The Land Of Big Breakfasts
On Wednesday we flew oop North to do a talk for the good folk of the North East region of the Master Photographers Association in Durham, which is indeed a fine place for a wander round on a sunny afternoon.
Having met some really nice people and done our thing, we retired to our hotel room intent upon a relaxing bath. The guy who came up to try and make the bath taps work couldn't have been more helpful, and having admitted defeat was quick to give us the key to the empty room next door so we could use that bath instead. And when Ann found that it was full of tins of paint and maintenance gear, he immediately found us another one down the corridor which was just fine.
The fault with the fire alarm in the adjacent block didn't really disturb us that much because by 3am we'd just about got used to the drone of a remarkably noisy fan somewhere and were pretty much fast asleep.
However, just before 7am we were rudely awakened by the incessant chattering of that insufferable woman on Radio Two, coming to us loud and clear through the floor of our room. Which was above the restaurant. In the ceiling of which are the speakers for the background music. And the restaurant started serving breakfast at 7am sharp ...
Breakfast was fascinating. There we are being Southern wimps with our breakfast of faux croissants and coffee, and we're surrounded by sturdy folks carrying huge plates from the breakfast bar thingy piled high with bacon, eggs, sausages, beans, fried bread, black pudding and for all I know a deep fried battered Mars bar or two, topped off in many cases by a quivering mass of scrambled egg, all of which they consumed with great gusto.
Feeling totally outclassed, we slunk out and in due course were kindly driven back to Newcastle airport, there to spend a few hours looking out of the departure lounge windows watching two blokes mend an aeroplane so that we could fly home in it.
Having met some really nice people and done our thing, we retired to our hotel room intent upon a relaxing bath. The guy who came up to try and make the bath taps work couldn't have been more helpful, and having admitted defeat was quick to give us the key to the empty room next door so we could use that bath instead. And when Ann found that it was full of tins of paint and maintenance gear, he immediately found us another one down the corridor which was just fine.
The fault with the fire alarm in the adjacent block didn't really disturb us that much because by 3am we'd just about got used to the drone of a remarkably noisy fan somewhere and were pretty much fast asleep.
However, just before 7am we were rudely awakened by the incessant chattering of that insufferable woman on Radio Two, coming to us loud and clear through the floor of our room. Which was above the restaurant. In the ceiling of which are the speakers for the background music. And the restaurant started serving breakfast at 7am sharp ...
Breakfast was fascinating. There we are being Southern wimps with our breakfast of faux croissants and coffee, and we're surrounded by sturdy folks carrying huge plates from the breakfast bar thingy piled high with bacon, eggs, sausages, beans, fried bread, black pudding and for all I know a deep fried battered Mars bar or two, topped off in many cases by a quivering mass of scrambled egg, all of which they consumed with great gusto.
Feeling totally outclassed, we slunk out and in due course were kindly driven back to Newcastle airport, there to spend a few hours looking out of the departure lounge windows watching two blokes mend an aeroplane so that we could fly home in it.
posted by Dan Johnson at 8:03 AM
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