Visting England | Isle of Portland

Chesil Beach is a thin spit of land, constructed almost entirely of shingle, connecting the Isle of Portland with Weymouth on the Dorset coast. It's a windswept barren couple of miles, made for walkers, not bathers; fishermen and kite-surfers, not bucket and spade wielders.

On either side, the mainland and the island tower up from the sea, sheltering their inhabitants from the elements. Here, on the beach, people hunker down into their coats, peeking out from behind binoculars and kite strings, staring out across the marshland to study the birds.

On a clear day, the glaring sun beats down, drying the ground and crisping the grass, while its warmth is swept away by the relentless wind. The only shade in sight provided by a single brick wall protruding from the shingle. Running to shoulder height, before dropping away to nothing, each brick of the wall is twisted, the mortar broken and crumbling. Tall grass hides in its shaded side, climbing the wall and helping to eat the mortar that supports it.

This was as far as we explored; this wall and an ice-cream. We should have explored Portland - the castle, the lighthouse the numerous pubs - but it's a long drive from the Cornish coast to the Jurassic, navigating hills, towns, villages, and a high moorland that disappeared into a cloud when it met the sea. It's a long drive too back home, across the New Forest and out through the centre of London.

Portland can now join the list of English places I want to visit again and most definitely should. Whether that long list will ever grow any shorter remains to be seen.

Glastonbury Revisited

Last year, I went to Glastonbury. This year, I'm going again.

Last year, we arrived in the setting sunshine of the Wednesday evening. It had been a smooth and fast drive down from home and as we passed Stonehenge, it was bathed in a warm orange glow. We weren't worried about the sunlight not holding out. We had two tents a stack of beers, and all of our bags balanced on a trolley. We were easily going to make it!

The problem was, we had two tents, a stack of beers, and all of our bags on a trolley. The trolley cost £15. The trolley was made from a metal softer than cheese. The trolley trundled five yards from the car, hit a squashed coke can, fell over, and crumbled into dust.

Damn.

The next two and a half hours (yeah, you read that right) were spent walking the three miles back and forth, carrying all of our equipment (and beer) by hand. It was as fun as it sounds!

Then, the next day, it rained. It didn't stop raining until we left either. Such heavy rain and such loud thunder that at one point they shut everything down to avoid potential catastrophe.

So anyway...this year, I'm going again!

Surely though that shows just how great Glastonbury is? A disaster when we arrived and soaked all weekend, yet I still want to go again.

Okay, this time I'm praying for sunshine, but rain or shine the experience of 180,000 people (that's larger than a lot of UK towns) crammed into a small valley in the middle of rural Somerset is too good to miss.

Honestly, it's one of the best experiences going. Forget the queues for the toilets. Forget the toilets, in fact. Forget the long walks, lack of sleep, acres of mud, seas of sweaty people, spilt drinks, overflowing bins, shoving, pushing, tripping, crying, shouting. Forget ALL of that. Next year, get tickets, go and everything aside, you'll have a fantastic time.

Just please God, don't let the wheel fall of the trolley again!