Avoidance Tactics and that Menu At The Cragwood

Supposed to be spending a few days at a luxury hotel in Windermere but I called it off, mainly because the great reopening is something of a letdown. Things are half open and that which we can do involves standing around in queues a lot and wearing masks. So I cried off, citing problems with leg and hip on my paralyzed side.

Then I made the mistake of looking at the gallery pix of the menu at the Cragwood Hotel where my daughter Gabby had booked us in. Pretentious does not even begin to describe the food on offer, and when I saw confit of swede as one on my five – a – day it was too much. A swede is a Mongol Wurzel, a big red turnip. I’m from Shropshire and I remember from my childhood down on the farm (ooh arr, ooh arr,) that Mangol Wurzels are mainly grown as winter feed for cattle.

confit=of-swede

I guess the orange blobs in the foreground are confit of swede. But fuck me, what are you supposed to do with that, eat it or enter it for the Turner Prize

Seriously, I wasn’t keen on going to the lakes anyway, I had hoped to go to N. Wales, dragging son Dave with Debbie along so I could take Gabby and the kids to the top of Snowdon. It was something I could join in from a wheelchair; I said Gabby Dave and the kids could walk up while me and Debbie (bad back) would take the mountain railway. Gabby was up for that but Dave was not so keen.

But it was clear stuff was not going to be open because every time the deadline for lifting restrictions gets near, the mathematical modelling wankers come up with a new scare story. So my next idea was to go to Seahouses in Northumberland and stay at the Bamburgh Castle Hotel and go over the causeway to Lindisfarne ( # me me on the corner when the lights are coming on and I’ll be there, I promise I’ll be there # …) and visit Bamburgh Castle, but no I got my arm twisted to go to the lakes (like I got my arm twisted to get a stupidphone instead of a burner)  and sure, the view of Windermere would be very nice but I saw Windermere a lot when I was schlepping up and down to Workington and Whitehaven. I haven’t spent much time in Northumberland.

It’s true about my leg and hip, they’re terrible at the moment, and then to raise my hopes only for them to be shattered again, I’ll get an odd hour when walking feels almost normal, but slower. And then everything tightens up again.  Bollocks.

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