Men With a Hobby

 

Edinburgh Bus.  (Canny find @ sorry)

I was looking at a photograph of a cut down bus being used as a repair vehicle for the Bournemouth Trolley Bus service.  Now, before you start I realise you are yawning with your mouth closed but anyway, this intrigued me.  This was not the picture in itself, a routine snap of daily life in the early 1950s, but the follow up comments on Facebook.  Such pictures bring a flurry of men 'who know!'  Indeed, many did know, they knew it was not a 'bus,' as the poster had called it but a repair wagon, a cut down ex-bus.  Soon we knew it was a Huddersfield bus cut down in 1945 and used by Bournemouth buses.  We also knew the date of the picture, the repair man was not repairing but removing trolley bus overhead wires, that bus route had ceased and normal buses were being introduced, and I was somewhat surprised the life history of the man (wearing a tie and jacket) working there was not offered.  

The point of this the need for men to have a hobby!

Men require something to do, something they understand, appreciate, and can show off with.  Buses, their origin, age, design, engine power, and a host of other needless fancies, can fill some men's mind for days.  Show a 1958 'Green Line' bus to some me and they will wax lyrical about the bus, the routes, the tall tales about driver, conductor and passengers, some of which will actually be true.  Their wives will however, roll the eyes, mutter something under the breath and change the conversation to a more practical boring subject, one which we shall ignore here.

One place I worked fishing was the thing.  This I find boring and somewhat needless but when one of the boys laid down a copy of 'Trout Monthly; or whatever it was a long boring, but quite excited, exchange of view of trout, their habits, where they could be caught, how different men went about the deed, and on and on and on and on they went.  But they were happy.  My parents had a friend, Bob, who would go off into the Highlands with his fishing gear, just to get away from her indoors, and one his own or with a friend I know not, but would return with fish for the tea.  Interestingly, this couple had an old black 'Range' on which to cook, well into the 1960s.  Quite how they managed that, and they in Morningside at that!

Alfred_Stieglitz The Hand_of_Man_

Railways of course add another level of joy to a man.  There is no limit, and no possibility of reaching the limit of knowledge about railways, both in the UK and abroad.  The subject is limitless, and some can go on about it for ever.  I once mentioned in the museum a particular railways engine, sadly I gave it the wrong name!  I was jumped on from every side, where in two minutes I had received a history of the said loco, the proper colour and name, where it is preserved, and how to see it, if I was wishing to do so.  There are almost 20 sites on facebook dealing with railways of some sort, no doubt fishing and buses also, and I keep in touch with one.  Railway enthusiasts, never 'anoraks,' can find details on almost every engine ever made somewhere on line.  There is a man, always a man, who sits and lists all engines, coaches, trucks, stations, sheds, workmen's sheds, nameplates, badges, pay details, drivers names, old lines, new lines, new lines overseas, old lines overseas, uniforms, signalling, flags, hots, oil lamps, shoes, and on and on and on and on.....They also write books, of which I had read some...

Cars also drive many a man mad, and indeed one of my highly intelligent and beautiful great nieces is indeed mad on cars.  Naturally, being a woman she is fussy about which car she wants, the colour, the wheels, the seats, the engine (which she understands better than most men, and she finds I never mention cars to her.  I get bored.

Motorcycles also have men running around, especially when the wife finds him mending the oil caked ex-army 'Matchless' 250cc on the kitchen table.  Some men take great delight in restoring such beasts.

Several thousand pounds, that could have been spent on her, hours and hours of work can lead to great satisfaction and possibly a divorce.  However, keep in mind you can always get another woman.  

The hours spent on bikes or cars, alongside travelling on aged buses, and long distant rail journeys pulled by steam engine cannot be beat by any of the rubbish filling the tv today.  Men need a hobby, photography, cars, fishing, birdwatching, you name it, men will be filling the day doing such important activities.  

Note, I say men.  Certainly women do similar things, have great knowledge and understanding, but it is mainly men who do such as this.  You see them huddle in groups around an engine, all knowing the best thing to do, standing freezing at the end of railway platforms, gazing into the skies around airports listening into radio traffic between aircraft and control.  Men need this.  It would be easy to claim this was because they had lost faith in the living God, but many such men do have such faith.   Certainly their faith enables them to avoid living for the hobby as some do, for many it is all they have to fill their lives, and the faith in the creator God who enabled man to devise such machines as steam engines, cars or aeroplanes gives much pleasure.  A great bug engine which came out of the ground a s a bit of metal, now transformed into this beast is worth considering.  And without the Lords input would they have been created?

We all have this need to do something, to be creative, to use the hands, to write, build, see, follow, and keep ourselves occupied.  Those who do not have such hobbies end up in pubs, trouble or death.  The hobbyist repairing a machine that has not worked for 40 years has more satisfaction than many of us sluggards can ever appreciate.

Caesaromagus for Waterstones Books.

With the temperature heading towards 90% only a person of limited mental intellectual ability would venture outside in the heat and without a hat.

I caught the 9:56 bus.

Like myself others were trying to figure out which stand to sit at, which n umber bus was ours, and is it really 45 minutes to wait?  It was not.  Our bus arrived on time, racing into the bay.  I did not get a reply from the driver for my cheery good morning, he appeared a bit disgruntled.  Indeed his driving as we headed towards Caesaromagus indicated he was not working from joy and happiness.  However, we arrived safely, and possibly early, and we left the bus, clutching tightly our bus passes.

The heat was indeed hot, but as I was brought up in Edinburgh I am used to the heat.  We had to sit right up close to the fire to avoid frostbite when I was young.

I squeezed my wee camera into my jeans as with the sun being out I saw this as an opportunity to find photographs, of an artistic nature, of all the half dressed females around.  This however, did not turn out to be the spectacular joy I had envisioned.  Indeed, it reflected badly on the Pizza sales in this town.

and hobbled off down the road.  I took the back road to walk through the market, forgetting it was closed on Mondays, and via the Oxfam rag & bone shop I made it to Waterstones.

My delightful Niece and Great Niece had given me a book voucher for lots of money and it was sitting staring at me, so I had to get out and use it.  I clambered upstairs, scoured around, Travel, religion, railways, History, Biography, women, War, and failed to find anything leaping out at me.  In fact I had to make a real effort to find things worth taking home and placing on the ever growing 'To Read' pile.  The effort was worth it, I managed to obtain four books, hobbled slowly downstairs, and paid with the card and the cash on my Waterstones card, leaving me £2:94 on the Waterstones card.  No cash left my hands!  The young lass treated me like she would her granddad who was attempting to work his phone, however, with £2:94 on that card I may have to go back again, or at least try the Camulodunum shop.

No market today, just a coffee shop in the centre walkway and this man loudly revealing why he has not made any money from music.  Mondays are the best time to shop, unless you want the markets, as most people remain indoors.  The musician, and I use that term lightly, was wise enough to sit himself under the tree as a great deal of shade was coming from that.

Making my way past the people who were in town, and all wishing to walk into me, London overspill style, I headed towards M&S.  Now this I did not like the idea off.  For a start they are expensive and aimed at old people, not my smart trendy style.  I also find it difficult to work out how to get back downstairs again once up there.  Hiding the 'Down escalator' behind the women's lingerie which is always in such shops next to Menswear for reasons I have never discovered, does not help.  

Anyway I perused the price tags on shirts, tee shirts, or 'vests' as they insist on calling them, the few jackets on show, jeans which all have the wrong length for me, odd numbers in M&S while I seek an even number length, and of course the overpriced shoes.  

I could justify using my card on.  I was unusually caught in a  shop, with free money and nothing to purchase!  This was unusual.  However, if the free bus still runs I may pop down to the Freeport, or is it Village Outlet shops and see if M&S remain there.

Walking in the hot heat with knees that cried out all the way, I noticed the floodlights high above.  These are of interest for those who follow cricket.  These floodlights mark the Essex Cricket Ground.  There is a smaller ground in Colchester where they sometimes play, found at the bottom of the slope leading up to the castle.  Most games are however played here in Caesaromagus.  Cricketers are of course stupid enough to stand around all day doing nothing in bright and hot sunshine.  Only a really stupid person would wander about in such heat.

A few minutes before the bus I stopped off in the cathedral for a minute, praying for strength to get to the bus.  

This was an error.  ought to have been praying to find the bus!  The 70 I came on, I have discovered, only runs from my stop to here.  However, interspersed with this is the 370, which runs all the way to Camulodunum every hour.  Many are confused by this.  The driver however, was very helpful, explaining to me, and then an old lady (you see how easily old people get confused), the situation as it is.  We waited almost contentedly for the bus to take off.  Eventually, with all the windows open with the smell of bus fumes still filling the air, we headed homewards.  

Tonight is SPAM.  Tonight the boys get together, if the women allow them out.  I may have fallen asleep by then.  Maybe I will ask one of their women to give me a call, just in case...?

What?   oh!

A Trip to Waterstones

 

Decided this morning to take action against the 'stir crazy' feeling that has developed around here.  I checked the bus times online, decided I was going to miss the 10:09 so noticing there was a different bus at 10:24 strode manfully for that.  It was not to be found.  Instead the No 70 I was looking for is now a No 370.  The 42B at 10:24 no longer appears to exist, according to the timetable on the shelter at the new bus station at any rate, so 370 it was to be.  

The screen informed me the next 370 would be along in 9 minutes.

I believed them.  

I was right to do so, 9 minutes later the bus pulled into the bay, the wrong bay, but into a bay.  Not quite the 'Zimmer' bus as of old I note this one.  This lot were more the ten different coloured pills a day lot I think.  Anyway, we clambered aboard and slowly the bus made its way out of the terminus and wound round a new route to the far off city. 

 

 

It being almost three years since I last ventured out this way I was as happy as a kid going on holiday.  I expected to see change, and change there was.  Many new housing developments have arisen.  With a Tory controlled council it is no suprise to note these are all houses costing from £400,000 and rising, so as to bring in more Tory voters.  I must admit a sense of growing discontent about this.  Not that I can ever buy, but to purchase a one bed flat here requires about £18,000 deposit, and even then the mortgage people may not accept you.  An actual cheap house may be found at the £300,000 mark, but unless you have one to sell, who can afford this?  

 

Fifty or so minutes later we landed in town and I hastened slowly towards the Cathedral.  There is nothing much else but shops in this town, and I wanted only one of them.  I actually wished to look at the bookstall in here, and on this quiet  day I found a lack of books, a mere smattering on the shelves.  The Diocese office keeps the best ones in their bookshop.  I was not going there.

 

I sat opposite this window, much brighter in reality than in this poor picture, the first time I have really noticed it.   Somewhat Victorian to me.  Just looking at it now I noticed a wee man high up on the left side.  A closer look indicates this is Andrew, according to the cross he holds, and maybe next time I am in I will look again, and with the better camera.  

I departed soon after I had mused sufficiently, hesitating when mistaken for an employee by a young lady entering the building.  Have I sunk so low I actually look like an Anglican now?

 

 

Waterstones was the shop I was heading to.  Here, my £20 gift voucher in hand, I perused each shelf, each table, and almost the Costa coffee shop before I noticed the prices, and, eventually making my purchase and discovering I had £10 on my Waterstones card also.  This I will keep until the next time, probably next week and visit the Camoludunum shop.  

In spite of the masses of books available I was a bit disappointed.  None of them jumped out at me this time, however, after wandering around, almost shoving an unwilling to move woman from one table, and stopping a more polite one from moving at another, I managed to find three books to bring home to the bookshelves.  As always it is a bit of a gamble, will these actually be worth someone else's money?  Will I enjoy them?  Will I find time to read them in between sloth and stuffing my face?     

 

 

The trouble is, I only have one more book token to use, but there are several books I consider I ought to consider.  Maybe I need to drop hints with the family again...?

 

Ridiculous as it sounds I almost went the wrong way heading back to the bus.  Tsk!  I intended to pass throught the market and check out one or two stalls.  On the correct route I passed this.  At first I thought it was the 'Wicker Man,' but it turns out to be a war memorial.

The memorial itself commemorates the Boer War, a massive block elsewhere remembers the Great War, but this one always has a presentation of sorts in November.  Not sure what that is made from but it is well done.

I passed through the very large indoor market, obtaining a variety of meat from the butcher and accidentally purchasing two large slabs of cheese from the cheese stall.  The nurse will not be pleased.  It is a log time since I have been here, these two stalls have not changed, and many of the other stalls remain in place, including the one selling aged cameras at inflated prices.

 

Somewhat surprised at my energy I went to the bus station.  At the stop the numbers indicated had changed.  I queried this with a driver hesitating to begin his shift.  He informed me how things had been revised, where my stop now was, and we both laughed when I asked why there was now a Number 70, as well as a Number 370 bus on the same routes.  "I have no idea," he said holding wide his arms.  We both laughed at the managers and clever people high up who direct things but never see them in action on the ground.

I checked the bus stop.  Lots of old pill pushers stood there.  The indicator claimed the No 70 was coming in 34 minutes, the C1 (what's that?) in 1 minute.  I went to the 'Tesco Express,' bought an overpriced bottle of water, returned to the stop to find only a couple waiting.  The C1 went off to the Hospital taking the pill pushers with it.  Now the indicator said No 370 in 6 minutes.  I sat of the two rails that form a poor seat and the No 370 drew in behind me!  

Catching a bus takes lots of patience, exercise, sarcasm and hope in this area I find.   Still, I was heading home.

 

What delight to see old houses (costing a million) blue sky, green grass, growing crops and hedges filled with birds flapping about.  Though to be honest it was mostly Crows I heard murmering.  It was good to be out, especially as the day passed quickly with no troubles.  Within three hours I had returned, eaten lunch and began to stiffen up.  A good day, which I will pay for tomorrow.

 

Short Walk

Not getting out much recently has not done anything for my fitness, so now the back has improved I decided to tackle a half hours walk, which was a typical bus waiting time half hour in the end.  I wandered past the new multimillion pound creation incorporating a hotel, doctors surgery and whatever they can make use off in the new building.  

Next to this is a revamped, cramped, bus park, which I ventured down just to try and work out what bus waited where.  I'm none the wiser.  I have the plan somewhere on the laptop and need to investigate if I wish to travel one day.  

 

There is already a 'Travelodge' at the edge of town, alongside another hotel, why do we need this one? Only the councillors will know as the boss has been trying to waste £20 million on this space since I arrived 25 years ago.  Now he has succeeded but will the hotel?  Of course the suggestion that this money ought to have gone into social care or the like was not heard.  Tory council you see.

 

The council Daffodills were doing the council proud however.  These have withstood the storms, enjoyed the torrential rain, and now attempt to enjoy what passing sun there was.  Putin may be walking all over the west but flowers continue their work just the same.

Heading home to read about that nice Mr Putin black clouds appeared from the west, and tomorrow more will come and drench the Daffodills once again.  The tree reminded me of a poem re 'The Stickit Minister' and his problem with it, but I canny trace it anywhere.  I clearly have the wrong title.  However, this tree stands 'Stark and bare...' as the one in the short poem.  The tree will cope with the rains once again tomorrow, as it has these past hundred years or more.

 

 

Charity Shopping Fail

The temptation to grasp the Free Bus Pass for Old people and head out took hold of me on Thursday and saw me carried up to Halstead to search the Six charity shops that lie on the main street.  About 12,000 quite wealthy people and six charity shops?  Sadly the High Street is high featuring a hill that rises steeply up into the sky above where the town first appeared.  Prehistoric man had an small input here, the river at the bottom of the hill helps, who however would wish to walk up and down carrying water I ask?  On the hilltop, the Romans had a villa or two and Saxons settled in well until the Normans took over.  Maybe knowing this causes the people to withhold their smiles while running charity shops?  Maybe it is the rumoured inbreeding on the Suffolk border, I cannot say.

During the year 1818 Samuel Courtauld built himself a Mill at Bocking, he also added this one at top at Halstead.  Worked mostly by women, the men did the engineering bit, the women worked the looms, the mill lasted for years.  Courtauld's went into decline after the war some two hundred years later so the town got quite a bit out of the Mill.  Courtauld's were good employers.  Many women, young ladies, with little hope of a life in London were brought, often from orphanages, into Essex and found themselves a better life.  At least this kept them off the streets!  Over the years Doctors, hospitals, schools and housing were among the benefits this employer gave his workers, these houses here were built for them by Courtauld and other aid when required.
If only more businesses did likewise today?

Abraham Rayne must have been someone important to have such a monument erected above his head.  I failed to find him on Ancestry though I only searched quickly.  I wonder how he made his money, what his work was, where he lived and what people thought of him at the time?  I may never know.
My knees were feeling the strain as I sat on a bus full of 'Downs' kids heading home after a day out.  
I was disappointed with the shopping, there was little on offer, and with nothing else to be seen all I got from the day was aches and vies of crops beginning to edge nearer to ripeness.  That was good.

This morning I stupidly wended my slow way into Camulodunum in spite of the need for sleep and pretty nurses to massage my knees.  I found neither there and a search of the charity shops, some of which have closed down or been turned into profit making enterprises, disappointed also.  However a delightful lady at 'Waterstones' was very helpful as I used up my last book voucher there.  Three more books I do not need, have not got time to read and could live without happened to fall into my hand as I wandered about so I had no choice but to bring them home.  It would be terrible if any more such vouchers turned up would it not?  I would have to go back again!  

One good aspect about the town is the narrow side streets, one of which is full of small shops, a wide variety of items on sale, and some wonder why this town can do this while we back home cannot!  The council backs the small trader here, ours does not, that gives us eight charity shops!  Lower the rates and we will find more small shops arising I say.
Empty handed back on the bus now rather than later to avoid the students from the college.  
It was full of students from the college.
Nothing more interesting than the conversation of 16 year olds!
Knackered and bereft I will spend tomorrow asleep!

Camulodunum Trip

Dragging myself out of my pit I raced slowly into Camulodunum today on the zimmer free bus.  This because I wished to peruse the many charity shops in that rich and prosperous town.  This indeed I did but was again frustrated by all charity shops refusal to stock items that fit me!  Usually they are too small, today the only option was to big.  That does not happen often and I suppose I could grow into it but I wish my weight to go in the other direction.  I slogged around even visiting 'Primark' the new shop that sells things cheaply, though I noticed that in the three years since I last visited prices have risen and I am sure the Bangladeshi workers have not had a rise.  Possibly they have made the sweat shops safer since the last disastrous fire there a few years ago.  However I did require cheap jeans and I have them, they fit, sort off, will they after being washed however...?

  
Lunch was taken at noon in a surprisingly quiet pub, £4:65 for a pint of 'Maltsmith IPA' indicates why. The drink was indeed good and worthy of buying again but not at that rip-off price.  It was clear this was an evening venue (Called 'After Office Hours') and aimed at twenty somethings with too much money and not enough brains.       

The modern trend of vast empty spaces and few seats as folks crush together getting cheap thrills and meeting the right people.  The wooden flooring was genuine in pubs I used to visit in days gone by, not s clean and much busier at all times of day, not just overpaid trendy types either.  I suppose we were the trendy types then, sad innit?
Next time I will go back to the 'Hospital Arms' they are just as unfriendly but considerably cheaper.  When I think of it a similar but busier pub down the road was the one I used last time, the beer wasn't so good but cheaper and the girls better looking and alive.  I'll remember that for next time I am charity shop searching.

The bus was of course ten minutes late.  We stood at the stop grasping our varied travel cards and coins glaring hard towards the buses parked just around the corner willing ours to move out.  I retook my seat and allowed the remnants of the beer to chase around my body giving some sort of life to my weakened knees.  It did not liven me up much.  Eventually he  came and I was afraid the women would start shouting at the driver and he would respond by closing the doors and running but they were wise enough to shut it and clamber aboard while they still lived.  

The view, while enjoyable, was not at its best.  The grass in many places has withered and green fields were the colour of the wheat and barley seen in many other places.  Those crops while many were being gathered in are smaller than they ought to be as the several weeks of drought at the wrong time have not helped them.  Here something green, cabbage possibly, difficult to tell when moving, was a decent colour but small in size as seen from the omnibus.  The crops are being gathered and tractors of enormous size block the roads cheerily and very soon such produce will be enabling Tesco to increase their prices 'because of the drought.'  It is rather a shame as it spoils the view somewhat but there again just being out of town and watching the fields instead of the hovel in which I live is a needed change.

Tuesday Twaddle

Another day of joy and fun has ended peacefully.
Nobody got injured, no fights broke out, no war ensued.
A quiet day at the museum.
Visitors there were, few today but asking awkward questions and not spending any money, that type we get irked by.  This does not include the small school of around a dozen lovely wee kids who arrived to study the Stone Age.  Some came dressed appropriately but the others thought the weather was too cold to dress up.  All enjoyed their day as you would expect, they enjoyed the shop better however!

 
It is funny the books that people buy.  This is the only copy left of 'Buses in Essex,' a slow seller but one that will go.  That said I have a book on Edinburgh buses that I found fascinating therefore I see this as an acceptable and understandable volume.  You can suggest the most unlikely subject but it is clear someone somewhere will have written a book about it and many will keep a volume on their shelves.  Why is it that such subjects fascinate us?  We seem for 'heritage' or 'nostalgic' reasons to like such books but there are always 'anoraks' who have a subject knowledge that would win the 'Mastermind' if questioned on their hobby.  What makes us so interested in obscure things?  An escape from the world, possibly, maybe just something out of the ordinary that tickles us by the obscurity?  At least it keeps us off the streets.

As noted elsewhere Spring is in the air!  This is great, the daffodils begin to sprout, the days last longer, the early mornings are filled with the sound of Robins and Blackbirds announce the dawn and on occasions the sun itself can be seen mounting slowly into the sky.

Naturally the rain has returned and they are threatening us with Siberian snow this weekend well into March.  Nothing unusual in this as it happens often as this is winter.  The kids will love the snow, the whole nation will come to a standstill, outrage will fill the media and nothing will change and within a day or two all will be forgotten.
Meanwhile 'Brexit' continues and as yet nobody actually knows what is going on!  Maybe the cold weather will freeze the whole operation?

Wanderlust

Young men like a bit of adventure.  Some simply walk out the door and keep walking travelling far and wide over large acres of the world, often with little forethought.  Others are forced by the call of King and Country to adventure in places they would rather avoid.  In days of yore young lads often as young as twelve or thirteen years of age would wander through the docks finding work on ships travelling to foreign fields, the better educated grabbing what contacts they could might find a trail across Europe making the most of the smattering of French and German forced down their throats at school.  The attraction  was the same, to go out there,  over the horizon to places untouched and unknown always hoping for adventure, well adventure that didn't hurt at any rate, and finding excitement that cannot be obtained by staying at home.

My limited adventurous streak showed during the close season, that once upon a time situation when the football season closed in May and did not reappear until August, then I would travel.  Bored as I was I went to the Bus station on St Andrews Square and got the bus to North Berwick.  This is not a long journey but I was only eleven or twelve at the time and my money was limited.  After this I went further, Kirkaldy in Fife or Leven a wee bit further over, just to see what was there.
As I got older football's close season got shorter and by then we played football during the spare time rather than wander about.  Of course when fifteen I also had a job that the grace of God and inept management meant I kept, I would have fired me, and with good reason, several times before I jumped ship.  The travel bug was satisfied I realised by the bus trips to football matches in Dundee and Glasgow.  While we went for the game I just enjoyed the trips outside of Edinburgh and being somewhere different, even if cold and wet as it often was.

Great West Railway

I did of course take a very badly thought out journey in 1974 when working at the Royal Infirmary.  This was the year I bought a bike for £18, the owner had 'Gone to Australia') and then a few weeks later set off on an epic journey to London.  This is not something I would do today.
However when based in a Swiss Cottage slum during 1976, though I may have moved to exciting Willesden Lane by then, I took it into my head to go to Cardiff.  Why?  I have no idea but there again I had always wished to go abroad.  So off I traps to Paddington Station, pay through the nose for a ticket and clamber aboard the 125, only used on that line then, and sat back.  
One notable aspect of the trip was my questioning mind. We entered a tunnel and while this is to be expected after a while, a long while I thought, we were still in the tunnel.  It took me a while to realise we were in Box Tunnel (either than the Severn I canny say which both looked dark to me) and I was surprised as I had forgotten the difficulties encountered when creating the railway back in the 1840's.  Isambard Kingdom Brunel constructed this tunnel and it appears like me many think that on one day a year the light shines straight through the tunnel and that day happens to be Brunel's birthday.  It appears we are wrong in this, it occurs a day or so earlier on his sisters birthday.  That is what I call a present, what she called it is not known.  

 Avraham Graicer

In spite of the overnight stay in Cardiff, where nothing happened, and my desire never to go abroad again I did in fact make an interesting trip to Jerusalem just before the 1st Gulf War, the one in which everybody was scared of Saddam, and with the weapons the USA had given him they ought to have been scared!  That was interesting and provided plenty of photos even though most were taken on slide film, still sitting there waiting to be shown but no good on here!  One day I will transfer them to digital and bore you as I bored others in 1990.  The one inescapable incident of that trip was visiting Megiddo, the ancient city that goes back several thousand years.  From the name we get the term 'Armageddon' and it was in 'Armageddon' that I got locked in as the lack of visitors (the Yanks were scared to visit in case of war) meant the caretaker locked up and went home.  I eventually found an unlocked gate before I had to climb over the wall. 
These days I find it difficult to go anywhere.  This year has been a bummer physically and while I wish to wander about have been unable to, local transport has not helped either, road works, and rail works have closed things on weekends.  Age also means I lack the adventure to see over the hill as I once wished to.  Having been over the hill for some time I have a degree of cynicism that youth does not possess and this limits adventure to some extent.  However a free gift of a car and the money to run it will I'm sure change my opinion.  Hmmm looks like my opinion will not be changing any time soon.