The same but different

As you may have gathered, this time last year I was in Nepal for a stroll. One of the things I loved when I was there were the villages we passed through and the way motor transport had not changed the way they were laid out. Even in Kathmandu, the fact that cars, vans and bikes all rushed through the streets did not seem to have forced any changes; the streets were narrow and the buildings competed for space by overhanging and having several storeys.

Walking through Robin Hood’s Bay and Whitby on Friday, the similarity suddenly struck me. Despite my promise to myself, I ended up uttering the fatal phrase ‘this time last year’ to Em (sorry Em) and mentioned it.

When I got home, I decided to have a look at the photos to see if it was just my mind playing tricks. It wasn’t, I can still see the similarities. So I’m posting a selection here.

Ok. This time last year, we were climbing the hill to Tengboche, which we reached at about 10:46 BST.

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Holiday 4

We had a chilled morning in the cottage today. Up late, taking things easy, letting the world rush by on the distant A358 in a faint swish while we sat and watched the rabbits in the field next door.

We went to visit the tame sheep and little pony in the top field. All were very friendly and enjoyed having their ears tickled. Then we went to see the hens in their field. We were soon surrounded by them, clucking and cooing and prancing about.

Today we decided to go to Clovelly, a little fishing village built in a rock cleft on the north coast of Devon. I programmed the sat nav and we set off. I didn’t want to go along the north coast road as it had been busy the day before, so I’d specified a route going through Exmoor to Barnstaple. For some reason, the sat nav decided to take me on the narrowest roads and eventually we were travelling on what seemed like a farm track. But despite the efforts of the guidance to get my car lost, we got to the big car park above the village.

Passing through the inevitable visitor’s centre, we headed down the steep lane to the harbour. The little cottages we passed were a mixture of wattle and daub and stone built and were straight out of the 18th century. At the harbour, we stopped for food and I had a delicious Devonshire pasty. It can’t be called a Cornish pasty any more because it wasn’t made in Cornwall, a couple of miles to the west.

We went for a short boat trip off the coast and along the beach. The boat was tiny, only licensed to carry 12 people, and it chugged along as we saw the nesting seabirds and the folds and dips of the rocks and cliffs.

The journey back was on better roads and we decided to call in to Watchet for chips and we sat on the beach at Blue Anchor eating them and watching the tide coming in.

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