ST KITTS PART 3 AND HOLKHAM PARKRUN
Jane at Timothy Hill
We will finish off on the island of St Kitts this week before we recount a parkrun a little closer to home.
To summarise, we picked up the tour bus and our guide, Moses, just outside the port gates in Basseterre, the island’s capital, prior to driving around the town itself.
As we left the metropolitan area, that might be an exaggeration, it’s about the same size as a moderately populated Norfolk market town, we took in the local cenotaph, studied how egrets evolved their ways to avoid the Indian mongoose, learned of the atrocity committed at Bloody Point, tasted soursop picked directly from the tree, learned the origin of the seventeenth‑century hymn “Amazing Grace,” and visited an old sugar plantation where we enjoyed Carib beer and rum punches in the shade of a now redundant punishment tree, at least I hope it was redundant.
Now we were off to see Timothy Hill.
I was intrigued to find out who he was, and why he was so famous or, given these parts, infamous.
We drove into a rather well‑to‑do, gentrified area.
Mansion‑style houses backed onto an incredibly well‑manicured golf course.
Jane described the fairways as such a lovely shade of green it was hard to believe they were real, the greens were exquisitely curated with fluttering flags standing out against the ground and the brilliant blue of the sky, and the sand in the bunkers was a pristine white with little toy rakes on stands awaiting employment to one side or the other.
Honestly, if I were a golfer I think I would have thought I had died and gone to golf heaven.
Luckily for me, I am not but am a walker, and it is without any doubt whatsoever, golf ruins a damned good walk in the country.
Perhaps Timmy Hill is the golf pro, and we were to get some lessons or, maybe, he owned one of the mansions backing onto the fairways and we would be entertained on the terrace with more Carib beer and rum punches.
I know which I would have preferred.
No, we kept on going and very soon the view was obscured by the dust cloud thrown up by our wheels.
After short minutes we pulled into a car park with generous views of the, well, the sea.
“This must be where we are going to meet Mr Hill,” I said.
“No,” replied Jane. “This is Timothy Hill. It is a place. We are on it. It is a viewing point.” She didn’t need to add that she had told me so, but I know she wanted to.
Given that the empty ocean was just about all we had seen every day since leaving Southampton, nearly a month earlier, I wasn’t feeling inspired.
I should have been, though, for this wasn’t any old sea.
No sir, this was the very point where the Atlantic Ocean met the Caribbean Sea.
I wonder if it was my lack of vision, but I couldn’t get over‑excited, I think I may have got more out of watching the grass grow on the tenth green.
This imaginary point, or was it an imaginary line, is rather important to mariners, it marks the moment they have arrived in the West Indies.
We stood atop a magnificent viewing lookout but, and I am truly sorry to admit this, I was positively underwhelmed, one body of water looks very much like the one it is joined to.
There wasn’t, at least to me at any rate, any discernible difference between wave formations or even the colour.
It simply didn’t do it for me.
I am sure there are members of the WBBA, Water Body Border Association, who become so ecstatic at standing here that they develop goose bumps and start drooling with excitement.
To think that these people don’t even need a glass of wine for a fulfilling life.
Perhaps there will be some on the ship banging on about it over dinner tonight.
I am not sure that there actually is a WBBA.
Robert pictured with tour guide, Moses
If you ever find you are visiting St Kitts’ shores, I heartily recommend Moses to you all.
His contact details are below.
Speaking about dinner, we elected to sit at a sharing table.
This always fills one with equal amounts of dread and excitement at the same time.
You pays your money and you takes your choice.
One night earlier in the cruise we had sat on a table with a couple who knew everything there was to know about the impending takeover of Earth by aliens who were hiding on the other side of the sun, out of sight to us unsuspecting humans, cunning devils.
I did make notes at the time but will regale the tale at a later date, all I can remember is that, as the main course was delivered, we had only got as far as how the supersonic, solar‑powered, nuclear‑digesting thruster booster engines worked.
I am not quite sure I have the particulars right but, frankly, I was losing the will to resist wine.
Who on earth said the world doesn’t look any better through the bottom of a glass.
Well, just trying to listen to a couple of alien fantasists wittering on about the end of the world.
Fortunately, this was not one of those evenings, they are thankfully most rare, we were seated on a table with a real funny woman, she even made Sarah Millican look tame.
Wendy was her name and, boy, had she lived.
She told us of how she went into one of the many laundry rooms on the ship.
After she had finished with the washing and drying she bagsed an ironing board.
I am not sure what she was ironing, possibly her smalls, not that they would have been that small, a man removed some items from a washing machine.
One piece dropped on the floor with a bit of a thud, a lovely old lady, she was ninety if she was a day, bent down to pick it up for him.
“Thank you,” he said as he took the proffered piece, and didn’t bat an eyelid.
The man left, washing complete, maybe he was going to dry it on his balcony or, just maybe, he couldn’t wait to get the item back to his partner.
As the door closed the naive, ignorant, I’m really not sure which, perhaps blissfully unaware, turned to Wendy and said, “I don’t think you are meant to wash those in a washing machine, do you.”
Wendy wasn’t quite sure how to respond.
“Oh?” was all she could muster.
“No, I think that is probably why it has gone so hard.”
“Oh!” was all she could think of saying again.
“It is certainly more durable than mine,” added the lady. “Mine only lasted me the one go.”
“Oh,” said Wendy for a third time, before asking, “What was it?”
“Well,” said the lady, perhaps looking for the catch in the question. “It was one of those head dresses from the fancy‑dress evening… I think.”
Okay, thought Wendy, swallowing hard, and breathing even harder, whilst thinking you could only dress up in that if you were going as a unicorn.
“It was a strap‑on, dear.”
The lady looked at Wendy for what seemed like long seconds before speaking.
“What a good idea. Mine always comes off if I get too active. I usually use pins to put mine on.”
Wendy, doing her best to suppress a laugh, changed the subject.
“Did you have a nice day today?”
Jane and I spent the rest of the cruise looking at every couple with a curious suspicion.
Robert in his flamboyant Caribbean shirt
Just one thing before I finish.
Some friends, who shall remain nameless, whose names begin with R and K, Caribbean veterans both, suggested I should get a dazzling Caribbean shirt.
I was most reluctant so, despite my protestations, Jane disappeared into a colourful shirt store and came out with what I am sporting in the picture.
I was not a happy bunny. It is so not me.
She dared me to wear it to dinner that very night and, do you know what, other passengers whom we had got to know claimed that it wasn’t flamboyant enough.
It is still hanging in the wardrobe.
Some people have more money than sense!
Find Out More
St Kitts Tourist Authority: https://www.visitstkitts.kn
Nature’s Paradise Tours: there is not a dedicated website but you can contact Moses at kwesimoses1237@gmail.com or by phone or WhatsApp on +1 869 763 9477
Wingfield Manor Estate: https://www.wingfieldmanorestate.com
White Cane Ratings*©
We didn’t get off at all points, but I have allocated white canes where we did.
Nature’s Paradise Tours: very good; one or two steps up onto the bus - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
Wingfield Estate: very good – careful of prickly trees - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
Timothy Hill: good; some steps onto lookout - 🦯 🦯 🦯 (3)
Holkham Parkrun from the perspective of Robert, a blind runner
HOLKHAM PARKRUN
This is an odd one. I have now completed Holkham parkrun on a number of occasions and can’t believe I have never featured it in these pages. It has taken me a while to recognise this, but I shall now rectify the omission from my parkrun recollections. Here goes.
Holkham Estate has to be the most glorious country estate anywhere in the land. Okay, I am biased so I would say that wouldn’t I. I have visited the house several times, enjoyed lapping up the tranquillity of the walled garden, walked many times around the grounds and promenaded around the lake.
Add to this the acres of beach, dunes and pine woods and, it is my belief that you will not find a match anywhere. It is full of the most diverse and amazing wildlife imaginable, albeit without lions, elephants and the like.
Nature is at the forefront of all good things that happen within the 23,000 acres, the owners hold another 2,000 acres at Castle Acre as well. Now, wouldn’t that make an attractive spot for a new parkrun. You can even stumble across humans in a natural environment on the nudist beach, showing off their attributes for all to admire… or not! Ah, that was an elephant I spied, wasn’t it? Oh, sorry, old chap, I thought that was a trunk. It takes some front, doesn’t it! I might try it one day, who knows.
A small confession, if I may, I have never entered the Church of St Withburga, I am always mindful of catching the religion thing, it’s like going to hospital and coming out with more than you went in with. I must put that right sooner rather than later, I have recently been involved with raising money for one of our local churches, and don’t appear to have been struck down by anything untoward. A word here, never one to miss an opportunity, don’t forget it is not too late to donate, details are included in the NCT Bike Ride section herein.
The house, home to the Coke, pronounced Cook, family since its construction in the mid-eighteenth century, was commissioned by Thomas of that ilk, the first Earl of Leicester. It is a stunningly beautiful Palladian style gaff and, if you can, you should get yourself on a tour. If I can be hypercritical, which I accept is a little unseemly, I find it is better to go later in the season as the room guides are much more up to speed than at the beginning. It is disappointing when you come away having taught them more about the history than they have taught you.
A wee bit finnicky, I know. Rather sadly, Tom, I feel I have visited enough times to be on such familial terms with the family, present Earl accepted, sorry my lord, never got to see the completed hall. His wife, Lady Margaret oversaw its completion.
If you wish to get a feel for its inside, I recommend that you purchase a copy of “A Haunting at Holkham” by Anne Glenconner. It reveals an intimate insight into the goings-on within the great house, both below and above stairs. It is semi-autobiographical as Lady Anne is the name of the young girl in the role of the main character. It takes the unexpected death of her grandfather and spins a damned good yarn around it. It will give you hours of fun trying to identify the landmarks featured throughout its pages.
I really hope, for the author’s sake, that the governess, Miss Crane, featured in the tale really wasn’t quite as bad in real life, I mean how can anyone treat children like that. I think Julie Andrews is nicer. A quick BTW here, Lady Anne Drive is not named for the author.
I can’t spend too long picking out the wonderful attractions dotted around the estate. I have to mention, though, that during one of my visits I was standing at the base of the Coke Memorial when a gaggle of American tourists, maybe they were Canadian, I’m not sure, approached us and, therefore, the memorial, extolling how magnificent the obelisk was.
I am not quite sure what I should do in such circumstances, should I enlighten them as to the error of their ways or simply let it slide? I decided upon the latter but before putting this anecdote onto paper I did double-check what an obelisk is in case I had it wrong. It is a tall thin structure tapering to a pointed top.
I was right. I do wonder, sometimes, if you took a coachload of American tourists and sliced off the tops of their skulls, tipped out the contents into a bucket, and tried putting them altogether you wouldn’t have enough to make a halfwit. Probably crosses the threshold to be made president, though.
Anyway, onto the run around the fabulous deer park. Before I get going, though, a word on the treatment of volunteers. First of all, we get privileged complimentary parking much closer to the start than the usual everyday parkrunner. Oh, by the way, I wrote the run report, hence I was rewarded for something I like doing, that is writing, much like civil servants receiving knighthoods for merely doing their jobs. We even get a free coffee at the end. What’s not too like.
The start line was adjacent to the icehouse, a scene of distress in the aforementioned novel perpetrated by the loathsome Miss Crane. VI Guide, Nik Bryan, often featured in these articles about parkrun, addressed the throng prior to the start. Before long, we were off. The first bit is a pretty serious uphill, nearly all the way to the obelisk, allegedly only 800 metres, but feels like at least double.
This is where I have to question the organisers of parkrun, on an international, national and local level, they seemed to have taken licence from the English language and the pedant in me doesn’t like it. Let’s start with the word, parkrun, who said it was alright to start it with a lower-case letter when, in my mind anyway, it should be capitalised; don’t get me started on WhatsApp, when the hell did it become acceptable to put a capital in the middle of a word. Please don’t bother letting me know, it’s rhetorical.
Then there is the misuse of the word, undulating, which has two meanings. One: having a smoothly curved wavy shape, and two: moving with a gentle, continuous up and down motion. It does not, however you choose to interpret it, mean positively mountainous. I would, I suppose, accept quite hilly.
Finally, why oh why, do parkrun organisers insist on calling courses flat, which Holkham cannot be guilty of, when they mean level. The wall in my living room is flat, but I wouldn’t want to run up it. It refers to a flat plane at any angle.
Once you reach the impressive obelisk for the first time, we shall encounter it again on the way home, we have a short relief of downhill before turning left onto another ascent. At the Great Barn we swing right, we are on the most exposed part of the single lap here, when even the slightest zephyr can seem like gale force. A short length of gentle up and down, okay I will accept undulating, leads us around to a last rise up to Mt Obelisk. Once past the landmark we are, according to everyone around me, faced with one of the most astounding views in world parkrun. Apparently, we are looking down at the centre of the rear elevation of Holkham Hall itself, beyond which you will find the North Sea, stunning.
The rest is downhill, but what is it with marshals and spectators alike, they always insist that you are nearly finished and the end is in sight when, in truth, it feels like anything but. During my first ever Holkham I felt brave enough to go round on my own and here is where I made my one and only mistake, save for turning up in the first place, where I was meant to veer off the tarmac surface and head for the finish funnel, I kept going.
I was most content heading straight for the car park and, who knows, the sea, like a crazed satnav enthusiast thinking if I kept moving forward, I would end up in Norway or some such. Fortunately, rather late in the show I realised I was on my tod and corrected myself. My first ever Holkham was completed, just before it got dark, in 38m 18s. This time Nik and I did a creditable 28m 42s. Pleased with that.
Post parkrun coffee is always the best of the week, it really feels like it has been earned. It was most interesting eavesdropping on conversations on other tables, especially those who were new to Holkham, complaining quite bitterly that Norfolk was not flat, should be level, and no-one had told them about the hills especially the newly named Mt Obelisk.
For your information the flattest, or should that be levelest, county is the neighbouring Cambridgeshire, the land of bog-monsters and other such Hallowe’en creatures. Norfolk’s flat reputation seems to emanate from some claptrap written by Noel Coward in “Private Lives.” Why would anyone take any notice of this body shaming bigot who told Mrs Worthington not to put her ugly and wide seated daughter on the stage.
There was also the time he advised Englishmen not to go outdoors in the sun at noon, when none of us pay a blind bit of attention to him. Learn your lessons. I have to say, and apologies for this, I was factually incorrect in the run report I submitted for the event, I claimed it was Mrs Robinson who had an ugly and wide seated daughter. Sorry to any Mrs Robinsons who might be reading this. I shan’t be apologising to Mrs Worthingtons as I am not owning the Cowardly assertion.
If I have one criticism of the venue it is the car park charges. I just wonder if it might be possible to extend the free period of parking out from 10:30 until 11:00. It is presently a little tight to enjoy a coffee, even when you achieve sub-thirty, in the time allowed. I think it might encourage more to stay on for coffee and cake and, who knows, a second serving.
If you are a keen parkrunner and haven’t been yet it is an absolute must.
Indeed, it should be made compulsory.
Find Out More
Holkham parkrun: https://www.parkrun.org.uk/holkham
Parkrun: https://www.parkrun.org.uk
Holkham Hall and Estate: https://www.holkham.co.uk
White Cane Ratings*©
Car Park: very good; free until 10:30 - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
Welcome and Briefing: very good; so enthusiastic - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
Atmosphere: very good - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
Course: excellent; hard surface and generously wide – 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (5)
Marshalling: very good; concise - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
*These ratings are how the event suits this particular blind person and are my opinion only; they are not scientific. Whatever happens no-one must be put off by me. The best way to learn about something is try it for yourself.
