Weston Super (night)Mare

It just doesn't have quite the same retro appeal as my beloved Morecambe. My mum had joined me for a couple of days and we headed over there from Nailsea (after a fun night of boozing it up with the delightful Sue and Trev from Foresters). We'd heard that there were more charity shops in Weston than anywhere else in the UK. My mum's ears pricked up and that wild look took over her face: TAT! Off we trailed, along a particularly dreary part of the tour - along suburban lanes bereft of intrigue or funk - and into town.

There is the distasteful whiff of inertia about the place. It's as if there was a choice between sentience and coma and everyone in Weston chose the latter. The shop keepers can barely be bothered to look up, the waitress seemed joyless and those poor old donkeys...

I even discovered a 'farm shop' that haunted me it was so horrif. I tried my best to rescue some bags of grated cheese from their ambient, mould-inducing stupor but nobody in the shop seemed to care. I left in a hurry, past confused samplers wondering why I didn't want to taste the smudged bits of lemon cake. We pushed on out of there with relief.

Padstow turns it on

Crawling out of bed in the dark reminds me of going to catch a flight. It's exciting and I fairly bounced up and at 'em when Adrian woke me. No tea for this chick - get me to the beach and that chilled champagne! We drove quickly along the lanes, trying to make it to St George's Well before 5.08am and the shard of dawn that would surely greet us...or would it be horizontal rain? The dingy morning brooded overhead, giving little away. I grabbed my shades from my bag just in case and down we marched to join the party, headed up by David of Bin Two; wine shop par excellence of Padstow.

Coolboxes bulged with iced champers, paper bags brimmed with boxes of duck eggs, bacon was being parted and placed on the grill and activity was all very hive like. I met all sorts of fun individuals - Padstow stalwarts imparting tails of rollicking good parties and magical sounding houses. I sipped on. Sometimes allowing a spot of Tropicana to enter my glass but generally going a pelo. We ate strawberries and cream, barbecued bread, played with the dogs, louched about, rain came in fits but by 7 the sun charged through the clouds and gave us a heck of a gorgeous day.

Later we went mackerel fishing (organised by super host Adrian). I declined motion-sickness pills on the grounds that I should have better sea legs than anyone, given my time on yachts. After an hour or so I was ready to hurl great Bucks-fizzy chunks and pined for the tourist thronged streets of Padstow. We returned, fish-less and opted for Rick Stein's Fish & Chips instead. I went for grilled mackerel with a battered oyster chaser. Delish. Even though seconds before my mouth made contact with it there was a hug gust of wind that sprinkled dock grit on all the food in our pavement picnic. It didn't effect my enjoyment - might even have given the whole thing a touch more authenticity.

We finished up and set off to leave, but not before witnessing one of the most revolting things I've ever forced myself to absorb. This huge great seagull came sweeping past the crowds, over the dock and nose-dived perilously close to me. He had his eyes on half a giant sausage roll abandoned by one of the kids. Off he went with his beak wrapped round the bounty. All his crew came squawking over, desperate for a bit of twos-up. No way yer bastards, he seemed to say as he threw his head back and swallowed the thing whole. He stood there for a few moments, his white neck bulging with this meaty lump. It stuck out like a goitre; a great writhing, living goitre that he gurgitated down until it was gone from sight; no doubt landing amongst all manner of other horrors in the pit of his trash-compacting gut. Gross.

Onto Dartmoor...

It was almost as if I'd entered some kind of full-size, 3D computer game, with me and the van as the perpetrators - twisting through all the obstacles in order to reach the other side and victory. I departed Totnes and Dartington and went in the direction of Exeter. Sort of. I'd read so much about Dartmoor - about the ancient tors, the murky swamps, the mist coming down and enshrouding the place with unspeakable disquiet. And about the bleakness that can bore right through you. I wanted to get right in there and traverse the entire moor.

From Buckfastleigh I cut up through a 1960s housing estate, already pushing Jimmy into second gear just to rev past the kid outside fixing his scrambler. As I turned the corner I was soon ensconced by high, dense hedgerows that seemed only just able to frame us as we wended through. The road was absolutely tiny and Jimmy collected all kinds of fern and bracken round his wheel arches. There was nowhere to pull in anywhere and I have no idea what might have happened if another vehicle had come along - it was all I could do to squeeze past a disapproving woman and her dog.

Every person I saw, in the occasional village I'd enter - in Buckfast, Coombe, Scorriton - would look at me with eyes of pure, local distaste. She's got to be out of her mind, they seemed to say, bringing that monstrosity through here, and then, she'll get hers...and as if I'd read their minds I would then be confronted by some new challenge - either a terrifyingly steep hill (shades of Yorkshire) or a bridge so tiny and so narrow that I wondered whether I might have to abandon Jimmy there in order to save myself.

But we triumphed and finally found ourselves with somewhat of an opening and engaged with the company of this merry party.

They shook their heads in horror as I showed them the route I fancied for reaching Exeter - none of them had ever done it, but I had to cross the moor properly or I wouldn't have been able to rest easy at night. And oh my! What a wild, beautiful thing it is! Hosted entirely by languishing sheep and the odd self-sufficient pony, it engulfs you with its sweet, chilled, marshy air. And time could fall away.

Not for me though; not for long. I had a dinner date on the fringes of Exeter and didn't want to throw the paella into jeopardy...

Dorset coast

Nandi and I go for a walk the next day - down along the burrowing lanes, through the fields full of horses and cows and onto this roller-coaster like, dense lawn that spreads itself right to the edge before toppling down to the thin, biscuity shore and dazzling, blue-green sea.

Bingo with Vera, Hilda and Rose

I've always wanted to go to Dudley. It's unfortunate that it had to rain so hard but then I wasn't going for the weather. No, Dudley doesn't conjure great images of magisterial beauty for me, but that's rarely the reason I choose to go to the places I do. "Why the hell d'you want to visit that dump?" people will cry when I mention some town high on my hit list. Most people assume that the only reason you'd ever want to go anywhere is because it's gorgeous/foodie/middle class/twee and, whilst that's all great, it doesn't paint a very varied picture in one's mind.

So there I was, chugging through Lenny Henry's home town, not quite sure what I might do in Dudley when the Gala Bingo hall appeared to my left. Outside stood a banana backed, ravaged old girl with a huge cigarette jammed between her lips. She gaped at me, the lights went red and I reached across the passenger seat to unwind the window -
"What time's bingo on til?" I yelled.
"Three O' clock bab" she croaked back.

Right, only 30 mins to get involved. I pulled into a particularly grotty hotel carpark, cut through the hotel (far out - howlingly empty, electricity appeared to have come and gone) and hot-footed it over the causeway. There was a pearly haired lady with apricot nails and smokers' lips, trying to prevent me from going in. In the end I became a member. Imagine that. I fairly glid into the huge theatre, down past all the old girls and their fat pens, onto the main stage where I was furnished with booklets and then...what the heck happens next?! I didn't have a clue what to do - I approached a group of women and whispered for help: Vera, Hilda and Rose took me under their wing and showed me the ropes and I became one of scores of silently punching players.

Oh, how we laughed...but when it came to the end I couldn't get anyone to invite me for dinner. They all fled into the rain for their buses with looks of steely determination while I was left in the yellow glare of the bingo hall, counting my losses.

Blackpool: OMG

I cruised out of Morecambe with the sky laying out its most sultry clouds; off down to Wallings farm to collect more ice cream and then....I really had no clue where I was going. I'd had an invite from a nice man in Morecambe but...I don't know, sometimes you just want to get on the road and see where you'll end up - it's part of the thrill.

And so it was that I was drawn to Blackpool. I hadn't particularly thought that that's where I'd go but, sure enough, after a bit of lane wending the great signs proclaiming 'Pleasure Beach' seduced me in.

It was getting late, too late to get a supper invite and too late for a B&B or campsite but I didn't care because I was gathered up by a sensation so kitsch and exotic that it didn't matter what happened.

I cruised and cruised through the adjusted night sky. The balminess of earlier still hung, warm and encouraging; people perched on walls outside hotels - hotels like you've never seen! One after the other, tromping up every street, on either side. Out back, round the corner, up above; all brimming with the proud sleaziness of multi-coloured neon.

I gasped in wonder and all-out awe. I'd never been anywhere like this in Britain and my only references were of holidays in Greece, Spain, America....places that are so wholeheartedly consumed by the provision of non-stop pleasure and vice. Hen parties cackled past, replete with pink fluffy bunny ears; checked-shirted guys with shower-fresh glows released a riot of aftershave into the debauchery; clubs throbbed with boozy desire and all the while the sea sat calmly, riding out the storm.

I eventually tore myself away from the strip and unearthed a hotel that had space and power - a near miracle in this super-condensed town. It smelt of stale fags and air freshener and the carpet seemed to hold a lot of history within its deep, putrid weave. Martin, the owner (cheap aftershave, shiny suit) introduced me to his collection of single malts - I knew there'd been a reason for choosing this joint over all the others. There were whiskeys in there I'd never heard of - from New Zealand, Japan, the USA. I opted for the Japanese one and sat at the bar, my eyes shimmering in time with the spangly backdrop and Martin's suit, gassing with the barmaid about her days off in the pub.

Bringing it and slinging it in Mor-ecam-be

Kind Kate from Sunset Ices lent me her pitch for the day on Saturday, she had a '40s car rally to do and thought the spot may as well get utilised. What a peach of a pitch! I had no idea what kind of reception I might get - I mean the place is so ridiculously retro I wasn't sure people were up to what Choc Star is saying. But they were! And the people that weren't (as everywhere) only needed to focus on the cones in front of them, secure in the knowledge that a frozen, portable dessert would be in their midst within moments.

From the minute I'd scaled the promenade and opened up the hatch these folk were on me like four dogs on a three-legged cat, I mean I could barely keep up with the unrelenting demand for ice cream. It's not like pulling up in a high street or even a park; this is the British seaside and come hell or high water people are going to get an ice cream.



I actually sold out and so, regrettably, had to close that hatch. I made up for shutting the door on Morecambe by investigating a bit more this place that has captured my imagination so.

The day I fell in love with Morecambe Bay

I always had a feeling about Morecambe. Something just sang inside at the thought of it and then bust into a full-blown aria as I joined the stream of traffic that wended its way along the promenade. I had been in touch with Kate at Sunset Ices and was keen to track her down. It's so interesting encountering other post-Mr Whippy mobilers and the website also sang to me a bit too.

There she was parked outside the resurrected art deco Midland hotel. I went round and round the roundabout before making a dash for it and traversing the cyclists lane and onto the promenade, actual. Kate had said she was happy for me to trade on her pitch with her but I was too enraptured by everything to even think of opening up the hatch. I roamed around like a ravaged old coyote, licking my chops with glee at the pure, uninhibited kitsch of the place.

Kate gave me an Angostura Ice which flicked my switches still further and I hung out in her van with her while she worked. Fascinating to be in the passenger seat of someones elses operation. She does all these retro treats like Oysters and Snowball Toppers and has jars and jars of sprinkles which the kids receive with total glee. The Midland was winking at me through the window so I set off to try and persuade one of the builders to show me around. This was achieved by impressing upon this one hot guy that I wasn't in town for long and would miss the big opening ceremony on Sunday.

"Ok, but if the boss comes then just keep yer 'ead down" he warned.
"Don't worry - let's just walk about like we own the joint and if that fails I've got a whole van full of chocolate outside" I assured him.

He then gave me the most comprehensive tour of this grand old dame I could have wished for - round the kitchens, the spa, the bar, the ballroom - up the curling stairs to the penthouse suite and onto the rooftop. I beamed happily away at all the hard-hats who looked like they had shed loads to do before the place could be opened and then dodged off when they started yelling for me to give my guide my phone number. I might have handed it over but I had to get back onto my and Jimmy's beloved moors.

Out of the sunshine and down to the bleakness

I left Troon just as the weather was turning. It came in and glowered down on us, defying us to think summer might be anywhere near. Alanna hopped on a ferry to Belfast, Susie went for coffee with her mum, Andy went to make software and I cleared off down the road to Castle Douglas.

Everyone had urged me to take the low road and catch an eyeful of one of the most beautiful routes in Scotland. I didn't particularly have anywhere to get to since my plans for the night had been scuppered due to Jimmy's mental health problems. I talked him round and off we went - into the moody Tuesday, hungover kind of a day. It was a cocooning type of day that had me loathe to leave the van.

(Sometimes my favourite thing to do is just cruise along and let the scenery wash past me; let all the colours and smells surround me. There I am, out on the road, free and calm and able to go wherever I please. It's a magic that I never feel in London. I wonder if London is even necessary to me).

I came to a really bleak looking village with this great, austere and weather-worn church sitting atop a graveyard strewn old crag. The sky hung low and grey, the sheep in all the surrounding fields sat, blythely chewing, lost in thought. I wonder about their thoughts. Do they have any? Do cows? How can they all be doing exactly the same thing in every field in every county in Britain and be imagining anything exceptional? The smell of sheep shit bled out into the air, accompanying me as I picked my way to the church. This place of worship had such an air of presbyterianism - of Sunday vows, hard-edge pews and of knuckling down to the adversity of life in a dour climate.

I pressed on, through village after village of tucked away activity - I'm sure it was going on, I just couldn't see it. In the end I plumped for a night in a B&B at marriage central/wedding car heavy Gretna. I was absolutely shattered and just wanted to lie low. A knock on the door of a place offering 'parking space' introduced me to a very put-upon looking lady. The whole concept of plugging the van in was too much for her compromised mind and her hubby had to come out and tend to the situation. He was angelic and assuaged the chilly tone of the wife. I clocked her perfectly prepared home and offered some flattery which she responded to most warmly. We were friends! and the stay sorted me out no end.

Troon beach

It was so still down on that beach. Apart from the odd seagull and gust of wind the afternoon just lay there for us. There can be something so reassuring about sitting in a parked vehicle, like having your own little cocoon - a manageable environment to get your thoughts in order.

Customers came and went, cheerful and grateful of the heavenly weather. Lots of pale skin daring the sun to do its worst...but lots of brown skin too. Apparently the Scots are the most insatiable users of sunbeds in Europe.

The Maryhill Tavern

My friend Alanna is my sidekick for the weekend. She was going to spend her first night with an old nursing mate in Glasgow's East End, but on Sunday morning at 7am I get a voice message from her - "Pez, when can you come and get me?...I've got to get out of here - it's a techno hell-hole and it won't stop". I wasn't even awake, let alone up so she stole away from the gurners and hopped in a cab over to Queenzieburn. Ross showed us around the farm and we got a real eye full of his prize bulls' great swinging nads. (Heavy). Then said our good-byes and got on our way - off to Maryhill, the home of the real ice cream wars.

No voyage in a choc-mobile that sells ice cream would be complete without a visit to Maryhill - it's standard. Everyone warns me about tyre slashing and windscreen smashing but I'm adamant. And besides, I have Alanna with me which means that it doesn't matter how dodgy an area we're in together, we will always gravitate towards the sleaziest, most down at heel old man's boozer that we can get our chops around and the rest of the world can disappear.

The Maryhill Tavern appeared like a great throbbing, pulsating beacon. I screeched to a halt and we accosted the first guy that came out of it, Wally. "Get the fook oota tha car and get insaad the fookin pub ya fookin speckies", he yelled. We decided he was probably saying this in good humour and went on in, flanking this great, gruff big teddy bear of a man.
"Oh mah god, Wally's not brought a burd in here fa years - let aloon twoo" cried a bleach blonde grandma at the bar.

We went and settled down with Wally and his pals and the whole pub started hurling questions over at us. As soon as they twigged we were English there was pandamonium - especially from Wally who'd thought we were from Ullapool or Harris.
"If ah'd knoon you were fookin English ah'd a told ya to fook off doon the rood" he shouted before making off to the bar and getting us a drink.

A guy called Jimmy heckled us from the other side of the pub, telling us to "get oot, you're no' welcome in here". I marched over to him, said "here Jimmy, I've got something to show you - come outside with me" and led him by the hand out to meet my Jimmy. He was absolutely delighted. The rest of the afternoon saw us taking endless trips out to the van with all the Jimmys that came in and dancing with old men to the karaoke croonings. It was absolute gold dust.

Up to Scotland...

I burn rubber up to Scotland - got to shift Jimmy a couple of hundred miles to Aviemore. I get to Edinburgh pretty speedily (quite chuffed actually) and decide to reward myself with a trip to my favourite chocolate shop, Plaisir du Chocolat. I find the place surprisingly easy, locate a good parking spot, nudge my way in and am all ready to go and devour the choc shop when a rap on the window startles me. There stands a suave looking guy in a crisp white shirt and shades. "You hurt my car. Twicely." Hey? "Twicely you hurt my car!". Oh lord. I dismount the van and head round to the back to see what all the fuss is about. There's a massive scratch on his bumper. I'm mortified. "Oh no! I'm so sorry - what d'you want to do?". And to my amazement he tells me not to worry about it. I'm so relieved. I bound into the back of the van and gather a load of Millionaire's shortbread and press it into his hands before he can change his mind. His friend asks what I'm doing anyway and I tell the tale of the trip - about looking for strangers for supper and whatnot. "Do you like spicy food? North Indian?" Yes, yes, yes! "Well you must come and have dinner with us". Fabulous. They live in Reading but I'll be down there before long . We swop e-mails, have hearty embraces and leave with big beaming smiles on our faces.

I find the shop and pick up some of their brilliant chocolates - ganaches infused with all manner of exotic and far flung secrets - as well as some choc-chip shortbread and a giant kind of Bounty bar-style patty cake. There's a strange taste in my mouth and the treats make it retreat and make a good accompaniment to the dramatic journey up to Aviemore.

The Stadium of Light and other sights...

There's something about a football stadium that makes the hairs stand up on the back of your neck. Places that you've heard about a thousand different times - where a weekly rush of hearts and souls gets poured out to do battle. I've always loved the sound of the Stadium of Light - and it's always seemed so very far from me and Portman Road. My brother calls it the Stadium of Shite and the one person I found under its majestic canopy to talk to was a Toon fan and couldn't wait to get away from there. It was a really stunning day though and this old ship building town couldn't have looked better...