I probably hold more than my fair share of unpopular opinions, but perhaps my most egregiously unpopular opinion is about PE, and specifically how PE teachers should divide a class into two teams. The basic options, obviously are either the teacher selects each side themselves, or else they appoint team captains who then take in turns to pick. As someone who was profoundly rubbish at PE – and therefore one of the kids destined to be picked either last or at least fairly close to the bottom – I know that I’m “supposed” to prefer the former. But, hand on heart, I always preferred having team captains decide.
My reasoning was simple: I was never particularly trying to be “good” at PE, but like most people I did want to avoid social ostracism, and it always seemed to me that a really, really good way of annoying those who were bigger and stronger than me was to be the reason they lost a football match. With the best will in the world, one PE teacher is probably not going to divide a class as evenly as two highly motivated team captains. And even if they could, the stronger players on the team have still been “burdened” with the weakest player, whereas making your own decisions should hopefully induce some pleasantly low expectations of your final picks. After all, you chose them last for a reason!
Unlike other school subjects, there should also be less risk of turning into a pure popularity contest. Most of the time, if you invite students to form their own working groups, there’s basically no reason not to just pick your friends. But in sport, as long as the captains have some genuine motivation to win, there’s at least a decent incentive to choose based on specific sporting merit.
Anyway, this line of reasoning was genuinely persuasive to me as a teenager, and I always felt like it worked out fine. But I also wasn’t close friends with either football team captains or PE teachers, so it did rest on some speculation about how they might be thinking. Imagine my excitement, then, when our lovely new neighbours come round for dinner one night, and one of them is a PE teacher! So I finally got to ask an insider: am I the only one who feels this way? How does he pick teams?
Long story short: yes, it turns out I am the only one who feels this way. “You’re the first person to ever say that”, he says, looking kind but also a bit puzzled. “In fact, I got to lots of conferences where we’re specifically told that being picked last for a team is the most common ‘worst memory’ from school, and that we should never do it.” Which is fair enough. The greatest happiness for the greatest number, etc. But I’m glad I snuck through just in time before this more enlightened policy took hold.
Talking of neighbours: Randi became by far the most popular person on our street during the eclipse, because she was the only one who’d snagged one of those hard-to-come-by glasses. I can confirm that the eclipse did look amazing when looking through them, and a significant upgrade on my 1999 Thorpe Park eclipse experience. Everyone relying solely on the cereal-box-and-foil approach seemed much more underwhelmed.
In the past few weeks I’ve hung out with Angela in Mayow Park and met with up Oliver and Abi for a great picnic in Regent’s Park. In the latter I was treated to some beautiful children’s books, while also appreciating the slightly defensive signs around the park saying something like “it might look like we’re breaking the hose pipe ban, but actually this water is from boreholes, honest!”. (The grass was not exactly thriving, so perhaps they need a few more?) After parting ways I also made an unscheduled ramble across the rough route of North London’s Mildmay line with the buggy, because its occupant had definitely earned a nap.
Randi and I also enjoyed a fun afternoon in a brilliantly-soundtracked bar in Wapping with Erin and Diva. This wasn’t the original plan, but after a heroic trek into London and multiple hours of trains in the summer heat, it turned out that Erin had confidentially rung the bell of a house in a relatively distant part of London rather than our house, so we quickly improvised a new location. It was so good to see Erin again, and hopefully we won’t leave it so long next time.
And on the subject of infrequent meetups, we were also very happy to host Ermila for an evening last week during one of her London visits, collectively guzzling a healthy order of Nepalese food from the ever-reliable Gurkha’s in Sydenham. I feel like she’s now cycled through an entire generation of my family through these trips, like a 30-year flipbook.
The big family event in August, however, was Tess and Hugo’s wedding in Battersea Park. (Battersea Park! Somewhere we actually have a direct train route to, unlike most of my North London relatives. Such a turn-up for the books!) Anyway, route planning aside, the wedding was also a lot of fun, from the thoughtful and loving ceremony to the energetic lawn games and delicious buffet.
In terms of child development, we did discover that we’ve suddenly entered the “oh actually, maybe I should cry when I’m handed over to a relative, because perhaps I’m being kidnapped?” phase of life, which I’ve tried to explain is irrational if you consider the nursery bills they’d be bringing on themselves. Still, it was so lovely to see everyone (including some of Tess’s family who I haven’t seen since my visit to LA in 2011!) and to share our appreciation for such a wonderful couple.
And finally, I thought I’d leave you with this slightly-batty “General School Examination” English exam paper from 1949. It came to me as the resident family archivist (/person who owns a scanner) who volunteered to scan some documents found when my grandparents’ old flat was cleared out. The most magical of these papers are certainly my grandmother’s letters to her father from the early 1940s (“Mammy told me that you got me a bicycle, but try and send it over but hurry up”). They’re very cute, and also just sorta amazing to be physically holding over a kitchen counter over 80 years later. (Yes, this is why I get the archivist gigs.)
The exams, on the other hand, are a real Rorschach test. If you’re the sort of person who thinks we’ve been on a slow downward slope of civilisational collapse for years, you might read these and marvel at some of the knowledge which students (at least, some students!) were expected to have. I could not suggest the reasons for the importance of coal and steel making in the Donetz Basin. On the other hand, I feel like I could make a reasonable stab at writing “an autobiographical account of the day in the life of a cow”. And so, here it is, lifted straight from my family WhatsApp chat where I think it made people regret asking me to scan anything in the first place. I call it The Remains of the Hay:
The other day an incident occurred outside the barn. I did not witness it myself. I was stationed on the down slope of East Field, which does overlook the barn, but it is customary for Farmer to park one of the larger vehicles outside the barn, which blocks the view from the slope, and so I must rely only on what I heard. Farmer was shouting. This is not like Farmer, who is a gentle man. I did not see who he was shouting at, but Marie tells me that it had something to do with the sun. I do not think Marie heard this herself. I think Marie heard it from a magpie, although I have told her to be careful, as the magpies gossip.
Farmer always puts on a brave face, but I can tell when he is troubled. After the incident outside the barn, he was talking to another man during my inspection. I like to look my best for Farmer, but today all of Farmer’s attention was taken by the other man, and I think he did not notice the effort I had put into cleaning my tail. Marie says I worry too much about my tail, and about Farmer, but I notice Marie is always sure to keep her own tail in order.
The other man was not there with me and Farmer in the stall. He was on the telephone. Farmer can rely on me to remain discreet, which is why I did not tell Marie about the other man. I turned my best side for Farmer to brush, and as I did so, he told the man on the telephone that he did not want any god-damn-solar-panels on his farm. I mooed, because I wanted Farmer to know I was there for him, just as he has always been there for me. Farmer sighed. It must be very difficult to be Farmer, especially these days.
Marie thinks that there is nothing we can do for Farmer, and we must look to ourselves. This is the unravelling of things. I can feel it. But I keep quiet. I did not say anything to Marie about the god-damn-solar-panels. I have never seen a god-damn-solar-panel myself, but the man on the telephone told Farmer they were everywhere. Farmer said it was against nature. I wonder, if my calves had lived, if they could have helped Farmer. But now it is just me and Farmer and Marie. Tomorrow I will stand on the down slope of East Field again, and chew, and think.
In a disastrous chronological mishap, my last post completely left out a family trip to Kelsey Park in Beckenham one Saturday afternoon. So, to correct the record: the highlight was seeking out a shady lunch spot in the long grass to share some very generously cheesy chips. And I guess if we’re doing historical recordkeeping, I should also record (in case I ever look back at this) that we’re still in the middle of the absurdly hot summer of 2026. It’s far hotter than necessary, and while I’m not saying I want the Gulf Stream to collapse, the thought has crossed my mind…
On another one of these scorching July days, the three of us journeyed to St Albans for a reunion with two of my former English teachers. I realise at this point I should refer to them as ‘Alison’ and ‘Luna’ rather than Ms Hook and Ms Rupchand respectively, but it’s a difficult habit to break. So, while we lulled our child to sleep with a buggy ride around St Albans Cathedral, the adults enjoyed Ms Hook’s impromptu tour of the building before settling down to a delicious Turkish meze lunch. (In these divisive times, I found the display of artwork by local schoolchildren celebrating their local mosques to be unexpectedly moving.)
It was a wonderful catch-up, but I did learn the very sad news that Sue Wales – another of my former English teachers – had recently died. She was incredibly formative in my life: constructing my secondary school class in her role as Deputy Head, publicly instructing me to “look after Josh” on our first day as he was the only kid from his primary school (which I assumed meant he was a refugee) and going on to teach us English, which was a hoot. Probably my fondest memory was her exasperation when someone was reluctant to read the word ‘bosom’ out loud, which she solved by forcing every single one of us to say ‘bosom’ in turn in an attempt to desensitise us. She will be greatly missed.
The following Sunday, Randi and I were totally spoilt by Tash and Cormac for our joint birthday present, starting with a trip to see the animals of Surrey Docks Farm (including two enormous pigs and a rabbit named Roger) before we all walked over to the Mayflower for an extravagant lunch together. This was just a totally lovely afternoon all round.
A couple of days later, we were equally excited to host Katie and Kim for a few days. Kim had flown all the way from Australia with a sample of Cadbury’s Top Deck chocolate for us, which raised the obvious question of why Britain is being denied this excellent milk & white chocolate mix. Meanwhile, on Thursday night, the Self siblings convened for Italian food in Wapping before a nostalgic evening stroll around Shadwell.
Other summer adventures have included a trip to Randi’s family namesake, The Lawrence Arms, which turns out to be named after a former wine bar (“Mr Lawrence Wine Bar”) and does rather suggest that Mr. Lawrence is high on entrepreneurship but low on naming creativity. (Excellent vibes, though.) We’ve also enjoyed an impromptu tapas night out in East Dulwich and some very strong drinks (and sometimes spicy conversations) at Campaign Lab’s summer BBQ at Newspeak House. Special kudos to the heroes there who kept the food cooking all day!
I also went out for drinks one evening with Jan, an old colleague from my Groupon London days. Along with providing some wise life advice, he was also able to confirm my existing biases with some stories from the world of fintech. These are exactly the kind of stories you want to hear over drinks.
Finally, today we travelled to Sussex to spend an afternoon with Simon, Fleur and family. This was so much fun, especially seeing the siblings playing together, and we had fun baking many human-flavoured pies. In the spirit of train nerdiness which I share with Simon, it also felt appropriate to catch my first glimpse of the new GBR livery in the wild on the journey down. And talking of firsts: before bedtime tonight Randi and I performed an inaugural tooth brushing for baby’s first tooth (he seemed to enjoy it) before moving on to Randi’s now-traditional reading of Goodnight Moon (which he enjoys to a crazy degree).
I am half-watching the World Cup final as I write this, honest. But there’s a lot to catch up on, starting back in late June when Reema came over for dinner and took some inaugural bites of the magnificent chocolate fudge cake which Randi had concocted for my birthday. Since we have a strict one-in-one-out policy when it comes to cake in this house, this birthday cake had all disappeared by the weekend when Randi produced her second, all-American cake for our Independence Day NCT gathering on 4th July. (I’ll gloss over the slightly worrying questions which emanated from the kitchen during the decorating process, like “how many stars are there on the flag again?”)
[Update: Spain vs. Argentina was clearly such a gripping match that I only managed to complete a single paragraph last night! Therefore, I am officially now writing this in our post-World Cup 2026 future.]
In addition to Randi’s cake, our paddling pool was the other big hit from our NCT meetup, where it played host to three sedately splashing babies. The next day it was transformed into the central battlefield of a much darker and more warlike affair, as Kirsty and the girls visited and I was thrown into a defensive battle against two agents with water soakers. (I should have learnt from Kerensky: never arm your opponents.) That said, I was pretty pleased with my makeshift counter-offensive courtesy of the garden hose, and once everyone was properly drenched we did manage to reach some sort of uneasy peace settlement. For now.
This is surely the kind of play of which the makers of Toy Story 5 would approve. I snuck out one evening to see this with Tash at the Genesis Cinema in Whitechapel (*makes mental note of how convenient this location is*) and I think my reaction is the same as many others: it’s great fun, but at this point the series seems firmly targeted at Toy Story millenials like us rather than the younger generations. My countercultural take, however, is that while this film is formally about the intrusion of screens and technology into wholesome childhood play (although maybe don’t think too hard about how all of these plastic toys were themselves an erasure of what came before but that’s another story) its real message is about something much simpler: girls and girlhood.
Spoilers for those who haven’t seen it: eight year old Bonnie happily plays make-believe with her toys but struggles to make human friends. In an attempt to help her socialise, her parents buy her a ‘Lilypad’ tablet, complete with lots of games and social networking features. This immediately displaces all of Bonnie’s imaginative play, as instead she becomes hooked on trying to win the approval of a group of girls from dance class. They spend all their time on their own tablets, even when they’re all together, and mock Bonnie for holding on to her toys like a baby.
I’m no apologist for social media, and children all huddled around screens is almost as depressing as adults huddled around screens. But the basic story here – about wanting to fit in, seem grown-up and put away childish things – could have been told about any previous generation. One reason why many of us are so conflicted about the current technological hellscape in which we now live is that while it’s easy to be nostalgic for the shared cultural moments we’ve lost from a more monocultural era, none of us actually want to give up our tailored and personalised entertainment (our shows, our podcasts, our trusted news stories) which have now been unlocked. And the same may go for friends, too.
Indeed, as Toy Story 5 itself rather slyly points out, Bonnie is ultimately rescued from her misery because Lilypad is able to connect her to another creative, imaginative kid who lives out on a farm. Without the screens, they’d never have met. In some ways, therefore, it should be much easier now to resist the dance class clique. There will always be some group who thinks your toys are cool! In practice, I think it’s clear that things don’t really net out this way, and most of us would still be better off having more artificial constraints on an endless stream of screen-based entertainment and socialising. But 1960s or 1990s Bonnie would still have faced the same basic social dilemma, albeit perhaps not as relentlessly or invasively as via a screen which follows you everywhere.
I can’t remember if we talked about Toy Story specifically, but Sanna and I definitely ran through a wide range of parenting topics during our lovely midweek lunch during one of her rare flying visits to London! (Until next time, we’re also trying out the bizarre-but-clever Roost app to exchange messages via pigeon.) That weekend, I also had dinner with Andrew and Bonnie before the three of us saw Springwood at the Hampstead Theatre courtesy of a joint birthday gift from mum to the three of us.
This play is tightly scoped in both time and place: the visit of King George VI, and his wife Queen Elizabeth, to President FDR’s New York family home in June 1939. It’s a brief diversion from the couple’s royal tour of Canada and not a happy one, as Britain’s accidental and reluctant new King (yes, the one with the stutter from The King’s Speech) struggles under the immense burden of trying to secure Roosevelt’s support for the upcoming war. Meanwhile, his insecure Queen bristles at many perceived slights and humiliations from their hosts, and in particular at the indignity of being ‘forced’ to eat hot dogs in public at the picnic which Roosevelt has organised in their honour.
An awful lot is made of this hot dog business, but suffice to say this all really happened, and it was only during the short scene at the very end where this part of the play really clicked for me. We see the secondary characters gather together to listen to the voices of the principals offstage, and their immense relief when this silly hot dog eating photo opportunity goes off smoothly for the press. Because, of course, in an age of broadcast media these contrived ‘moments’ can have great symbolic significance, even if the effort and emotion which goes into them feels grossly disproportionate.
Until this point the play was somewhat uneven: the first half was a bit slow, but it picked up after the interval. The cast was stellar (Robert Lindsay as FDR! Jemma Redgrave as Eleanor Roosevelt!) although the accents were wildly inconsistent from sentence to sentence. I haven’t really touched on the domestic heart of the story – which is essentially the King and FDR bonding over their shared physical limitations – although the presentation of the Roosevelt’s ‘open marriage’ seems a little bit of a stretch. The pairing of a ceremonial head of state with a political master is an intriguing one, and I’d like to have seen them go further with it. Still, spoiler alert: FDR did (eventually) take the US into the Second World War and Britain was saved. All’s well that ends well.
[Update #2: All of this endless rambling has resulted in very slow blogging progress. So, I’m going to take Tash’s advice and push the publish button long before we’ve caught up to the present day. If this spirals out of control and I fall further and further behind, we can blame her!]
My last post concluded with the surprise weekend trip I organised to the Isle of Wight for Randi’s birthday, but the honest truth is that this was always a bit of a knock-off of Randi’s idea, who had already booked a surprise weekend trip to [mystery location] for my birthday. So it was that last Friday evening – after a flying pre-birthday visit from mum the night before – we arrived at Paddington for our train out of London. (Leaving from Paddington at least confirmed to me that we hadn’t both gone and booked the same destination, as hilarious as that would have been.)
For a little while it looked like trains-leaving-Paddington wasn’t actually a thing anymore (kudos to the woman sharing updates from Real Time Trains with the rest of us) but after the issues cleared we boarded our (surprisingly quiet!) carriage, cracked open the M&S cocktails, and relaxed into a weekend adventure to Moreton-in-Marsh in the Cotswolds!
I don’t think I’ve been to the Cotswolds before (not in blogging memory, at least) but I had an image of cutesey, chocolate box cottages, well-heeled high streets and satisfying country walks through pretty villages. And… yes, these preconceptions were basically all accurate, end of blog. We did think Moreton-in-Marsh suffered a little bit by allowing a car park to form in the middle of its high road, but it’s nevertheless very charming, and wherever they’re sourcing the cheddar for their cheese and ham croissants ought to be given listed status.
On Saturday we went on a big circular walk via the village of Longborough – stopping at their lovely community cafe for lunch – getting very lucky with some temperate weather rather than scorching sun. Dinner had already been booked at The Black Bear Inn. I was really looking forward to this for two reasons: (a) the food looked great, and (b) Randi and I had cracked up laughing the night before reading the owner’s responses to the odd negative review on Google Maps. (If it helps, the slogan on their blackboard was “All of our customers make us happy. Some by staying, others by leaving.”)
Dave did not seem like a man we wanted to cross, and fortunately we didn’t have to. But we did befriend the woman sitting on the table next to us, who seemed very cool, and was treating her six year old to a birthday expedition themed around some of his favourite things: crocodiles, alligators and snakes.
Bonus Feature: Old Man Shakes Fist at Nation
For obscure reasons, the next day I found myself on the Longborough Parish Council website. Their last meeting was in May, and if you skip past the elections for chair and vice-chair (approved unanimously), the approval of prior minutes (approved unanimously) and the annual accounts (approved unanimously) you’ll see tucked away under ‘Planning/Licensing’ that Workshop Luckley Farm’s planning application to convert its furniture workshop into a wedding venue has been dismissed on appeal.
Officially, this is something to do with bats in the roof. But nobody is planning to touch the bats in the roof. Indeed, the bats seem to have coped perfectly fine with a full-time furniture restoration business, so it’s a little surprising to learn that shutting that down and switching to two hour-long wedding ceremonies per week would be so much worse. Out of interest, what is the harm? Oh, the appeal doesn’t say. It doesn’t even gesture at a plausible explanation. It just states that “it cannot be concluded what [sic] the proposal would not have a significant effect on bats” and the “precautionary principle” should therefore apply.
Reader, this is not about bats. It’s about parking. You see, if you read on, you’ll learn there’s “high potential” that visitors would “use inappropriate locations” to park, “which could hinder the free flow of traffic”. And I like to imagine the low, serious tones of a high court judge when I reach the conclusion that “although the appellant considers most guests would share lifts […] this cannot be guaranteed”.
Let’s step back for a moment. What is planning actually for? On this, Longborough Parish Council is admirably open: it is there to “support the view of its parishioners”. And I have no reason to doubt what they say their parishioners want: “most people in the village like Longborough as it is”. Planning, therefore, is about saying no. We’re not planning to get married in the Luckley Farm Barn, so who cares about anyone else? Who cares about the owner of the business? Who cares about the employment of young hospitality staff? Who cares about taxi drivers? Who cares about flatlining economic growth? Who cares about how we might fund the increasing demands of healthcare, social care, defence, pensions or anything else you care to name? I’ve got a house in the Cotswolds. I’m alright, Jack.
The absurdity is that the area is still permanently represented by the Conservative Party, which always claims to be the party of free enterprise and a lighter state. A patriotic party, supporting small business and risk-taking. Conservatives are not “supposed to” believe that entrepreneurship is subject to a collective village vote. They are “supposed” to allow businesses to succeed or fail on their own merits. Of course, it’s patently obvious that this is not at all what their supports actually believe in practice. Which is a shame, because on this, they are right! I’m not arguing for a libertarian free-for-all: this isn’t a planning application for a brothel, a coal mine or a skyscraper. It’s a wedding barn, for goodness sake.
I suppose nobody will now get married under the sleeping bats of the Luckley Farm barn. If they had, it is of course totally plausible that some of their guests might have parked in the wrong place. Perhaps – just perhaps – there could have been a sign? Or a rope. Or a shuttle bus. Or a trust Parish Council volunteer issuing fines for infractions to the farm, which I suspect would have cleared up the problem pretty sharpish. All human activity brings problems, but if you see your job as trying to enable the best possible outcomes, a Parish Council operating on good faith could surely channel their time and energies into fixing real problems. Instead, we hand a small group of homeowners a veto to block anything they don’t like on spurious, pseudo-environmental grounds, and then we wonder why we can’t build a railway to Birmingham anymore. Saying “no” is not “planning”, and we need a total reset of how this works.
Setting my feelings about Longborough Parish Council aside, this was a truly wonderful birthday weekend and we returned to London on Sunday in high spirits! The week ahead was forecast to be grossly hot, as indeed it was, but fortunately I was already booked in for three days of work-related training in a gloriously air-conditioned room. (Don’t worry, the baby room at nursery is also generously cooled.) The training was a great opportunity to see colleagues in a non-Zoom setting – particularly Kira and Paulo! – and in particular I very much enjoyed drinks with Ben, Tom and Tomas on Thursday night.
For the weekend, Randi had the inspired idea of an emergency paddling pool purchase, so yesterday we spent a fair chunk of time outside in the garden. Baby-wise, we’ve now gotten some rolling, combined with a newfound ability to nap in his cot during the daytime \ a newfound ability to stick his limbs out of the cot when he doesn’t want to nap in his cot during the daytime. Oh, and lots of strawberry eating!
Over the late May bank holiday we travelled down to Exmouth for my mum’s birthday, and although we didn’t quite make it onto the beach itself, we were all very much in the market for some sunny, seaside vibes. It also turns out that my mum has been quietly hoarding many of my childhood toys, and so in true Toy Story-style, this was a great opportunity for “aeroplane” and “walker” to find another playmate in the next generation.
For the adults, we kept busy with a Sherlock Holmes themed jigsaw (admittedly only managing to finish the edges) and my mum’s nostalgic recreation of a classic “nana and grandad” Suffolk teatime. There were a few necessary anachronisms – I definitely don’t recall any red wine back in the day! – but the combination of ham, potatoes, Marmite and Rich Tea biscuits was very exciting.
Back in London, I had an excellent evening at a Leytonstone pub with Clark, including a brief guest appearance from Matt Hull. A week or so later, Randi and I were back in Leyton for a proper catch-up with Matt, Rachael and their little one, before heading over for Tash’s barbecue birthday party in their gorgeous garden. As ever, it was great to catch-up with a lot of familiar faces (hello Grace, Charlotte, Sarah, Katty, Beth, Moya and others!) but the highlight was probably the impromptu dramatic performance from the kids who live next door. There’s genuine top-notch acting talent there.
In the last few weeks we’ve also had an evening with Esther – together with the thrilling season premiere of “being able to sit out in the garden even after the sun has gone down” – and I went out with a mixture of current and former eviivo-ites including Jo, who left a few years back to retrain with the ambulance service. Having grown up on a diet of Casualty, it was interesting to hear that trauma cases are actually a relatively small proportion of callouts, although I see why “people who have been funelled to 999 by a risk-averse flow chart” would have made a less exciting show.
Talking of eviivo: it was also very lovely to see my former colleague Annie again on a visit from the States, while yesterday Randi and I made it into central London for the 2026 “beach vibes” Summer Party. We’re still at the age where our child can be passed around and held without squirming to run around independently, but clearly it’s only a matter of time! With my team having cruised to a resounding victory in the eviivo-themed quiz (excellent job, Lee), Randi and I said our goodbyes and induced some much-needed napping time by walking across London for a bit to Whitechapel. Since we don’t get much of a chance for impromptu after-work walks these days, this was genuinely wonderful, and a good reminder of what we both love most about this city.
Finally, I’ll leave you with last weekend’s surprise weekend trip to the Isle of Wight. This was a belated birthday present for Randi, but it had to fit into a reasonable radius from London, and in the end I gambled on the idea that Randi would be unusually excited by the novelty of a short ferry ride thrown into the journey. (I wasn’t wrong. In fact, we were both shocked at how seamless and well-integrated the train and ferry are together, both in terms of the physical terminals and the ability to buy a magical through ticket with a Railcard discount. It all made much more sense after reading about how it all used to be one consolidated British Rail operation in the first place.)
After reaching Ryde we journeyed down the island to our Airbnb in Bonchurch, near Ventnor, with commanding views of the sea from the top of the cliffs. My only previous visit to the Isle of Wight was on a school activity camp in Year 6, so I had no memory of how lush and verdant everything is. On Friday night I sampled the “life-changing lasagne” at the Bonchurch Inn (it’s pretty great, can confirm) while on Saturday we took advantage of a windier, drizzlier day for some rest and relaxation indoors. It may not have the most glamorous reputation, but I’d definitely come back.
Linda Moffitt on Colombia: “Such a sweet memory of the four of you meeting up in Colombia!” Dec 2, 07:42
