A decade ago we visited the Bitter End. Which sounds odd, but it is actually a yacht club, tucked away in the North Sound of Virgin Gorda in the British Virgin Islands. It was a breathtakingly beautiful spot back then - but that was before the dreadful hurricane of 2017 struck. All the photos illustrating this article were taken back then. I am told it was almost entirely destroyed but Hurricane Irma - but I am also informed by a friend who calls there regularly that the place has reopened and is fast regaining its former glory.  Before the Hurricane Before the hurricanes struck, the Bitter End Yacht Club was a paradise for sailing enthusiasts and beach lovers. Established in 1969, it had grown from a modest establishment into a renowned destination, famous for its nautical charm and lovely scenery. The resort had more 70 ocean-view rooms and suites - comfortable accommodation that blended seamlessly with the natural environment. It featured a world-class sailing school, a fleet of over 100 boats, and hosted prestigious regattas. Guests could engage in various water sports, from windsurfing to snorkelling in the crystal-clear waters. On land, the resort offered hiking trails, beachside dining, and a sense of serene isolation, only accessible by water. The Impact of Hurricane Irma In September 2017, Hurricane Irma, one of the most powerful Atlantic hurricanes on record, caused catastrophic damage to the Virgin Islands. The Bitter End Yacht Club was not spared - the hurricane ravaged the resort, leaving little standing in its wake. This disaster forced the resort to close its doors and rethink its future. We emphasise that all these images were taken in 2014, before the hurricane. The Rebirth After the Hurricane The rebuilding of the Bitter End Yacht Club has been a story of resilience and commitment to sustainability. The reconstruction focused not only on restoring what was lost but also on improving and innovating. The new Bitter End is designed to be more sustainable and resilient, with eco-friendly practices and structures better equipped to withstand future storms. Today, the resort has been partially reopened, with plans for a full reopening in stages. The new Bitter End retains its charm but with a modern twist. It offers updated accommodations, revamped dining experiences, and a renewed focus on environmental stewardship. The sailing school and marina have been restored, continuing the legacy of sailing excellence. The resort's rebirth also includes a stronger community focus. The Bitter End Foundation was established to support local recovery efforts and to invest in the community and environmental initiatives. This reflects a deeper commitment to not just rebuilding the resort but also supporting the broader Virgin Gorda community. We loved the place and would love to go back.

The idea of a luxury cruise in a boat passing through mountains might sound like a contradiction in terms. Cruises happen in places where there’s plenty of water - normally boats in mountains translate to white-knuckle rides in canoes or rafts. But a luxury cruise through some of Britain’s most beautiful mountains is exactly what I enjoyed aboard a large and well-appointed ship one summer week. The Spirit of Scotland belongs to European Waterways , the holiday company that specialises in luxury barge holidays which really do what the promise says on the tin. In other words, their voyages take place in what could be described as floating five star hotels - hotels that move slowly and elegantly through beautiful landscapes.  And landscapes don’t get much more beautiful than the Great Glen - the massive 70-mile long rift-valley which cleaves Scotland in two, stretching from the east coast at Inverness to the west coast near Fort William.  It is, of course, the Caledonian Canal that allows the Spirit of Scotland - with its luxurious cabins (for 12 passengers), comfortable lounges and fine dining - to cruise through mountains.  This remarkable waterway was constructed in the early nineteenth century by Scottish engineer Thomas Telford, and runs through more than 60 miles of the glen.  Thanks to the geological fault that formed this valley, it was an obvious route for a canal. Only one third of its length had to be man-made - the rest was created by nature in the form of Loch Dochfour,  Loch Ness ,  Loch Oich , and  Loch Lochy .  This meant that only 29 locks had to be constructed along the canal to take sizeable boats from coast to coast. Anyway, back to my holiday a few weeks ago aboard the Spirit of Scotland. She was purpose-built in 2001 and her style evokes that of the traditional steamers that plied the lochs of Scotland in times gone by. But she has spent most of her short life cruising the inland waterways in Europe in recent years.  However, this summer the Spirit of Scotland was brought to Scotland. Not surprising really, as the Caledonian Canal offers something of a gift-horse to a company that makes a living by operating these kind of holidays. For a start, the route is spectacularly beautiful. So even if the weather misbehaves, which it can do in Scotland, you can sit aboard and simply enjoy the tremendous views that pass slowly by.  This part of the world is also hugely rich in history - so the cruise director and one of the crew will convey you to all manner of fabulously interesting places aboard the two European Waterways minibuses which follow the boat wherever she goes.  That, in essence, is the basic recipe of a European Waterways holiday. You spend part of each day travelling aboard the hotel barge - and you also get to enjoy some kind of organised excursion. Then boat will moor somewhere quiet and pleasant each night and so that you and your fellow passengers can relax and enjoy a multi-course dinner made by the highly talented on-board chef.  He will also make you breakfast the next morning and cook a delicious lunch, which you enjoy either before or after you’ve been out on an excursion.  The trip from Inverness to Fort William offers a six-night holiday (as does the reverse trip back to Inverness) and it was, I have to say, the most enjoyable and relaxing thing I have done in a long time. Okay, so we were lucky with the weather - we had long periods of sunshine almost everyday, although we did experience the odd heavy rainstorm which was actually enjoyable to witness aboard the warm and comfy boat.  The food was outstandingly good and we had great fun each mealtime in the company of the other guests. The cruise director and crew were amazingly efficient and everything - and I mean everything - went without a single hiccup.  Each day we went off on an excursion and visited places like the Glen Ord whisky distillery for a private tasting, Cawdor Castle (home of Shakespeare’s Scottish Play), wild and scenic Glencoe, and romantic Eilean Donan and Urquhart castles. If I had one tiny criticism of my holiday it would be that these last two places were very overcrowded. But what did that matter to me? Instead of joining the bus-loads of tourists returning to overbooked hotels, I was propelled back to what felt like my own private yacht aboard a chauffeur-driven minibus. And once I entered its luxurious lounges I was offered a choice of top quality drinks and refreshments before going down to my well appointed cabin for a quick snooze in readiness for a large and jolly dinner.  European Waterways even arranged for visiting entertainment in the form of one of the best accordion and guitar duets I have ever seen and a remarkable bagpipe player, who marched up and down a lonely part of the glen where we’d moored, to put us into an entirely authentic Highland mood.  I would go as far as to say that a week aboard the Spirit of Scotland in the Great Glen is one of the most relaxing but stupendously scenic holidays that one could ever enjoy without leaving the UK.  And my wife and I added to this satisfying sensation of holidaying at home by catching the train all the way from Taunton to Inverness (Cross Country trains to Edinburgh www.crosscountrytrains.co.uk ). It somehow added a delightfully old-fashioned feel to a remarkable holiday - more Miss Marple than a cheap flight to Malaga - more John Buchan’s 39-Steps than Ryan Air.  And that is it in a nutshell - a holiday of old-fashioned elegance, but with a panoramic hint of scenic adventure thrown in.  FACT FILE The 6 night cruise aboard hotel barge Spirit of Scotland includes all meals, wines, an open bar, excursions and local transfers. Full barge charters are also available for families and groups. European Waterways: Tel 01753 598555               Website:  europeanwaterways.com

It’s back! One of the most flavoursome wild harvests around is popping its green leaves up all over the South West of England as we speak and home cooks who love to forage will soon be making soups, sauces, risottos and a form of pesto out of those gorgeous, super-tasty ramsons. That’s just to give it one of wild garlic’s many names. A few years ago I was at a cookery class given by the brilliant chef Mark Hix in his West Dorset home, and I couldn’t help but turn a little green as he picked up a fistful of wild garlic to make a very English form of pesto. The greenness had nothing to do with the pungent aromas wafting off the herb, it was simply envy on my part. Mark said pickers had gleaned his supply from the soft warm underbelly of southern Cornwall - at the time my local ramsons on Exmoor weren’t peeping even a tiny spear above the ground. Exmoor is normally two or three weeks behind the sheltered valleys of Cornwall in terms of nature’s cycle - but maybe not this year when the wild garlic seems to have come early. And when the temperatures do warm up the deep vales of the Brendon Hills are capable of producing vast carpets of the green and aromatic leaves. I’ve used two of the plant’s common names so far - it’s also known as buckrams, broad-leaved garlic, wood garlic, bear leek or bear's garlic. I’ve also hinted at its usefulness in the kitchen, but it does come with a health warning: every year in this country there are cases where people have been poisoned after picking and eating the similar looking leaves belonging to Lilly of the Valley. Well… similar when young. As they mature over a few days you should easily be able to see the difference. The wild garlic leaves are slightly convex and smooth edged with a single main vein, whereas the Lilly of the Valley has irregular edges and numerous deep veins. In my garden the two grow side by side, so it’s easy to see how they differ. However, I would advise anyone who has even the slightest scintilla of doubt not to go out harvesting ramsons unless escorted by an expert. The garlicky pong should be enough to give you a green light - but get it wrong and you could become very green indeed before turning a shade of blue. WILD GARLIC PESTO The very best way of utilising this free and delicious vegetable is to make an English form of pesto. Which prompts me to ask how it was that a herb-rich nation like ours could have failed to come up with a kind of sauce made from the act of grinding aromatic leaves in some kind of emulsifying agent? We have mint sauce, yes, but we don’t really have other intensely flavoured delights made from our delicious edible plants.  Pesto is now apparently the third most commonly used sauce in the world after ketchup and mayonnaise - not that the industrially made stuff even begins to compare with homemade. And you can make a British version of a pesto by using wild garlic, cold pressed rapeseed oil, a very mature cheese such as cheddar and some hazel nuts.  It does come with a health warning: every year in this country there are cases where people have been poisoned after picking and eating the similar looking leaves - so only harvest wild garlic if you know what you’re doing.  A spoonful of wild garlic pesto thrown into fresh cooked pasta creates an instant and delicious lunch - you can also use it as a side sauce for meats or fish or as a marinade. Stir a little into a spring vegetable risotto and you will have a vegetarian dish worthy of an award winning restaurant. But if you can’t be bothered to make pesto, here’s a basic risotto recipe for this most wondrous of wild herbs… WILD GARLIC RISOTTO Serves: 4 Ingredients: 300g Arborio rice 1litre vegetable or chicken stock 120ml dry white wine (optional) 2 tbsp olive oil 1 medium onion, finely chopped 2 garlic cloves, minced 100g wild garlic leaves, roughly chopped 100g freshly grated parmesan or very old cheddar cheese 2 tbsp unsalted butter Salt and pepper, to taste Lemon zest, for garnish (optional) Instructions: In a medium-sized saucepan, warm the vegetable or chicken stock over low heat. Keep it at a gentle simmer throughout the cooking process. In a heavy-bottomed pan, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the chopped onion and cook for 4-5 minutes, or until softened and translucent. Add the minced garlic and cook for another 1-2 minutes, stirring frequently. Stir in the Arborio rice, coating each grain with oil. Cook for 2-3 minutes, or until the rice grains become slightly translucent around the edges. If using, pour in the dry white wine and cook for a couple of minutes, stirring constantly until the liquid is absorbed. Begin adding the warmed stock to the rice, one ladleful at a time, stirring constantly and allowing the liquid to be absorbed before adding more. This process should take about 20-25 minutes, or until the rice is cooked al dente and has a creamy consistency. Stir in the roughly chopped wild garlic leaves and cook for an additional 2-3 minutes, or until the leaves are wilted and tender. Remove the risotto from the heat and stir in the grated cheese and unsalted butter. Mix well to combine, then season with salt and pepper to taste. Let the risotto rest for a couple of minutes to allow the flavours to meld. Serve hot, garnished with lemon zest if desired.

The Laxey Wheel is one of the must-see tourist destinations on the Isle of Man - indeed it was the first port of call for our recent British Guild of Travel Writer trip to the island where the organisation staged its 2023 AGM. Known as the world’s largest waterwheel, this vast structure stands as a towering testament to the ingenuity of Victorian engineering. It also looks, as an artist friend of mine pointed out, like some kind of AI illustration of a waterwheel gone slightly wrong. That is because its leat runs down the valley to the wheel’s base where the water is then introduced under pressure to the vast stone cylinder which looms to one-side - I.e. the structure which has the circular staircase running up its outer wall - a staircase which is very definitely NOT for anyone who suffers from vertigo.  Known locally as "Lady Isabella," after the wife of Lieutenant Governor Hope who inaugurated the wheel in 1854, it is the largest surviving waterwheel of its kind in the world. This majestic structure was designed by the talented engineer Robert Casement, and its primary purpose was to pump water from the Glen Mooar part of the 'Great Laxey Mines' copper mines. The Laxey Wheel, with a diameter of 72 feet and a breadth of six feet, was a marvel of its time. It was ingeniously powered by water from the Laxey River, which was channeled to the site through a network of pipes and troughs. The wheel could pump over 250 gallons of water a minute from the mine more than 600 feet below ground, playing a crucial role in enabling the miners to reach new depths in search of valuable minerals. When it was erected it became a symbol of the Isle of Man's rich mining heritage - and it still flies the flag for the genius and ingenuity of the island’s industrial past now. Today, the Laxey Wheel is under the care of the Isle of Man National Heritage Trust, an organisation committed to preserving the island's historical and cultural landmarks. The Trust has taken significant steps to maintain and restore this iconic structure, ensuring that it continues to captivate visitors with its grandeur and historical significance. The Trust's efforts have been instrumental in not just preserving the wheel but also in educating the public about the island's industrial heritage. Visitors to the Laxey Wheel can explore the site, which includes a climb to the top of the wheel for a breathtaking view of the surrounding landscape - a climb which, as I say, is not for those who are afraid of heights.  The site also features informative displays that provide insights into the wheel's history and operation, as well as the broader story of mining on the Isle of Man. The Laxey Wheel is more than just an engineering feat; it is a cherished part of the Isle of Man's heritage.

West Country woods echoed with the sound of folk collecting branches for their ashen faggots this week; young men have been stitching and cobbling together costumes for the seasonal Mummers’ Play; the people of St Ives have polished their clogs in readiness for the annual Christmas Dance; master-bullocks performed their midnight duty, kneeling and bellowing three times to hail the Babe of Bethlehem; and tradesmen all over the region were adding a little extra this or that to the orders of their favourite customers. Dream on. The modern story of a rural Christmas goes more like this: there’ll have been a last minute panic to order oil for the central heating (no ashen faggot), kids will been gazing into their phone screens (no Mummer’s Play), the Christmas dancers will indeed have danced but in some long-haul holiday night-club, the master-bullock probably had nightmares about veganism taking over the planet and destroying the need for cattle, and as for generous trades-folk handing out free goods, not much chance of the giant online retailers doing that. Ah well, we can at least dream of Christmas-past. The people of the West Country took the great occasion very seriously indeed in years gone by, and one can’t help thinking it was a more poignant, merry and altogether more human festival than the commercial nonsense we endure today. Take that ashen faggot for instance. This was the West Country’s version of the traditional Yule-log – and what could be merrier than toasting away the evil spirits of midwinter to the sound of an ashen-faggot’s crackle? I have written about this custom before, but I now learn that the practice of faggot burning was widespread across the peninsula and that people performed all sorts of variations on the drunken theme. Basically you throw a bundle of ash sticks on the fire and stand ready with your glass. As the bindings of the faggot burn (they can be made of anything supple from withies to honeysuckle) so they crackle and pop. And, each time they do, you must take a swig and make a toast that will banish the dark midwinter spirits from your home. The thing is that the bindings can crackle and pop quite a lot, so it’s best to have your turkey all stuffed and ready to go, because you might not feel like preparing the beast in the morning. More drinking and merriment used to go on during the Mummers’ Play which was a widespread Westcountry tradition at Christmas. Here’s what Exmoor poacher Lordy Holcombe had to say about the custom more than 100 years ago: “The chief character was old Father Christmas. He used to be got up as a venerable old fellow, with a long white beard and big cloak. He had a bad cough, and had to support his tottering footsteps with a staff. He and his party were always welcome visitors at farmhouses, and whilst the inmates sat round a comfortable fire, we actors were introduced one by one and went through our parts.” Now let’s head west and take a turn around the town of St Ives with the Christmas Dancers. It was known as ‘guise-dancing’ and it went on during the 12-days of Christmas. Apparently youngsters in the town would dress up in all manner of fancy costumes and go about the town with faces covered with masks or whatever. It seems they would call upon friends – or enemies – and speak in high falsetto voices so as not to be recognised. On Christmas Day the children of St Ives would go down to Porthminster Beach where they’d play games and dance. Alas, the ancient tradition of ‘guise-dancing’ disappeared from the Cornish port sometime between the two world wars. As for a master bullock kneeling in homage to the Babe of Bethlehem, Exmoor authoress Alice King recorded at the end of the 19th century that it was well known that this would occur in farm mangers across the Westcountry on the stroke of midnight on Christmas Eve. The biggest bullock in the herd would low three times before kneeling with all the other animals in the barn. What about the old Christmas custom of tradesmen putting something a little extra when boxing-up orders for their favourite customers? West Somerset historian, the late Hilary Binding, wrote: “Most tradesmen managed to put a little something extra among the week’s order for the goods supplied for Christmas – usually with an eye to the customer’s spending and his future goodwill. Grocers might give dried fruit, candied peel or spice while ironmongers would provide a cup or a plate. The giving of flour by the bakers seems to be a tradition that goes back over a very long period and it was, of course, like the fruit and spices, intended for the making of the Christmas pudding.” Another historian working in the region, F. J. Snell, wrote back in 1903: “In connection with Christmas it may be mentioned that in the West Country it is reckoned a crime to kill a robin. This notion is believed to have sprung from a beautiful old legend that, as the Saviour hung on the cross, the little bird toiled to extract the nails from His bleeding hands, and that some drops of sacred blood falling on its breast, left the red stain which we now find.” And so the customs of a West Country Christmas past go on and on. There are many other traditions I haven’t the space to record here – but just writing about the subject has put me, and I hope you, in a jolly, old-fashioned, Christmas spirit. And, with a sentimental tear, I shall leave you with this merry little verse that the region’s children used to sing a century ago or more: “Christmas Day in the morning,/ Joesph whistling, Mary singing,/ All the bells of heaven are ringing,/ Christmas Day in the morning. n.b. The reference to Lordy Holcombe and the Mummer’s Play comes from The Autobiography of a Poacher, reprinted and published by Halsgrove. And the notes from F.J. Snell come from A Book of Exmoor, also reprinted and published by Halsgrove. TIPPLE A favourite West Country Christmas tipple was a strange concoction called Lamb’s Wool. This was a great stew of warm ale into which roasted apples and spices had been thrown. On Christmas morning each member of the household was treated to one of the apples, which they ate before drinking back the flavoured ale. Cracker jokes from times past. Just over a century ago one local newspaper, the West Somerset Free Press was pleased to carry the following cracker-style jokes… Q: Who is the oldest lunatic on record? A: Time out of mind. Q What pudding resembles WG Grace? A: A good batter. Q Why are ladies like arrows? A: Because they cannot go off without a beau and are always in a quiver until they get one.

It’s that time of year when this website revisits the children’s fairytale , The Deer Park - which is available at Recently I’ve been messing about with some of the images which could be further used inside the book… The Deer Park is a modern fairytale written in the tradition of the Brothers Grimm and other European storytellers. By utilizing classic tropes found in old traditional fairytales, The Deer Park follows the story of a brother and sister whose father has gone off to fight in a war. It is midwinter in their ancient village (which is based on the famous and picturesque Dunster in South West England), and the tale begins when local children are having an adventure in the old medieval Deer Park. Suddenly, warplanes skim low over the hills on their way to the Land of Coal and Steam across the sea-channel. The deafening roar of engines causes the children run in all directions. Avill, the brother, is soon lost in the dark forest. A winter storm is brewing, and the boy, finding himself in a sheltered dell, hugs the moss-covered trunk of a fallen tree, which is knocking against another tree high above. After a while, the sound of wind in the trees seems to translate into words the boy can understand, and so he begins to know the tree-spirits of the forest. His sister finds him, and as the snow falls in the dusk, the pair embark on an adventure which will include Christmas at the big castle which dominates the village, a big freeze, deep snow, a sleeping giant, a strange but friendly witch, an ancient dancing hobby horse, and a few more of those threatening aeroplanes. There is the hardship and darkness often found in the classic fairytales of yore, caused by the cold winter and the threat cast by those aeroplanes. There is also courage, fortitude, hope, and redemption as the children embark upon a plan to bring their father home from war safe and sound. There’s a great deal of Yuletide atmosphere in the story - as is witnessed when the children have to help serve Christmas dinner up at the huge castle. There’s also plenty of classic fairytale content - such as the old witch who lives in a cottage with her three large cats…. I’m not sure how this particular witch managed to grow a beard - that’s not in The Deer Park story - but blame the robots who’ve been helping me with the images. Sometimes their enthusiasm gets carried away. At other times they get hugely traditional, like when I asked them to create a picture based on the above synopsis…

It’s funny how some events stick in our memory and others disappear into the fog of the past. Certain occasions in life are life-changing, upending the status quo and forever affecting the path to the future, and that are hot branded, as it were, into our memory banks, and yet other events, equally consequential, dissipate and disappear like the sparkle and smoke from an erstwhile brilliant roman candle. Just such an occurrence is the mystery of how I ended up in Treborough, in West Somerset’s Brendon Hills late in 1973. I had left my job at Island Records at the end of 1972, and moved to a small hamlet outside Minehead, to work with a couple of friends renovating an old cottage belonging to another friend’s mother. By the summer of that year, I had fallen in love with Hilary, sister of one of my builder buddies, and in true dharma bum fashion, she and I lived in a tent in some woods close to Dunster. She worked as a waitress at a restaurant in Minehead, and I continued building. As autumn approached, living under canvas became damper, colder, and not quite so romantic. And there was the small matter of hygiene. It was one thing for me to wash in a nearby stream before setting off for work on a building site, it was another for Hilary to succeed in banishing the scent of woodsmoke from herself and her clothes before a day of waitressing.  So we needed a real roof over our heads. And this is where memory fails me. Just who it was that mentioned that there was a vacant cottage in Treborough, I have no idea. But there was a vacant cottage there, in the farmyard of Higher Court Farm, and we moved in at the end of the summer.  Hot water, a gas stove in the kitchen, an antique but working refrigerator, a Rayburn stove in the living room that not only heated the house, but also the water, a bathroom and two bedrooms upstairs. Our bedroom looked out over part of the farmyard, with pens and ancient stone stalls abutting a vast partly thatched and very ancient stone and cob barn, down the valley, past a copse of beech trees, and gave a partial view of the distant meadows, through which we soon discovered, one could walk to Luxborough, the next village, a distance of a mile or two. By road, the distance was more like seven or eight miles. It was an idyllic spot. As a child, my family had always vacationed in the West Country, and so living on the farm was, for me, like being on a perpetual holiday. Lying in bed at night one would hear the sounds of ewes calling for lambs, cows gently bellowing come-hithers to calves, the distant hooting of owls echoing in the valley, sounds that strangely became spectral as they exercised our minds, dogs from the neighbouring farm informing the hills that they had scented a far-off fox, and the wind soughing through the beeches, a constant sifting of the leaves, now a soft murmur and then a gossipy clamour, followed by a short mumbling silence, developing again into a murmur. To maximise the experience, we raised the head of the bed by setting the legs up on a couple of bricks, which gave us a better sense of the panorama outside. With both windows at the foot of the bed fully open, we’d snuggle under blankets as the westerly wind brought us all these mysterious tidings from afar, wrapped in fragrant whiffs of manure and hay, silage and Somerset’s lush and aromatic fecundity, and the lowings and bleatings became fainter, and the valley became swathed in darkness, slumbering under the West Country moon. Hilary left the restaurant and spent her days working in the garden, and I volunteered to repair some of the crumbling stone walls around the farmyard. It was only a matter of days before the two of us became increasingly entwined in farm life. I was constantly called from the wall I was rebuilding to help round up cattle that had strayed through broken fences several fields away, and I soon realised that fence repair had to trump wall repair, and so within a few weeks of living in the cottage, I was on the farm payroll, learning about cattle, the intricacies of driving David Brown tractors, devouring The Farmers Weekly, and living rent free. How much I got paid I really can’t recall, but I think it was seven or eight pounds a week. A princely sum to be paid for the simple act of living in paradise. Daily life began with The Routine, which followed a quick breakfast of cereal and a cup of tea, which started by gathering the eggs, which was an interesting adventure as the chickens were not only free range, they were free roosting. The flock was a bewildering aggregation of every breed of chicken one could imagine, and then some. Rhode Island Reds, Leghorns, Orpingtons, Sussex, Plymouth Rock, Wyandotte’s, plus a mad variety of bantams of all colours imaginable, and all of course, cross-breeding in all directions. They had the run of the yards and outbuildings and thus made their nests where they wanted. One soon learned where most of the nests were, but every few days one would find a fresh nest, with maybe a dozen eggs in it, of unproven vintage. That entailed putting them in a bowl of water, and those that floated were old. The ones that sunk you took your chances with. Then to the main part of the routine, the feeding of the herd. In the winter, the steers and heifers were wintered in a large barn, close to the farmhouse, where they were fed barley and concentrate in addition to the silage they had 24-hour access to.  The silage was in a second large barn adjacent to the building in which they spent their winter days, and was behind a strand of electrified wire that had to be moved forward a few inches every day as the animals ate their way through this mountain of nutritious and fermented grass. The wire, powered by a 12-volt battery, had to be constantly checked for current - if it was shorted out by anything, the cows very quickly realised that they had unfettered access to the silage, and chaos and mayhem ensued. And much silage was spoiled. The main breeding herd was up on the common, Treborough Common, where there was another barn and silage clamp, and the same process was followed there. We had around 120 cows, mainly Hereford and Hereford crosses, but a good smattering of Angus, some Friesians, and a couple of Ayrshires. It was a mile or two from the farmhouse to the common, uphill all the way, and we’d get there on tractors, tractors with no cabs, and seats with no cushions other than perhaps a bit of foam and a fertiliser bag to keep it dry. Once up there one could see twenty or thirty miles in every direction - in the winter, clouds would anchor themselves on the hill for days on end, and on those days it was invariably a wet and cold trip to the common and back. The routine was usually over by 9.30 or 10, and we’d all converge back at the farmhouse for a communal breakfast, a big huge and hearty breakfast, which necessarily had to be huge and hearty because it was on most occasions the last opportunity to eat before supper, after the day’s work was done. And it was at breakfast that the day’s work would be discussed and planned, and farm life being farm life, that depended upon the weather. And upon Garfield. Garfield was the postman. I have no idea what his full name was, whether he was Mr Garfield Someone, or Mr Someone Garfield. To all of us, he was simply Garfield. He walked from Luxborough where the Post Office was, through the meadows, past the cottage at the bottom end of the lane, up past Lower Court Farm, and finished his morning delivery at Higher Court Farm. His mother had had the round before he, and quite possibly her mother or father before that. Who knows?  Anyway, the thing was that whatever tasks Higher Court or Lower Court might address each day depended upon the weather.  And it was Garfield upon whom we all depended.  If the morning routine went as planned, we would be back at the farmhouse just in time to meet Garfield, who would predict the day’s weather with what seemed to be uncanny accuracy. If perchance we missed him because of problems with the electric fence or a sick cow, we would hopefully run into Harry Bishop astride his tractor in the lane outside our yard, just finishing his morning routine,  who had seen him a few minutes before, and who had debriefed the oracle.  Depending upon Garfield’s prognostications, we would mow grass, spread fertiliser or harrow ploughed land in the sunshine, or spend a rainy day inside the machine shed repairing equipment in the dry. The rhythm of our days was determined by this twinkly-eyed man of sixty-odd years, clothed in the same apparel day in and day out. A vest, flannel shirt, a waistcoat and jacket, blue serge trousers - and in the winter a long overcoat atop it all - and his postman’s cap. He always had time to chat, always had a boiled sweet in a waistcoat pocket to offer, and a kind word for my children, who quickly learned about the boiled sweets. After his departure, as he walked alone through the meadows, back to Luxborough, we’d breakfast and plan the day, and now and then ponder upon just how this old countryman acquired his wisdom. Was it how the cows in the meadows stood, backs to the wind? Or lay in the luxuriant greensward, chewing and truly ruminating? The calls the crows made at dawn? Blissful and sublime sunsets or disturbing and portentous sunrises? What signs and harbingers signified what? It was all a mystery, a conundrum, a riddle that bordered upon the arcane. Just what age-old rustic and esoteric secrets did this unassuming postman possess? Eventually, one morning, bothered and confounded by these unending speculations, I simply had to broach the subject: ‘Garfield, I’m just amazed that you are so accurate with the weather. How do you do it?’ A little surprised by the question, he rubbed his eyes, adjusted his cap and unwrapped a mint. Popping it into his mouth, he regarded me with a puzzled look.  ‘Well’, he said, in that soft Somerset burr, ’tis quite simple, really. I gets up at four and puts the kettle on, and then turns on the BBC, and listens to the weather. Not much to it, really.’

Chris Blackwell started Island Records in Jamaica in 1959, recording local talent. His first three releases all made the Jamaican charts. By 1962 he had set up operations in England, selling ska to Britain’s growing West Indian population, and come 1964 had a world-wide hit with Millie Small’s ‘My Boy Lollipop’. Not too long after that, he signed The Spencer Davis Group, fronted by a very young Stevie Winwood, who shortly thereafter begat Traffic and the rest, as they say, is history. Well, sort of.  Neil Storey, who started working at Island in June of 1974 in the sales force, and went on to run the company’s Press Office, has, over the years, gathered together an astonishingly complete archive of all things Island, and as the years passed by and his collection grew, he became increasingly dismayed at the amount of inaccurate information that was presented as fact. He quite rightly reasoned that in lieu of there being a well-researched history of the label, these inaccuracies would become de facto ‘facts’ and the label’s true history would become distorted and forgotten. And so began, in 2007, a work that has finally come to fruition this year with the publication of ‘The Island Book Of Records 1959-1968’ (Manchester University Press), the first of a series that will span several more volumes in total, ending in 1989, the year that Chris Blackwell sold the label to Phonogram.  Neil was posed this question by Music Week: “Why did you feel this book – or rather set of books – needed to be written?”  “The IBOR books needed to be written because, quite simply, a musical generation is dying right before our eyes. Not just the major-generals but the foot-soldiers, too. There is a direct consequence of this not being done – because if the recollections of those who were there, on the front line at the time, aren't collected then future generations will end up relying on... second-hand information at best.”  Anyone who has had even just a passing interest in popular music during the second half of the 20th century cannot fail to be aware of Island Records. From its beginnings in marketing Jamaican music in the UK, and then to Europe, and ultimately the entire world - think Bob Marley, Desmond Dekker, Toots and The Maytals, Jimmy Cliff and countless others, to waving the flag for progressive rock as exemplified by Traffic, Jethro Tull, King Crimson, Cat Stevens, Nirvana, Spooky Tooth, Fairport Convention, Mott The Hoople and so on, the label very quickly achieved iconic status, and by the end of the sixties was the preferred and very much desired home for any self-respecting band. This book tells the story of that first decade, and in intriguing depth. Not only does it catalog every Island release - yes, you read that correctly - every Island release, but also shows the cover art of every LP, in chronological order, the story of how that particular release came into being, who designed the cover art, who produced the session, who played what instrument, and the release date. Also included are memories of those who were involved with that release - sometimes the musicians, sometimes company staff who promoted, sold or physically produced the final product. The reader can lift the curtains of obscurity and take a peek at what happened, and when. And on one or two odd occasions, such as the release of 'John Foster Sings',  that reader might be heard to mutter, “Why?”  Not only are the original LP covers included, and the sleeve notes, but relevant advertisements for club dates in London - which are a joy to behold, featuring as they do a long-gone world of clubs, bands both homegrown and visiting from the USA -  - mostly long-gone too - and dozens of photos, many of them outtakes from ancient photoshoots which only go to magnify the depth of this astonishing book. Promo posters, music paper advertisements, master tape boxes, concert tickets, label shots … they are all there. There is a complete and definitive listing of all Island’s 45s, from the early Jamaican issues starting in 1959, and then the UK-based label starting in 1962, and then the legendary Sue label run by the equally legendary Guy Stevens, subsidiary labels such as Black Swan, Jump Up, Treasure Isle, Studio One, Brit and Aladdin. And more! The format is LP-sized, that is to say, twelve inches by twelve inches, and the book is a weighty two inches thick to boot. A hefty tome indeed, but its main heft is the attention to detail, a staggeringly complete collection of artefacts, reminiscences of those who were there at the time, in-depth interviews with such pivotal figures as Graeme Goodall, the Australian engineer who along with Leslie Kong, was one of Blackwell’s early partners, who explains just why those early Jamaican 45s ran no more than two minutes and fifty seconds, a detailed biography of Chris Blackwell’s family … nothing of import has been left out.  Full disclosure: One, Neil Storey is a dear friend of mine, and two, I worked at Island for many years starting in 1965, and because of my having worked there during the period that this book is concerned with, I can say with complete confidence that this is the true story, this is the real deal. Not only has nothing been left out, but he has dug up a huge amount of information that many of us who worked there never knew existed. Well done, Mr. Storey. The ‘Island Book Of Records’ is a tour de force, a magnificent and sublime work. Bring on Volume Two!

Thought I’d put up another snippet from my new novel The Lemon Tree Forest while I’m waiting for the cover to be finished - just a little taster of the parts written and based in Greece. We used to live there, a long time ago - and some of it is based on my own memories of that beautiful and distant place… …Often Hercules the shepherd will be nearby in the afternoon and you do not want to give him ideas.  And sometimes the old man whose name I never know comes down with his donkeys or mules for the water that gushes from under the carved rock.  It is just a minute's stroll up the hill from the house, and they say the water is good for aches and pains.  It is certainly wonderful to drink, but I cannot vouch for its healing quality.  Happily, I have nothing but a hangover to heal.  The older village folk believe in it though, and they send the old man with his mules and donkeys to fill his panniers.  Just above the spring there is an ancient, worn, carving that they say was done a long time before Christ was born - and if you sit and stare at it for long enough, you can see it depicts a man on a horse.  Who he was, and what the old folk know of him, I have never been able to find out.  But every once in a while a group of them come and kneel at the spring and kiss their fingers so they can touch the carving and mutter some mantra that I cannot understand.  They are unlikely to be here today.  Not in this heat.  But it is better not to go about unclothed.  I knew two English girls who sunbathed naked once on the remote half-moon beach, despite us telling them it would upset the villagers.  On the second day a crowd gathered on the clifftop and started pelting them with stones.  They had to swim away to escape, and were not welcome back to the village after that.  I make it my business never to upset the villagers, so put on a robe in case someone has come to our secret place.  There is a tree in the grove that produces a strange, bitter, hybrid fruit that is ideal for crushing.  The juice tastes like a kind of cross between lemon, orange and tangerine, and it is so sharp it can take the lining off your teeth.  You wouldn't want to eat the fruit, not only because it’s so sour, but because it is full of pips.  Crushed and mixed with a little sugar and water, though, the fruit provides a refreshing drink.  If you take an aspirin and drink a pint of the stuff, even an ouzo and beer hangover will pass, especially if you follow it with a dish of pasta, wild herbs and eggs. A long, slow, lazy lunch.  A little writing.  And before I know it, the afternoon has passed and the heat is beginning to moderate as the first breeze of the day stirs among the groves.  So regular is the afternoon wind, you could set your watch by it.  Another swim, and it is time to climb to where we keep the car.  There is a shortcut through the bush and it crosses some big black rocks where the jumping snakes live.  They bask in the heat that is more intense on the rocks, and when you disturb them they leap along escape routes like coiled springs.  “They will never bite you, but they are poisonous,” Thanassis the fisherman once told me. “They are jumping for their escape routes and as long as you let them go. No problem.” I asked him what happened if you were to get between one and its escape route. “Don’t,” said my fisherman friend. I could drive up and down the wider track that has been cut into the mountain, and sometimes do, but it is rough and my car would never return to England if I made a habit of it.  Sometimes, when we clamber down over the big black rocks in the cool of night, the surface has collected so much heat during the day that you can feel it radiating up into your face.  It is the only place I know where the rocks are still hot in the early hours of the morning.  And always, by the big black slabs, there are the rustlings of night creatures that have come there for warmth. At the car you have to open all the windows and doors and wait five minutes before you can get in, and even then the steering wheel can be too hot to touch.  But this is rural Greece - a place where waiting five minutes is regarded as an act of haste.  The V4 starts with a clatter and soon, after the hot walk up and the wait, I can enjoy the breeze blowing through the open windows.  It is wonderful and cool and it is tempting to drive fast to create more breeze.  It’s a good road on which to drive.   The bends are good - you can take them at speed when you know them and the tyres squeal a lot when I drive down to Kalloni.  All the way the car is filled with the aromas of mountain thyme and rosemary, supplemented by the sharp scent of lemon when you reach the outskirts of the village. There is one main street with a couple of tavernas, three shops, an agricultural equipment dealer and a kafeneon.  In the mornings just after dawn we drink tea laced with brandy at the latter, and late in the afternoon we go to Jorgo's Taverna.  Jorgo is a strangely aloof young man, with a nice smile and an inexhaustible enthusiasm for card games.  He seems indifferent to everything and anything that occurs in the village.  He serves drinks, plays cards, eats the food his aged mother provides.  And that is all he does.

Today is Halloween - or so I’m told. I don’t go down the Halloween route like so many people do nowadays - probably because of my age - it was never a thing when I was growing up in the West Country. But, as a newspaper feature writer I was often asked to write about the most spooky day in the calendar - and here is a piece I did for the Western Morning News many years ago… Punky Night will be upon us soon and the Spriggans of West Penwith, the Black Dogs of various hapless West Country parishes, the wicked vicars of Luxulyan and elsewhere, the mad bad squires of Devon, the Whisht Hounds of Exmoor and Dartmoor, phantom doves of West Somerset and other sundry pariahs, phantoms and ghosts will be stirring in their graves or wherever else they hang out for most of the year.  Punky Night is Somerset-speak for Halloween - a punky being naught but a hollowed out mangel-wurzel carved into a face and lit from within. When I was growing up in the shadows of the Quantock Hills, we didn't go in for Halloween much. I can't recall any of the village kids embarking on the trick-or-treat rigmarole they do today. Perhaps it was because we were a more puritanical lot back then - non-conformist Christianity still held much of the rural West Country in its iron and wrathful grip.  Nowadays just about every child in the region seems to venture forth on the night of October 31st, and the whole thing is regarded as a kind of massive, compulsory, party.  Goodness knows what famous West Country supernatural beings like the Spriggans or wraiths like Whisht Hounds, wicked vicars, mad bad squires and infamously spooky doves would think. Why bother chasing hapless folk to their death on the high moors and other remote places if the so-called victims regard the whole thing as a jolly nocturnal jape? We Somerset kids half a century ago would have been far too afeared of the phantom-filled dark to go marching about banging on people’s doors. We’d tentatively hollow-out the odd mangel-wurzel in time honoured fashion to form a spooky face flickering in the glow of an interior candle - which we’d then mount in our rain-lashed gardens before locking the door behind us. Only the posher families, by the way, had pumpkins back in those days.  But, for the most part, Halloween was a low-key occasion. It wasn't always like that here in the West Country, of course. After all, we invented the event...  More than 2,000 years ago the Celtic folk who haunted these parts celebrated their New Year around the end of October, beginning of November.  Quite sensible when you think about it, as the occasion marked - still marks - the end of summer and the beginning of winter. They called the festival Samhain, and for them it was a time associated with human death.  The Celts believed that on the night before their New Year, the border between the worlds of the living and the dead became blurred. They thought that ghosts returned to earth on the night of October 31st and went around the place causing trouble and damaging crops. They also believed that the spirits made it easier for the Druid priests to make predictions about the future. It's thought the West Country locals would light huge sacred bonfires, where people gathered to burn animal sacrifices to the Celtic deities. During these celebrations, weird and wonderful costumes would be worn - you know the sort of thing - animal heads, skins, antlers... And, so dressed, the priests would go about telling fortunes.  You might think all this would have died its own death once the Romans had conquered the western parts of Britain. In fact, they combined it with two festivals of their own. The first was Feralia, a day in late October when the Romans traditionally commemorated the passing of the dead. The second was a festival to honour Pomona, the Roman goddess of fruit and trees. Her symbol was the apple, and the incorporation of this celebration into Samhain might explain the tradition of "bobbing" for apples that is practised today on Halloween.  The apple was always the most important of all fruits connected with the spooky ceremony. It was thought to be a sort of a link between men and gods, and West Country folk apparently went as far as to believe in a sort of 'apple-land' - called Avalon - where they thought the gods lived.  The Allan apples of Cornwall were supposed to bring good luck. All you had to do was eat one. I, alas, have never heard of this variety but would be most interested to hear from anyone who has. In Devon and Somerset people believed that apples could reveal the identity of their future love. Method: comb your hair at midnight while eating an apple in front of a mirror - look up and there will be your future lover's visage peering down at you in the reflection. This was more likely to meet with success after having imbibed freely of that well known West Country by-product of the apple - cider... When Christianity came along it, of course, scorned the pagan rituals. But the popes of old were not daft - they knew they had to keep the natives friendly with some sort of knees-up to replace earlier high times. In the seventh century, Pope Boniface IV designated November 1st All Saints' Day. The celebration was also called All-hallows or (from Middle English Alholowmesse meaning All Saints' Day) and the night before it, the night of Samhain, began to be called All-hallows Eve - eventually, Halloween.  Later, sometime around 1000 A.D., the church made November 2nd All Souls' Day, when believers could honour the dead - just like old times. Together, the three celebrations, the eve of All Saints', All Saints', and All Souls', were called Hallowmass. As late as the last century the belief lingered on in several West Country parishes that the local church was a place best avoided during the darkest of all dark nights. There seemed to have been two separate ideas behind the fear - one legend had it that the Devil himself would take to the pulpit and reel off a list of evil-doers in the parish - mortals he regarded as being his own property. The other belief centred on the idea that you could risk seeing your own future if you entered the church then turned to gaze out through the porch.   The American tradition of "trick-or-treating" probably dates back to the early All Souls' Day parades in England. During the festivities, the poor would beg for food and would be given pastries called "soul cakes" in return for a promise to pray for the donor's dead relatives. The practice was taken up enthusiastically by children who would go around the villages asking for food and money. Exactly why our trans-Atlantic cousins took to Halloween in such a big way is something of a mystery, but it obviously had something to do with the fact that so many early immigrants came from the western fringes of Europe, like the West Country. We had our Punky Night mangel-wurzels - the Irish had exactly the same carved root crop routine, but called it Jack O' Lantern. Today Halloween is far bigger in the United States than it is in the land of its birth. It is estimated that Americans spend $2.5 billion annually on the event making it the country's second largest commercial holiday. They're welcome to it. Give me a hollow mangel-wurzel and a candle - and I'll raise a glass of cider to the dead or anyone else for that matter. The Americans can keep their gothic baubles and their Disney-esque ideas - we have the real thing over here - like the Whisht Hounds and the Spriggans to keep us company on the darkest nights if we really want to be scared.

Last night I went down to Watchet to see the high tide - and took my trusty camera-phone with me. The harbour looks amazing when a very high tide comes up the Bristol Channel. It got me thinking about an article I wrote for the Western Morning News 23 years ago - an article which I reproduce here, despite it being very old news. There is something surprising and unexpected about Watchet. It's hard to say what exactly, but it has about it the tang of salt and the twang of sea-shanty, and even though it's closer to inland Britain than any other West Country port, it has deep ocean in its veins. It is a town more full of enigmas and idiosyncrasies than any other I know. For instance, it has been sitting on its crumbling Somerset cliffs since before records began, and yet it has the feel of a community that has been scooped up lock-stock-and-barrel from the north of England and deposited on the West Country coast. Nearer to Merseyside than Minehead you might say. And often, when you go there, the tide has disappeared halfway to Wales so that a first-time visitor could be forgiven for thinking that the sea has forsaken the place altogether. Six hours later, the second highest tidefall in the world has pulled back that same sea so that it is beating at the very doors of the ancient town. The list of oddities goes on: for instance, many places have a town crier but Watchet goes one further - it has an official swine-herd as well... It boasts the largest museum collection of flat-bottomed boats anywhere in the world, has one of the smallest commercial radio stations in the country and worships in a church named after a saint who was thanked by locals for his preachings by having his head cut off. The town is supposed to be run by an ancient organ of local authority known as a Court Leet, but members only meet once a year and only then if a secret recipe rum punch is served to them. It's famous as being the last home and maybe resting place of Yankee Jack who was the deep water mariner who gave us such shanties and songs as 'A Rovin', 'Rio Grande', 'Shenondoa' and 'The sailor Likes His Bottle O' and many, many more. But though he was born and he died here, no-one knows where John Short (as he was more properly known) is buried. I could go on and tell you that this is the only place in Europe where men catch prawns with disused bicycle wheels, where men once hunted for eels with dogs, where Daniel Defoe was sufficiently moved by Watchet fossils to write about them; the very place indeed, which inspired the poet Coleridge to pen 'The Ancient Mariner'. Suffice to say that Watchet is an enigma. It is a place well worth visiting soon before the look and feel of the place changes forever, as it will if half the town has its way and sees the building of a marina which is scheduled to be started this year. That half the town doesn't want the marina is simply par for the course in a place like Watchet. After all, there can be few communities which would even think of spurning a £5.1 million injection of cash designed to kick-start the local economy. At the moment the town is awaiting the results of an official enquiry which was held at the end of last year to study the potential closing of the commercial harbour. A closure would require an Act of Parliament, one which will not be contemplated until the results of the enquiry are published at the end of this month. "We hope it will go through," journalist Tony James told me from his office high above The Esplanade. He is Chairman of the Watchet Boat Owners Association, so you might expect him to be backing the building of a multi-million pound marina where now there is only mud... "It's not really that," groans Mr James. "I just can't understand what people have got against this development which really is an incredible opportunity for the town. There hasn't been a cargo boat in here since 1993 - things have changed in the shipping industry and, what with insurance and everything, ship-owners are not happy for their vessels to dry out every tide - which at Watchet they have to do. "The mud in the harbour has now built up to a dangerous level. In the middle it's over 12 feet deep and increasing at a foot a year. This development could be the answer to a lot of problems and it would undoubtedly be popular with the rapidly growing Bristol Channel boating fraternity - bringing all sorts of new business to the town." It all sounds convincing enough, but many local people are against the development which includes provision for 18 new homes to be built on the East Quay which was once the port's centre of commercial operations. "More than half the town is against it if you look at the results of a privately commissioned referendum," says fine art dealer Nick Cotton who is a third generation businessman in Watchet with a shop in the main street. "For a start we don't believe the artist's impressions of how this thing will look. I could almost live with what's been portrayed with boats bobbing about - but we believe the water level won't be much higher than the existing silt level, so the whole look of the thing will be far different from what's being claimed. "But people are most unhappy with the housing development," according to Mr Cotton, "They'd far rather see an all-weather tourist attraction being built on the East Quay, which is something the town needs much more than a place for a few boats belonging to people who don't even live here." At the moment Watchet is a town divided and some people grumble privately that things are getting a bit personal. It's a hot potato which is set to run and run. No doubt the big decisions will be reported in the WMN and I'd be better employed here explaining some of those Watchet oddities. For a start - the industrial, northern look of the place. Well, this was the once the scene of what could be described as an 'iron-rush' when thousands of Welsh miners turned up to help with the iron-ore mines in the nearby Brendon Hills. It was a short-lived affair in the second half of the 1800's, but a special railway was built linking Watchet with the mines and there are still plenty of Williams, Griffiths and Davies left to bear witness to these demographics to this day. Also to this day the town is somewhat dominated to the south by the huge paper mill which has provided West Somerset with its biggest single source of employment and its only industrial factory for more than a century. As for the swine-herd, he really is an officer appointed by the Court Leet which meets once a year with few powers left since the good old days when its members ruled the manorial roost, save for the keeping of the secret recipe of a strong rum punch. The Watchet Boat Museum is genuinely thought to have the largest collection of antique, flat-bottomed boats anywhere in the world, and you can see them in the re-purposed railway shed opposite the station. As for that beheaded saint, he was able to stick his head back on with the help of curative waters still to be found at St Decuman's Well. In the summer local people still catch prawns by hurling net-filled bicycle wheels over the pier on ropes, but they no longer use terriers for the antediluvian sport of glatting in which congers were hunted in their crannies along the beach. Coleridge and Defoe really did write about this enigmatic port and now, in the most humble of ways, so have I - in the hopes that you will visit the place and witness its idiosyncrasies for yourself.

As regular visitors will have noticed, this website recently relocated on a temporary basis to Sri Lanka for a wonderful taster trip with Hayes & Jarvis - very wonderful and enjoyable it was too - but there’s always the slightly boring aspect of having to negotiate a large international airport. in our case this often means parking - because, like a lot of people, we don’t live near to the main UK airport hubs. It is 160 miles to Heathrow from our West Country base, so I booked a slot with Purple Parking, a well known company which part of the Holiday Extras group. There system is cheap and easy to use - so i’d recommend them if you are ever having to park near one of the airports they service. And by the time you’ve made that long drive on busy British roads, you really want to relax before taking your long haul flight - which is why we contacted Holiday Extras who sorted lounge facilities at Terminal 3 for us. i was talking to their representative this week and agreed to carry a note of the benefits… This is what he replied…. Getting through the airport can come with its stresses, especially when you’re finding snacks, meals and other pre-flight necessities with the family in tow. An airport lounge offers an oasis of calm away from the bustle of departures, with comfortable seating as well as food, drink and WiFi laid on – it helps you unwind and relax before your flight, getting you in the holiday mood before you fly. Booking an airport lounge is easy – all you’ll need is a lead passenger name, group size, and flight details (flight number, departure date and time, etc). When you’ve entered those, you can select an entry time and choose from the selection of lounges at the airport you’re travelling from. It’s as simple as that. Most airports book slots in 3-hour time slots, so to make the most of the lounge before your flight – Holiday Extras recommends booking in 3 hours before your scheduled departure time. That way you can make the most of your allocated time in the lounge, using the facilities and taking advantage of the benefits they offer before you need to head to your gate to board the flight. The easiest way to book a lounge is to download the Holiday Extras app. Once you’ve entered the details there, all the lounges that have availability will be presented – making it easy for you to compare and decide on which one you’d like to use. Airport lounges can be as cheap as £26 per person – but it really depends on what kind of space you’re looking for, as different lounges offer different things.  For example, Aspire is Europe’s largest brand of airport lounge, and includes everything you could need to have the perfect start to your trip; comfortable seats, food and drink, and a relaxed space. Its lounge at Inverness Airport is available for just under £26 per person, so it’s a great option if you’re looking for a budget-friendly option.   If you’re looking for something a bit more luxurious – Clubrooms by No1 Lounges would be worth considering. Its lounge at Gatwick is priced from £42 per person, and for the added cost holidaymakers can make the most of a tranquil setting with plush furniture, a seasonal menu designed exclusively for lounge guests, and first-class service from its staff. Holiday Extras offers 116 lounges across airports in 44 countries around the world. This includes all UK airports, popular family friendly locations like France, Italy, Spain and Greece, and even further afield in destinations like Mexico, Malaysia and the Maldives. Every year, Holiday Extras researches how much UK holidaymakers spend in departures at the airport whilst they wait for a plane – with its most recent data showing that it’s an average of £23 each. This is higher than the £21 they were spending before the pandemic, with many people simply heading to the shops and spending to pass the time. With lounges starting from as little as £26 per person, the research shows that in many cases it’s actually cheaper to book a lounge – and not only do you get most things that holidaymakers buy in departures (food, drink, wifi, magazines, etc) included within the entry price, but a comfortable, quiet and relaxing space away from the bustle of departures.