largely been a product of California, it grows to a national level in the ’80s and goes international in the ’90s.

1995

• Hot Spring debuts the synthetic cabinet. As the cost of redwood increases due to scarcity, this development helps cut manufacturer costs, but it also makes hot tub ownership easier and more convenient for customers.

Mid-90s

• The industry continues to mature as smaller manufacturers disappear, leaving a core group to grow and dominate the market.

• The retailer landscape changes, too. Smaller retailers looking to cash in on the hot tub craze fade away, leaving top professional outfits to prosper in local markets — most of whom are still around today.

• Cooperative advertising campaigns between dealers and manufacturers flourish.

• Portable spas become much more sophisticated and elaborate. More colour options became available, more jets were added and horsepower increased. And as these features were added, hot tub prices increased.

• New marketing themes emerge. Back in the ’70s and ’80s, the hot tub was more about relaxation and fun and partying. In the ’90s, there was a much greater focus on the hydrotherapy benefits of the product,” Manufacturers add more jets to target specific areas of the body and promote the improved health and wellness hot tubs could provide.

2000s

• The green movement takes hold in the hot tub industry as manufacturers produce tubs that are more energy efficient.

• Product complexity, especially at the high end of the market, increases dramatically involving the number of jets, the stereos, the iPod docks, Wi-Fi, flat-screen televisions and lighting systems 

2007

• With very little warning, the American economy plunges into a deep and sustained recession. As home valuations dive, home equity financing of hot tubs dries up. Faced with great economic uncertainty, the core market for portable spas — the American middle and upper middle class — cuts down their leisure and recreational spending. Hot tub retailers and manufacturers are hit hard, while hot tub service remains relatively strong as many owners continue to maintain their units.

Post Recession

• As customer confidence begins to rebound, the sales message in the hot tub industry changes. “Before, you had to talk ‘value, value, value.’ Now it’s, ‘You can have what you want.’ 

• Hot tub controls can now be controlled through computers and smartphones.

• Water care has advanced with new technologies like ozone and saltwater systems. 

What does the future hold in hot tubs (apart from water?)

Members of the industry predict slow growth in the coming years, but as an industry have to do a lot more to make the hot tub relevant to modern lifestlyes.

It may be necessary for individual industry members to get together in a targeted campaign as proved successful by amalgamation  of vested interests to promote the joys of boating and the joys of RV-ing. 

Hot tubs and spas are in the same luxury goods category, but the industry has never been able to mount a successful campaign to get into the consumers’ minds

Yet looking at today’s hot tub, one thing is certain: The products have never been better. They’ve never been more reliable or efficient,

I just like the bubbles............................

(Source document from Aqua Trade Magazine;Author Cailley Hammel- Sept 2013)

Crossbar Tales #2

What are the main challenges for a road cyclist?

The first and most important is the motivation to get out from the snug and soothing wrap of the settee and turn off the "Best of..."compilation DVD of great Classic Races, large screen bio's on the controversial characters of the sport and docu-dramas about the more unsavoury and darker aspects of high level competition.

If the weather is half decent, ie the road surface is not obscured by a covering of snow or a torrent of rain and the windspeed permits fully upright rather than offset and sideways riding then there is very little left by way of excuses not to get out and test yourself.

This assumes that the bike itself is well maintained and rideable without squeaks, creaks and ominous structural groanings from tubes and lugs.

After a few checks on tyre pressure and tread condition, ease of chain movement, wheel alignment, saddle and handlebar height and fixing and with the stock of spares squirrelled away in the large, floppy back pockets of the road jersey it is only a matter of easing out into the wide world.

That is when the fun begins.

In an ideal cycling environment there would be a complete separation from motor vehicles and wandering pedestrians. This has long been the worthy ambition of two wheel activists but in our modern cities and towns there is an inevitable compromise brought about by costs and space of sticking a cycle lane inbetween the pavement and kerb which impedes actual fluidity of riding and still exposes the rider to interference by those on foot and yet more persons encased in the cocoons of their vehicles.

In my area this funnelling of the cycle tracks has created some weird anomalies, notwithstanding a high level of hazard from, most notably in my experience, the sudden arrival at a gaping hole where there should have been a bridge across an old subway cutting. There had been no prior warning of this void along the route nor any chance of satisfaction in getting an explanation for it from the local authority. Another favourite obstacle encountered in my area is a Post Box which sits in the cycle lane forcing riders to make a choice on which side to pass by. This makes for an interesting situation when riders approach from both sides.

Here are a few local and national examples;

Other cycle lanes just evaporate into thin air or at a main road merge point just leave the cyclist to guess where on earth it resumes on the other side. The craziest innovation is the cycle lane in the gutter actually between parked cars and the pavement. Talk about being unsighted and invisible to other road users.There are promising signs that urban councils are adopting a more realistic approach. This position has been forced upon them by the upsurge in those taking to two wheels as their primary or regular form of transport rather than a philanthropic and benevolent tendency. Begrudging or what?

I do advocate cycling in traffic as an essential part of road craft for any regular user of a pedal cycle although it is a case of being very cautious and defensive in the company of motorists otherwise oblivious to the presence of any others on the road that they regard as their exclusive domain.

This does appear to be very much a UK based attitude of car drivers towards cyclists as I have ridden extensively on the continent and have always been given more than a generous amount of room and consideration.

Perhaps the average motorist in being on the clock in financial outlay from the moment of firing up the engine simply, for example insurance, road tax, garage bills, parking charges, fuel and running costs, begrudges the perceived freeloading on the highways by cyclists. It should not be forgotten that a tangible proportion of cyclists are also car drivers and in using their bikes are actually gifting additional facilities on the road to those who remain behind the wheel.

I admit that some bike riders are irresponsible in ignoring traffic lights, jumping the kerb and using the pavement to beat a traffic queue , riding into a flow of traffic, not having lights at night or wearing headphones all of which I put down to recklessness, stupidity, ignorance, the decline in cycling road safety education and poor cycling amenities generally.

Only after putting all of the above into the required level of background awareness makes it possible to cycle happily and meaningfully.

Some may try to emulate the stars of the Professional ranks in speed and endurance, others to achieve a personal best time on a Strava route or just get to the top of that pesky hill.

Me?, I just try to make it back alive and in one piece from a quick dash to the local shop having purchased goodies and snacks for another session in front of the television engrossed in the sights and sounds of a re-run of a scorching European summer at the Tours de France and Spain, just as the September snow, gales and torrential rain kick in on the shores of this damp northern nation.

Crossbar Tales

Followers of professional cycling and all too aware of the nicknames of those in the sport. 

In the current era we have been entertained by the performances of Spartacus (Cancellara), Lo Squalo (The shark-Vincenzo Nibali), El Pistolero (Alberto Contador) and the Manx Missile (Mark Cavendish). 

In previous decades there have been equally well known labels, either by popular use or self promotion. These included The Lion of Flanders (Museeuw), Il Diablo (Claudio Chiapucci), The Tashkent Terror (the very unpredictable sprinter Abdujaparov), The Pirate (Pantani), The Badger (Bernard Hunault), King Kelly (Sean Kelly), The Angel of the Mountains (Charly Gaul), The Bricklayer of Frioul (Botttechia) and Maitre Jacques (Anquetil). 

The derivation of the nicknames can be an obvious play, pun or alliteration on the riders name, representing a particular characteristic on the bike or a temperament off it, a specialism in a particular riding discipline, where formative years were spent or a vocation prior to becoming a professional rider. 

Taking these basic rules behind the nicknaming process you can let your imagination run riot when confronted by that of a rider who competed in and finished albeit in last place in the Tour of Lombardy in 1917, that of "The devil in a dress". 

The bedraggled finisher, an hour and a half behind the winner, Philippe Thys, was Alfonsina Strada. 

Born in 1891 and always a bit of a tomboy she took to cycling on a second hand bike that her father had acquired for her in exchange for a few chickens. Her mother thought that her daughter was attending Catholic Mass when in fact she was out riding with the local boys and showing some athletic aptitude on two wheels. 

Aged 13, in her first competitive race, she won amongst a mixed field. First Prize, a pig, seemed to win over any doubts that her father had of a girl participating in a dangerous and hard sport but her mother was completely opposed to this and consequently, at the young age of 14 Alfonsina was married off to an engraver in a nearby town, Luigi Strada. His surname being the Italian for road, it follows that he was more than happy to encourage her cycling and as a wedding present he had provided her with a new racing bike. 

In a move to the cycling capital of North Italy, Milan, Alfonsina was able to race on a regular basis catching the attention of sponsors and manufacturers which led to an invitation to participate in The Grand Prix of St Petersburg in Russia where she met Czar Nicholas. 

It is thought that she was the only female at that time at a level to compete in mixed races. 

Inclusion in two Tours de Lombardy during the years of the first world war could have been motivated by publicity conscious promoters. These were the early years of the halycon period for the personal freedom that could be experienced through cycling and women were a tangible proportion of the market for bike manufacturers. 

One year after her baptism of fire in Lombardy Alfonsina showed improvement in her placing (second from last) but significantly only 23 minutes behind the victor, Belloni. 

These showings were to be surpassed in the 1924 Giro D'Italia. Although entering as Alfonsin Strada her true identity and gender were soon revealed. The 1923 Almanac for Italian Women declared that the purpose of sport was not to "force the body to dangerous excesses and ridiculous exaggerations". The women who watched Alfonsina competing with the men in 1924 were duly scandalised, believing the tomboyish woman with the bare legs to be entirely unrepresentative of their sex.

The race that year started off in reasonable weather and Strada was going well until an horrendous deluge on the eighth stage wreaked havoc in the peleton causing crashes and abandonments. Cycling folklore tells that after crashing and braking her handlebars Alfonsina took a sweeping broom from a peasant on the roadside and jammed it into the headset giving some semblance of steering ability. It must have been a great struggle notwithstanding an exceptional display of bike handling just to finish the stage although outside of the time limit. 

The cut off led to her being excluded from continuing the Giro but the editor in chief of La Gazzetta newspaper paid her expenses and she continued to complete the whole of the national tour some 28 hours down on General Classification. Often alone, often in the dark, Alfonsina continued to ride every single millimetre of the mammoth 3,613km route. She arrived in Milan a heroine of sorts, feted by Mussolini and King Victor Emmanuel, the recipient of cups and medals, jerseys and ear-rings and a 50,000 lire prize raised by donations from a newly sympathetic public. In the context of being one of only thirty finishers out of ninety starters the ride was exceptional, regardless of her sex.

In retirement from competition Alfonsina kept links with the sport that she loved and ran a bike shop in Milan in the 1950's. 

A pedal bike was exchanged for a powerful motorbike in her later years and she died of a heart attack, aged 68, when struggling to lift up her Moto Guzzi after it had toppled over just after she had been to see a local cycle race. 

Hers was a remarkable life story, in terms of her physical prowess and ability to overcome hardships, prejudice and sexism in the sporting years during and after the first world war. She attained many new heights for women in cycling including a road speed record of 37km/hr on a hefty 20kg machine in 1911.

Alfonsina Strada's efforts have only  really been emulated in recent years with the emergence of dedicated professional women racers and a support structure enabling competition alongside the long established male professional ranks.

(sources; Monuments by Peter Cossins, Cycling Sport in the Guardian, photo suppliers)

Captain Slog

I cannot remember everything that happened on the 6th April 1970 but thanks to the extensive archives of the internet there are plenty of memory joggers to assist.

I was nearly 7 years old at the time and that particular day was likely to have been a school day- a monday, the worst.

However, the day was salvageable upon returning home with a snack provided by our Mother, my favourite being diluted orange squash, Marmite sandwich and a handful of Custard Cream biscuits and then the afternoon schedule of television on the BBC.

Of course other channels were available, well, only two in that era but first choice in the Thomson house for after school relaxation was BBC 1.

The ITV schedule was a bit limited anyway with for that day with only "Lost in Space" worth seeing at 4.55pm but when clashing with "Blue Peter" there was really no chance for it. After Valerie Singleton, John Noakes and Peter Purves had done their stuff with sticky back plastic and empty washing up bottles it was time for the dubbed Belle and Sebastian, an atmospheric tale of a boy and his dog in the French Alps.

Most families had just one television and as this was, in our house, in the  living room we had to frequently frustrate our Mother who was calling for us to come through to the kitchen to eat our tea by not making a move until the "Adventures of Parsley" had finished at 5.50pm.

We would quite happily migrate to the table when the boring National News came on.

The evening BBC schedule resumed with proper programmes at 6.20pm with "A Question of Sport" and on 6th April 1970 the quiz panel included two of my favourite footballers, Peter Bonetti and Alan Hudson from Chelsea.

It was probably a good thing that, at age 6, I had no homework to do. It is obvious that I had square eyes as, at 6.45pm, it was time for "Z Cars", the police drama, and I was an avid young viewer of crime stories even though I was not exposed to such things in my own life.

It was still early evening but with an 8pm bedtime looming the TV offering leading up to that parentally imposed curfew was critical.

In the previous weeks to early april it had been a series of "The Andy Williams Show," an American import with that great crooner although all I remember about the programme was a Grizzly Bear asking for a cookie.

Being prone to worrying about everything, including changes in routine and TV scheduling I was not at age 6, sure about a brand new replacement for that evenings' slot , something called Star Trek.

The pedigree of the Sci-Fi adventure was questionable and it could be a case of yet another US ratings flop being syndicated to the UK with the BBC being the first run broadcaster. Stateside the show had been launched some 4 years earlier on the 8th September 1966.

The idea of a space based series in that era was quite rare but the timing was right building on the public interest in the Space Race between the United States and the Soviet Union. It would of course be another 3 years before the first Apollo Moon Landing.

After only 79 episodes in three years Stateside and in spite of a strong, loyal and vocal core of fans, Trekkies, the  broadcaster NBC cancelled the show because of a collapse in ratings.

Commercial sponsors, the money-men of US TV had expressed concerns right from the initial pilot shows about the characters and themes portrayed.

Mr Spock had originally been intended to be bright red with pointed ears and forked tail. There would be an obvious opposition to this demonic appearance from a conservative and Evangelistic Christian sponsor base. Fortunately the ears and Vulcan heritage survived the censorship.

Emotions were explored including friendship, loss and other human traits. There were pioneering and contentious topics also written in to the scripts with a first inter-racial kiss and in the depths of the Cold War, a Russian crew member in Mr Chekov.

These two issues may have been just too bold for the American audience, a final frontier too far and the axe fell.

I was too young (5 years old)  to appreciate the first Star Trek broadcasts on the BBC which had occupied a saturday afternoon slot in July 1969 just after the day's extensive sports coverage in Grandstand. That series seemed to have been poorly advertised and consequently did not catch the attention of the British viewing public.

I need not have fretted about the potential viewing disturbance in my young life as I was transfixed by Star Trek from the first few notes of the opening theme on that April Monday.

I had seen nothing like it before and although seen first on the family black and white television set I can clearly recall the vivid colours in full technicolor although this is more likely down to re-runs in the colour television era.

There may have been simpler expectations of the viewing public in what could be portrayed on screen in the pre- CGi technology era but I had no complaints about shaky spaceship models and obvious overlaid images, you know the type with a sharp and bright edge between images.

The cast, writing and production was, to my young mind, brilliant.

The series has persisted with an animated series, a movie franchise and spin-off programmes with a new one scheduled for 2017.

You cannot however beat the original 1960's episodes and even now, aged 53, I relish the opportunity to revisit the sights, sounds and images of that iconic era in the company of Kirk and crew.

Robin Hood v Captain Cook

It appears that I am still on holiday time or more likely a form of jet lag after an 8 hour drive from Cornwall back to Yorkshire........here is the last in the "Best Of......." series. I will be back to normal tomorrow.


There is always a very lively debate over which of the two is the better. Opinions can be split down the middle quite easily. Some who have experienced both will certainly hesitate over a definite choice because each has its merits and faults. I express sadness for those who had tried only one and have a blinkered outlook with no intention whatsoever to be swayed into experimenting with the other. I could be talking about a political party, equally about a breakfast cereal, brand of car or even sexual preference. I am in fact perpetuating the debate over Robin Hoods Bay versus Staithes for the best and most attractive place to stay in a rented cottage on the North Yorkshire coast. Fans of Runswick Bay are excluded. It's rubbish.

Robin Hoods Bay cannot fail to woo and impress, if only on its name which evokes magic and mystery although the origins of the name beyond having no apparent link at all with the famous outlaw are vague.It sits out of clear view just about restrained on the crumbling cliffs to the north of Scarborough and just below the whaling port of Whitby. It is a secretive place shrouded in folklaw, legend and the dubious title as one of the busiest smuggling ports in the UK in the 18th Century. Perhaps the duty evading residents were just fulfilling the expectations of the wider public for those from a village named after an historic champion of the underclass whereas the occupants of 'Payourway Bay' and 'Honesty Cove' went about a much less illegal lifestyle. The cobble road from the car park into RHB is calf and ligament straining in the extreme and even more so if struggling with a suitcase and provisions for a holiday week. Those who take a vehicle down the very steep and narrow incline are faced with very little room to exercise a three point or reversing turn at the slipway or where the road loops up to one of the public houses. On one day trip we saw the aftermath of the rampage of a runaway digger that had only been restrained by burying itself into a shop front on the first tight bend. The peak of summer is a good time to avoid the village as it overflows with visitors and cottage renters to the point of being claustrophobic. In the autumn or early spring the village is ghostly and empty but the echo of footsteps and the whistle of the wind through the streets gives the impression of being sole survivors of a global catastrophe. It takes a few years of out of season stays to become familiar with the footways and back alleys but they form an intriguing exploration of the ginnels, courts and dead-ends always with the accompanying smell of wood smoke from a hundred or more chimney pots. We have had the pleasure of renting four or five properties ranging from a double fronted Georgian townhouse with ghost to a cottage with a burrow like almost subterranean kitchen, and a draughty and damp clifftop cottage with exceptional views. At high tide the slipway throws the North Sea into the heart of the village. At low tide the beach and rock pools provide an extensive playground.

Staithes is north of  Whitby and tends to be disregarded over the more picturesque and accessible RHB. There are similarities of a steep road down and a busy car park but Staithes is actually a functioning place and not so much a time capsule. It is possible to buy a postage stamp, a latte and groceries without a tourist premium or being swamped with seaside souvenirs and frivolities. The harbourside is broad and open and in the early morning sun, even a wintry one, it can be very pleasant sitting out or leaning on the railings watching the lifeboat drill or the reeling and mewling gulls around the cliff head. The harbour wall can be followed to the entrance over large concrete stepping stones or the huge sea defence boulders and rocks clambered over if living dangerously floats your boat. A small stream feeds into the sea under a footbridge giving endless hours of pooh-stick potential. With the tide out the stream can be followed a few hundred metres inland around the brightly coloured hulls of small cobbles and smacks. The village was the home to Captain James Cook in his formative maritime years from 1744 and it is easy to imagine that period with very little having changed in terms of buildings and atmosphere. One of the cottages we rented was down Fishermans Terrace, just off the main street and close to the pub.Other holiday breaks were higher up the escarpment  with rooftop views over red pantiles streaked with guano and blackened by a few chimney fires from those getting a bit carried away with their first introduction to solid fuel without an instruction manual or in the strangely welcome absence of a signal to allow consultation of the smart phone and tablet. After the day trippers have wheezed up the steep hill to their parked cars it is quiet and very peaceful in the village. Activities in front of a roaring log fire include putting together a well worn jigsaw puzzle,  building a large tower out of bits of kindling wood or steadily exhausting the cottage collection of VHS cassettes and trashy paperback novels of romance on horseback. Staithes is a place for genuine tradition and authentic living and you are more likely to strike up a conversation with an actual resident than an accountant from Slough slumming it up north.

I am completely divided in my allegiance to the two wonderful places. They have both, in their own way, excelled in meeting expectations and requirements for a family holiday at different times and in different circumstances. When something special has been called for to revive flagging spirits and energy levels we have not been left disappointed- not like those who chose Runswick Bay 'cos it really is a bit rubbish.

Oh, go on then......one more of the Best of...

The Best of One Last Soul..........a final one for this section as, yes, you guessed it I have been on holiday for the week.

I was Greek.

Well, just for the two weeks.

The country, the lifestyle, the climate, the music and above all the namesake salad overwhelmed me and I was Greek.

In these times of easy and cheap travel you may find it surprising, or even amazing that my first ever flight in an airliner was when I was in my late 30's but that was the situation with our first family holiday abroad.

It had always been so much easier with young children to pack up the car and go on vacation within the British Isles rather than contemplate being reliant on others for transport and sustenance. At least, if we needed to stop for toilet break, cup of tea or just for a snooze we could pull over by the road or in a scenic rest area and get on with what needed to be done.

There was so much of our own country to see that travel to foreign parts was not a priority in order to see and enjoy great sights, sounds and atmospheres. The children could be enthused with our own history by a walk along a section of Hadrian's Wall, an outlook from the elevation of Edinburgh Castle, beachcombing in Cornwall, skimming pebbles off the Northumberland coast, finding dead sheep on a Scottish Lochside or looking at old buildings in our fine cities.

The catalyst to our inaugural adventure to Greece, or rather the Ionian Island of Kefalonia was that Captain Corelli movie which showed a fantastic terrain, white sandy beaches, a clear blue ocean and so much more.

We started from scratch as none of us had a current passport. Clothes and sensible but appropriate footwear had to be acquired but it was something of a guessing game as to what temperatures and humidity we would experience out there.

We travelled in an English August in wet weather gear and woollies and were taken aback by how little our fellow passengers were wearing as we stood around in Manchester Airport in the early hours of the morning for the 7am scheduled flight. Our rookie status must have been very obvious. We huddled together not confident enough to wander about in the shops and eateries airside. I was guilty of regularly delving into my small rucksack to check and recheck the paperwork which, itself, was meticulously arranged in strict order in clear plastic wallets.

We squinted at the departures board every time it flickered and displayed a change even though our destination was well down the rankings. We were very early for the preliminary steps but so well prepped that we sailed through the check-in, baggage checks and security screening with no drama or excitement apart from the novelty of it all.

I was always, before the event, apprehensive about flying and I admit to some palpitations during the sprint to take off speed and then the rapid climb to the first stomach churning turn. I remained calm on the outside so as not to startle or embarrass the children who were, in any case, enthralled by the noise and view from the small windows.

It would be a three hour flight but it passed quickly, what with the constant attention given by the cabin crew and offers of food or other goodies on a regular basis.

What struck me first about Greece was the sheer heat as we stepped off the plane and walked across the concrete apron to the small island terminal. I had not been prepared for it and every pore in my body opened up and leaked out instantaneously.

We boarded a coach for the transfer to our accommodation. The photo in the brochure had shown a front door, one window and some whitewashed interiors with sparse but adequate furnishings. Apart from that there were no clues as to where it was or what the outlook or surroundings were like. The numbers on the bus dwindled rapidly as we wound along the narrow roads and individuals, couples or family groups alighted and disappeared up or down a path above or below the carriageway.

We were one of the last lot to leave the hot, sweaty bus with the tour rep ticking us off her list and pointing vaguely in the direction of a two storey modern apartment block. It was a compact place, deep, dark and thankfully cool for the early morning as we flopped out and rested from jet lag.

The lack of any supplies led me to venture out in what was now the full midday sun. It was a foolhardy but typically English thing to do and three hours later and a bit frazzled and red I returned with a large bag of crisps, some bread and a few bottles of mineral water.

The nearest settlement of any note had been some distance away over the hills. The true folly of my expedition was only evident a couple of days later when the same journey in our hire car seemed to take an age.

Being Greek is very much a frame of mind. It is a characteristic dictated by keeping out of the harsh sun and heat, doing things slowly and enjoying them. These attributes are again completely alien to us English.

The best and most comfortable times in the day were the very early morning and the late evening. This was when the Greek population did what they had to do in work and chores but not forgetting setting aside a good time to just talk, eat and drink. We expected to do a lot of sightseeing and to absorb the culture and heritage of the island but our most active hours coincided with the shutting down of activity by the locals.

The main street of Argostoli, marble paved was deserted from midday to tea time giving the impression of a sleepy backwater rather than the thriving economy that it was.

My assimilation into Greekness was slow.

It included being patient from ordering a cool drink or a snack meal which could take an age. Excess movement was discouraged in favour of just finding the shadiest spot and staying there. Shopping had to be savoured rather than to be attacked and completed as quickly as possible. There was a protocol in purchasing everything, a period for reflection and then bargaining. Very un-English but perfectly logical and understandable in one of the oldest cultures of the world.

I gradually acclimatised to Greek hours and practices.

This was assisted by my personal discovery of the Greek Salad and the music of Stamatis Spanoudakis.

I would order and savour that same dish at every opportunity. There was some degree of interpretation of the components across the island with varying amounts of fresh tomatoes, cucumber , onion, feta cheese and olive oil but I was always left with a feeling of contentment and happiness.

I did eventually track down the Spanoudakis CD in a small record shop on the island and our subsequent holidays in Greece seemed to coincide with his next and latest release of atmospheric orchestral and choral offerings.

My CD shelf is fair bulging with half a dozen of his works and the ambience of the sounds of his native country are always close by.

For the rest of the authentic experience I just pop down to the Tesco Express and with a plastic bag of the staple ingredients, donning sandals, shorts and T shirt at any time of the year I am whisked back to those fond memories. As my children say, I have always been a bit of a Greek, or something to that effect.

Best of One Last Soul #7

This is a series of the seven highest blogs out of the current pageview count of over 66,000 since I started, now 5 years ago.

Case Study- Cillit bang

It was a brindle coated version of Santa's Little Helper that had buried its nose into the leg of my trousers.

I was a bit taken aback to find the dog attached to one of to my lower limbs.

It had sneaked up on me from behind the lounge doorway under the cover of the combined affect of my work clipboard and eye contact enforced by my greeting by the homeowner, mistress of said hound. It was referred to as a Rescue Dog which led me to think about it's fragile, lean frame dangling by a hoist from underneath a bright yellow RAF helicopter gesturing with its tiny paws for those afflicted by flood or other natural disaster to grab and hold on.

Like most dogs heartlessly discarded, abandoned or just found wandering the city streets it was of mixed and dubious breeding. The head was classic borzoi, perhaps from a pedigree parent having a night out on the tiles, the main torso definitely whippet and the colouring more commonly found on a staffie terrier.

I dismissed the inevitable imagery of what must have been an horrific mating ritual in a back alley or on the bank of one of the deep drain cuttings which bisected the area. Nevertheless, it was a nice looking mongrel with trusting eyes, a nice but not fussy nature and ,as I found out later when sensing a dampness on my trouser leg on my return to the car, a very wet and sticky nose. The animal did not bite or shy away when I offered an upturned palm in a gesture of friendship.

From therein on we were pals for the duration of my visit to its home and for the next 30 minutes there was never more than a couple of feet separating us. The dog was a big help to me in finding a clear pathway through the house as in the kindest of phrases it was "a lot lived in".

On entering the front room I was almost immediately legged up by a very small child clad in a onesie and with a Tommee Tippee drinking cup permanently attached to its rosy cheeked little face. It was, I later back counted the first of five and possibly six other wee mites in the house who either resided there permanently or were just visiting as a member of an extended family or group of playmates. I could not reach any of the wall surfaces in the living room to carry out my routine inspection for dampness or other defects because of the congregation of children and the vast amount of their accompanying toys and accessories.

The homeowner and another woman whom I presumed to be a parent of one or more of the under 5's population were now sat chatting on the sofa amongst a large pile of clothes either in preparedness for ironing or putting away. Such was the congestion and accumulation in the room that I had to reverse out taking care not to come into contact with or crush any of the children or their belongings.

The rear living room was, I hoped, more accessible but in squeezing through the door against a hidden obstruction behind I was met by the sight of a huge table or rather a collection of smaller tables pushed together on which some sort of large scale E Bay operation was being masterminded. Computer monitors flickered and beeped as new emails arrived apparently updating the status of bids and recording enquiries of interested but not yet convinced bidders and prospective buyers for a wide miscellanea of goods and chattels.

I sidled around the working area with the dog just ahead, casually glancing back to make sure that I was still on the trail. Like a maze we wound around the obstacles in that room for what seemed an eternity. I was a bit panicky about knocking something over or, worst still, causing any of the power cables or connections to be dislodged by my heavy footfall or a trip.

In contrast, the kitchen was like a broad and wide prairie stretching into the distance, or at least to the back door. Being a long and narrow room most of the belongings and trappings of modern life were distributed around its margins on every available worktop and surface leaving a clear central aisle. This allowed the dog to pause for a well earned scratch and the sight of that action caused me to do the same, I hoped out of mimickry and not an infestation of fleas.

I dare not go through that far door on the basis of what I had already encountered in the main house. It led into what I tend to loosely describe as a verandah covering every structure from a lean to shack to almost a conservatory. Space was again well oversubscribed, this time with plastic home brew kegs, rack upon rack of empty brown glass beer bottles and pieces of what looked like a classic Ford Cortina. The dog sniffed around in an interested way and whilst it was distracted I made my way back through to the staircase to go upstairs.

Two small girls, the eldest of the tribe I had so far seen, were having a role play tea party on the landing. I knew this from stumbling over on and crushing at least two cups and saucers of their moulded plastic service and scattering a section of vacumn moulded fruits and vegetables before me. They gave me a dirty look not often achieved by those many years older.

 The front bedroom, in most of the similar properties in the street, had been partitioned into two smaller rooms. These were inaccessible because of yet more stored and stacked items of furniture, personal belongings and toys. I was yet to come across where any of the occupants of the house actually slept but the collection of single bed and bunks in the next room accounted for this. Down the darkened landing, made more hazardous by unidentified debris crunching under foot I headed towards a thin beam of electric light which shone from under another closed door. This was the bathroom.

Surprisingly clean and sanitary and I have nothing more to report on that. The fourth bedroom showed signs of occupancy but was a return to the chaos and disorder that reigned supreme in the house with the carpet littered with cast off clothing, bundles of lint, dust and neglect. I had been able to negotiate through the whole of the accommodation without too many mishaps apart from upsetting the two little ladies whilst they did tea. My constant canine companion looked sad as I bade my farewells to the small crowd in the hallway. We may never meet again but the place and the animal had made a bit of an impression, for sure.