Bourton-on-the-Water

This marks the beginning of what will hopefully be a quartet of blog entries on tourist hotspots around Oxford, England, with distinctly unprofessional photography and subsequent editing carried out by yours truly. So, we begin with Bourton-on-the-Water, part of the Cotswolds - one of the UK's AONBs. Fortunately for me (and, probably to a greater extent, you) the photos will do most of the talking; a picture speaks a thousand words, after all. I will be tempted to list what each of those thousand words are, of course.

This is the River Windrush which flows through the heart of the village. Although there's no sign of showy boats or Italians playing romantic music, it's easy to see how BotW is often compared with Venice.

As the Windrush deepens you can only cross on the footbridges such as the one above. Just in front of this one, on the left side of the image, you can see a ramp leading into the water: surprisingly, that's a legal road for vehicles, although I think anything smaller than a 4x4 is unrecommended.

These trees are the sentinels of the route if you will, hanging over the river on the left and the lane farther right. If any naturalist (or someone who simply isn't ecologically ignorant) can identify them for me, then please do.

This is the shallower end of the river, where plenty of children and dogs can be seen paddling and splashing. The creatures at the top are, as I imagine you've discerned, ducks. According to my auntie, specifically they are mallards, and while I love a good argument I'm in no position to disagree. If it gets your back up that I've bothered to capture one of the most commonly sighted species in the country, then scroll the hell down. :P

Haha! Another duck!

...And another...

...Everyone loves a good duck...

...OK, I'll stop now.

How did that end up here?

Moving swiftly on...

This gift shop is one of the traditional places you'd expect to find at any British tourist destination. In keeping with that tradition, there are several cafes serving cream teas, a chippy, and a couple of sweet shops.

A shot of my uncle and auntie with what I thought was a nice, scenic backdrop.

A motor museum on the other side of the bridge pictured earlier. On the left you can see a model car seemingly fashioned from wire.

A war memorial in the village's central park decorated by floral wreaths. Precisely what it is memorialising I don't know as the only inscriptions are the names of the fallen. It is most likely one of the many monuments for WWI/II, situated all over the country.

I felt this tree was sufficiently oddly shaped to warrant a photo. :P Look closely and it resembles a teddy bear, I reckon.

A view of one side of BotW...

...And the other side.

We only perused the entrance of this park, but may return to it later.

Upon closer inspection through the bars it's possible to spot some fish which I believe to be trout (don't ask me which kind). If you can't put your finger on them, try the next photo...

Yeah, they're much clearer here.

These are waterfowl captured just inside Birdland's entrance. On most pictures I've reduced the bright glare, but in this instance it gives the birds' feathers an elegant shimmer. See? I can be artsy-fartsy! Oh, and if you're curious to find out how I knew what they're called, given my limited knowledge of..things...

...Here's your answer. :P

Part of the entrance to the rather lazily named Birdland.

Another one of my auntie Helen. The section of the water where we saw the waterfowl is behind.

And to end we have this peculiarity, on the other side of the bars you saw earlier. Aesthetically it's..er..not up to much, so I can only surmise that it's imitating a wasp to scare something off, but I can't think what or why. Ideas?

Thus concludes my cyber-tour of Bourton-on-the-Water. You'd better have smegging enjoyed it, because the image tool on this site is rather awkward, so it took an age to structure. Providing the weather is fine I shall return with a similar presentation of Kidlington soon.

Catch you later,
Ryan

Advancement, progress and all things suggesting forward mobility

It has occurred to me that I haven't blogged in more than a month, which is woefully reminiscent of my past habits. Usually my life trundles along on an uninspiring monotone of predictability, but in actual fact a lot has happened since I last gave electronic, textual voice to my various musings. I am currently snuggled up in a delightfully comfy double-quilted bed in my auntie and uncle's Oxford home, gleefully finding any excuse to use my brand-bloody-spanking new laptop (link to photos and specs...).

That's one new development. I feel slightly guilty that my parents bought it for me, especially given its high-end price tag, but it's not as though I pleaded them sycophantically to buy it; and even if I had, I wouldn't have asked them to part with anything like as much cash. Thing is, my parents have fewer chances to mollycoddle me now I am not living with them, and dad in particular sees financial and material generosity as a decent substitute for that. No matter, what's done is done and the end result is a gorgeous piece of kit with an illuminated Acer logo on the back. Nice.

So, what else is new? Well, over the summer I'm pleased to say I've had what I term 'meaningful' employment - i.e. work that's above the minimum wage and that you feel is serving a purpose beyond slave labour for opportunistic companies. In short, I switched from student to teacher. First of all I was tasked by my Russian tutor (also the co-founder of a local language school) to assist in the teaching of English to Russian students, who were visiting Devon for a fortnight. The pay wasn't brilliant, but to experience the classroom environment when the shoe's on the other foot was valuable, and it also gave me opportunities to brush up on my Russian, which notoriously dwindles during the summer (I'm not at school, so it doesn't stay fresh).

Secondly, from Tuesday to Friday this week I taught some of my uncle's employees (he runs a security firm) basic Russian. The reason for this is that they have a Russian client, who is, let's say, quite the VIP. I would love to gossip, but I signed a confidentiality agreement, and it's all very hush-hush, which in a way is quite exciting, heh. £50 a day for that, and I may be doing some more in the coming weeks. I'm hoping the client will be at home if/when I return, just so I can shake his hand and reel off a quick conversation in Russian with him. That would suffice as a claim to fame for me. :P

What else? Family springs to mind. My dad's side in particular was rattled by the recent passing of my step-grandfather. I feel sorry for my dad and his three siblings: they had to endure the deaths of both of their biological parents at a young age, and now the closest person they had to a parent is no longer a part of their lives either. My dad and my uncle Ian (who I'm staying with at the moment) were left predominantly responsible for funeral arrangements, solicitors, the will, and the clearance and ongoing sale of the old property. This is partly because they are the two eldest of the next of kin, but also because, gently put, they're the two with the money, responsibility and worldly wisdom to organise everything. The situation was exacerbated by the suddenness of granddad's death and his lack of life insurance.

Still, everything proceeded as smoothly as can be expected. I probably only saw my step-granddad a dozen times, and of course he wasn't a blood relative, so I always had a fairly neutral feeling towards him. My cousin, Allison, however, was close to him, and it was sitting next to her at the funeral that made me tearful. I fully expected to remain dry-eyed, but I learned so much more about Brian Loughborough during the ceremony, and with that clearer perspective on his life, the finality of death dealt a firm emotional blow. I was just so upset for everyone in the family who was close to him. The world is a cruel place sometimes, a fact that was epitomised in the graveyard as I read the epitaphs of a boy aged 9... a girl aged 6... a boy aged 18 months. Tell me, how can anyone say there is a benevolent god watching over us when I can walk past something that makes my heart shrivel like those infant tombstones? Even if those poor children are in heaven, the bereaved are not and have to endure that heartbreak for as long as they live. They can't even commit suicide to be with their loved ones sooner, because suicide is a mortal sin punished by eternal damnation. If that is the moral code of a loving god, then he doesn't deserve to be worshipped.

Sorry for the maudlin nature of that last paragraph. This is a space for me to air my thoughts, and I feel better for having done so. If I have offended anyone of a religious persuasion with my comments here, then I apologise, but please at least see the logic behind what I have said. That is the only negative aspect of my life I can think of right now, so it ought to be more cheerful from here on in.

Later,
Ryan

I hate buses

If there really is a fellow down in that fiery lake with a red pitchfork, I don't think he has the tyrannical or apocalyptic tendencies for which he is so renowned. Let's face it: if he wanted to bring about the destruction of Earth, subjugation of mankind or similar wickedness, he would have done it by now; after all, God doesn't seem to have much clout nowadays - at least not in my atheistic and hopefully inoffensive view. No, I think the Devil is more a jester who gets a kick out of winding people up.

Buses evidence my theory. Having finished a day's work at South Devon College on Friday afternoon, I was walking into the car park towards a free lift home when I got a text - from my boss, asking me to stick around until the minibus arrives to pick up some students (Russian students who are studying there - I'm a teaching assistant). "OK," I thought, "last time I had to stay, the bus was late, but I'm sure it won't be this time." It was, by half an hour. By this time the lift was unavailable and the rain showed no signs of easing. My only other recourse? A bus. A Stagecoach bus. I'd been waiting at the shelter for around 15 minutes when a 12C pulled up, and then for another couple of minutes outside its doors while the driver shuffled his papers. Once he'd sufficiently milked the 'you're getting wet and I'm not' routine (although, in his defence, it would be a literal impossibility to shuffle papers after I boarded), I asked if he was heading past Paignton Zoo. Naturally, he wasn't, and I apparently needed a 12A. 20 minutes later another 12C arrived which, given previous instruction, I ignored, shortly followed by the desired 12A. After this bus stopped I saw the driver swap sheets of paper where the route number is displayed (yes, he did do this before opening the doors), leading me to mumble "If you're no longer a ****ing 12A..." or sentiments to that effect. He eventually let me on, so I parroted my question about the zoo. "No, you need the bus that just left" came the reply. "Have you switched routes?" I then queried with embarrassing uncertainty. "Yeees." The developing enigma of bus routes was bad enough, but what made me truly cringe was the condescension in his voice, as though I were asking whether A is the first letter in the Roman alphabet. If I were in the mood for sarcasm I'd say you have a large penis which women don't find repulsive, but it's surprising how mundane lengths of time in the rain and on aching feet ebb away at one's sense of humour. Twatflap.

I walked home in the end, which took another half-hour. Unpleasant. A pox on you, Satan!

Anyway, we successfully moved house. I remain in Paignton, now with my grandparents, whilst ma and pa (I really should call them that...) are at the other end of the country. Nothing beats a bit of polarisation. It's incredible how much junk I've accumulated over the years: books, documents, equipment and sundries are all crammed into a limited space, but all grievances are allayed by the vast wonders of the double bed. Xbox functionality is present but diminished. My 27" HD telly wouldn't fit, so I have to settle for a smaller, low-def model. Worse still, I don't have Xbox Live set up. If I can find a certain WPA key, however, I'll be able to connect to a network with a whole one bar of signal strength! Result! Undoubtedly there will be an issue with the MTU or ICMP, or failing that my NAT is sure to be stricter than Hitler's foreign policy. (You must have had Xbox headaches to fully understand this calamity.)

Still, overall things aren't too shabby. My brain is keeping very active with all the coffee-break games in my grandparents' daily newspapers. By September I ought to be extraordinarily intelligent, and dull. You'll have the chance to watch that transformation through future blog entries. This entry, however, must draw to a close. It's gone midnight and my eyes are probably bloodshot.

Rock on and rock out,
Ryan

So much change...

It's been a very long time since I last blogged. I can feel the tendrils of nostalgia dancing wistfully at the back of my mind. Evidently I am still a wannabe poet, but I have been confronted with many changes since the days of 'Rigmarole of an Adolescent Cynic', and with more still to come. I'm as inclined to verbiage as I ever was, but here's my best attempt at a concise summary of all new things in the life of Ryan:

We moved house. My parents were sick to the bone with their respective jobs, and decided to trade that lifestyle in for self-employment: a convenience store to be precise, with..well..compact accommodation above it. Unfortunately, ownership of the premises changed hands shortly after negotiations with the leaseholder began, and the new landlord is, in short, a total twat. The lease had expired, so we couldn't take it on until it was renewed, and the landlord's actions were tantamount to a refusal to do so. He would only ever make contact to 'negotiate' the annual rent to be assigned to the lease; I put this in inverted commas because the only figures that he plucked out of thin air, contary to all legality, logic and courtesy, were roughly double what the incumbent leaseholder was paying. He has an obligation to proudce a renewal for the lease, but 18 months on he still has not done so. Our solicitor has been breathing down his neck persistently, but to no avail. The only other option is to challenge this landlord in court, and we can't afford to do that. British business law is one giant, steaming dog turd.

In the meantime, my dad has continued a wholly miserable existence as Shift Manager for a regional call centre, and mum, having already left her original job, was making ends meet with demoralising, minimum-wage labour. Living like this is eating away at both our savings and morale. It's no longer viable, so we're moving again - the nomadic Loughboroughs. I say 'we', but not collectively. My parents are relocating to County Durham, around 400 miles north-east of here, near to my dad's hometown, because housing there is comparatively cheap. I, however, really wasn't up for that. I'm off to Sheffield uni in just over three months, so I'd rather not discard the closing moments of my time with the people and places I've come to know and love, nor have to acclimatise to a new place only to leave it soon after. Instead, I'll be living with my grandparents, locally. Wild parties are off the menu, but exquisite sponge cakes and a double bed are very much on the cards!

Speaking of uni, that's another development: education. I've been a mostly apathetic yet fortunately successful cog in the educational machine for 13 years - years which have passed with dizzying speed. The last exam of my last year takes place tomorrow, and what a way to end it all: General Studies! The grade I obtain in this will have no bearing on my uni placement whatsoever; in fact, the only discernible reason as to why the school makes us do it is that they receive extra funding (sorry, a bit of the old cynic muscling its way to the front there). To those of you who aren't familiar with this exam, well, I'm almost as clueless as you. In essence your typical General Studies candidate writes a few essays on such sentiments as "the icecaps are melting", "Scrapheap Challenge is quality programming", and "Gordon Brown's an idiot". One can only deduce from the A-U grades for this subject that there is a right and a wrong way to express these things. *shrug*

There are other changes I wanted to describe this evening, but my attention span won't allow it. The title and description of this blog give one indication, plus some activities have been, are and/or will be occupying my time. I will hopefully broach these subjects another day. As a concluding thought, I reckon I'll pop into town after my exam and buy Feeder's new album, 'Silent Cry'. I'm not as opposed to illegal downloading as I used to be, but I still think certain goods are worthy of my disposable income. Take THAT, credit crunch!

Until the next time I have that autobiographical urge...

Hugs and love,
Ryan